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"It is very hot," I announced with forced good humour to Dulci­beni and Padre Robleda who sat down with lugubrious mien to exam­ine the chicory roots. But I obtained no comments, nor did I remark any sign of cheer in the guests' dark, frowning faces.

The prospect that my special condition might, in the doctor's opin­ion, become an arm against the assaults of the disease gave my life its first taste of Pride's inebriating vapours. Although a number of details had left me in some perplexity (at the age of seven I had, of course, been beardless, nor was I born with a set of teeth or with gigantic attributes), I suddenly felt myself a step above the oth­ers. And what, said 1 to myself, thinking over Cristofano's decision, what if I really did have these powers? They, the guests, depended on me. So that was why the physician had so lightly allowed me to sleep in the same chamber as my master, when he was still uncon­scious! Thus I recovered my good humour, while respectfully containing it.

A chi vive ogn'or contento ogni mese e primavera...*

sang a lilting voice beside me. It was Abbot Melani.

"What a happy little face," he joked. "Keep it that way until to­morrow, for we shall be needing it."

The reminder of the imminent roll-call brought my feet back down to earth.

"Would you like to accompany me to my sad cloister?" he asked with a little smile after finishing his meal.

"You will return to your apartments alone," exclaimed Cristofano impatiently. "I need the boy's services; and I need them now."

After thus rudely dismissing Atto Melani, the physician ordered me to wash the guests' dishes and the pots and pans. From that moment on, he said, I was to do this at least once a day. He sent me to look for two large basins, clean cloths, walnut shells, pure water and white wine, and brought me with him to visit Bedfordi. He then went into his own chamber to fetch his chirurgeon's equipment and a few bags.

When he returned, I helped him to undress the young English­man, who was as hot as a cauldron in the fireplace and from time to time launched again into his bouts of logorrhoea.

"The tokens are too hot," observed Cristofano anxiously. "They may require interment."

"I beg your pardon?"

"This is a great and miraculous secret left on his deathbed by the Cavalier Marco Leonardo Fioravanti, the illustrious physician from Bologna, to obtain a rapid cure from the plague: he who already has the tokens is to have himself completely buried in a trench, except

*
For whoso lives content every hour / Every month will be Spring.

for the neck and the head and is to remain thus for twelve or fourteen hours, and then to be dug out. This is a secret which may be applied anywhere in the world, without incurring interest or expense."

"And how does it work?"

"The earth is mother and purifies all things: it removes all stains from cloths, it softens tough meat upon burial for four or six hours; nor should we forget that in Padua there are mud baths which heal many infirmities. Another remedy of great authority would be to lie from three to twelve hours in the briny waters of the sea. But we, un­fortunately, are sequestered and so can do none of those things. The only remedy that remains to us is therefore to practise blood-letting on poor Bedfordi so as to chill his tokens. First, however, we must ap­pease the spoiled humours."

He pulled out a wooden bowl.

"These are my imperial musk tablets, most attractive for the stomach."

"What does that mean?"

"They attract all that there is in the stomach and draw it out, exhausting in the patient that bad resistance which he might put up to the physician's operations."

And between two fingers he took a lozenge, one of those dried preparations of various forms which apothecaries prepare. Not with­out effort, we succeeded in making Bedfordi swallow this, following which he fell silent and soon seemed on the point of suffocating: he was shaken by trembling and by coughing, and began to foam at the mouth, until he threw up a quantity of malodorous stuff into the basin which I placed just in time under his nose .

Cristofano scrutinised and sniffed at the liquid with an air of satisfaction.

"Prodigious, these musk tablets of mine, do you not find them so? Yet, nothing could be simpler: one ounce of violet candied sugar, five of iris and as many of powdered eggshell, a drachm of musk, one of ambergris, and gum tragacanth and rose water, all dried in the sun," recited Cristofano with an air of satisfaction while he busied himself with collecting the patient's vomit.

"In the healthy, however, they combat loss of appetite, although they are less powerful than
aromaticum
," he added. "Indeed, remind me to give you some to take with you when you distribute meals, in case any should refuse to eat."

Cleaned and rearranged, the poor Englishman now remained silent, with half-closed eyes, while the physician began to prick him with his instruments.

