"Fool!" I shriek in his ear. "Let me go to her--her lips pout for kisses--let me go!"
Another man advances and seizes me; he and the innkeeper force me back on the pillows--they overcome me, and the utter incapacity of a terrible exhaustion steals away my strength. I cease to struggle. Pietro and his assistant look down upon me.
"E morto!" they whisper one to the other.
I hear them and smile. Dead? Not I! The scorching sunlight streams through the open door of the inn--the thirsty flies buzz with persistent loudness--some voices are singing "La Fata di Amalfi"--I can distinguish the words-"Chiagnaro la mia sventura Si non tuorne chiu, Rosella! Tu d' Amalfi la chiu bella, Tu na Fata si pe me! Viene, vie, regina mie, Viene curre a chisto core, Ca non c'e non c'e sciore, Non c'e Stella comm'a te!" [Footnote: A popular song in the Neapolitan dialect.] That is a true song, Nina mia! "Non c'e Stella comm' a te!" What did Guido say? "Purer than the flawless diamond--unapproachable as the furthest star!" That foolish Pietro still polishes his wine-bottles. I see him--his meek round face is greasy with heat and dust; but I cannot understand how he comes to be here at all, for I am on the banks of a tropical river where huge palms grow wild, and drowsy alligators lie asleep in the sun. Their large jaws are open--their small eyes glitter greenly. A light boat glides over the silent water--in it I behold the erect lithe figure of an Indian. His features are strangely similar to those of Guido. He draws a long thin shining blade of steel as he approaches. Brave fellow!--he means to attack single-handed the cruel creatures who lie in wait for him on the sultry shore. He springs to land--I watch him with a weird fascination. He passes the alligators--he seems not to be aware of their presence--he comes with swift, unhesitating step to ME--it is I whom he seeks--it is in MY heart that he plunges the cold steel dagger, and draws it out again dripping with blood! Once--twice--thrice!--and yet I cannot die! I writhe--I moan in bitter anguish! Then something dark comes between me and the glaring sun--something cool and shadowy, against which I fling myself despairingly. Two dark eyes look steadily into mine, and a voice speaks: "Be calm, my son, be calm. Commend thyself to Christ!"
It is my friend the monk. I recognize him gladly. He has returned from his errand of mercy. Though I can scarcely speak, I hear myself asking for news of the boy. The holy man crosses himself devoutly.