"As Master Eusebio Scaglione from Castello a Mare in the King­dom of Naples so well teaches, blood is to be extracted from the veins which have their origin in the places where buboes (or tokens, as we call them) have appeared. The vein of the head corresponds to the tokens on the neck and the common vein to those on the back, but not in this instance. Here, we shall bleed the vein of the wrist which starts from the token under his armpit. And then the vein of the foot, which corresponds to the great token in the groin. Pass me the clean basin."

He commanded me to search among his bags for the little jars labelled Burning Bush and Tormentil; he made me take two pinches of each and mix them with three fingers of white wine and then or­dered me to administer them to Bedfordi. He then made me pound in the mortar a herb called crowsfoot, with which I was to fill two half walnut shells which the doctor used, once he had completed his blood-letting, to seal the holes in the wrist and the ankle of his unfortunate patient.

"Bandage the walnuts tight. We shall change them twice a day, until blisters appear, which we shall then break in order to squeeze out the poisoned water."

Bedfordi began to tremble.

"May we not have bled him too much?"

"Of course not. It is the pestilence which chills the blood in the veins. I foresaw this: I have prepared a mixture of stinging nettles, mallow, agrimony, centaury, oregano, penny-royal, gentian, laurel, liquid amber, benzoin and aromatico for a most health-giving steam bath."

And from a black felt coverlet, he drew forth a glass vessel. We descended again to the kitchen, where he made me boil the contents of the glass jar with much water in the hostelry's largest cauldron. He in the meanwhile attended to boiling a porridge of fenugreek flour, linseeds and marsh mallow roots, into which I saw him mix pig's lard taken from Signor Pellegrino's stores.

After returning to the sick room, we wrapped Bedfordi in five blankets and placed him above the steaming cauldron which we had carried there at great effort and the risk of severe scalding.

"He must sweat as much as he can: perspiration refines the hu­mours, opens the pores and warms chilled blood, thus preventing the corruption of the skin from causing sudden death."

The unfortunate Englishman did not, however, seem to be of the same opinion. He began to groan more and more, sighing and cough­ing, reaching out with his hands and splaying his toes in spasms of suffering. Suddenly, he became calm. He seemed to have fainted. Still over the cauldron, Cristofano began to lance the buboes with a three- or four-pointed lancet, after which he applied a poultice of pig's lard. Upon completing the operation, we put the patient back to bed. He did not make a single movement, but he was breathing. What a quirk of destiny, I thought, that precisely his bitterest detrac­tor should be the subject of Cristofano's medical treatment.

"Now, let us leave him to rest, and trust in God," said the doctor gravely.

He led me to his apartment, where he handed me a bag with a number of unguents, syrups and fumigants already prepared for the other guests. He showed me their therapeutic use and purpose, and also furnished a number of notes. Some
remedia
were more effective with certain complexions than with others. Padre Robleda, for exam­ple, being ever anxious, risked the most mortal pestilence in the heart or the brain. It would, however, be less grave if he were affected in the liver, which could be relieved by the tokens. I was, urged Cristofano, to begin as soon as possible.

I could bear it no more. I climbed the stairs, carrying those little jars which I already detested, heading for my bed under the eaves. When I reached the second floor, I was, however, hailed in a loud whisper by Abbot Melani. He was waiting for me, glancing circum­spectly out from the half-open door of his chamber. I approached. Without giving me time so much as to open my mouth, he whispered in my ear that the bizarre behaviour of several guests during the past few hours had given him occasion to reflect no little upon our plight.

"Do you perhaps fear for the life of another of us?" I at once murmured in alarm.

"Perhaps, my boy, perhaps," replied Melani hastily, pulling me by the arm into his chamber.

Once he had locked the door, he explained to me that Bedfordi's delirium, which the abbot himself had overheard from behind the door of the sick man's chamber, revealed without the shadow of a doubt that the Englishman was a fugitive.

"A fugitive? Fleeing what?"

"An exile, awaiting better days to return to his country," the abbot pronounced with an impertinent air, tapping the dimple on his chin with his index finger.

It was thus that Atto recounted to me a series of events and circumstances which were to assume great importance in the days that followed. The mysterious William whose name Bedfordi had men­tioned was the Prince of Orange, a claimant to the throne of England.

Our interview showed signs of being long-drawn-out: I felt my apprehensions, so strong only moments before, dissipate.

The problem, explained Atto, was that the present king had no legitimate children. He had therefore chosen his brother to succeed him; but the latter was a Catholic and would thus restore the True Religion to the throne of England.

"So, what then is the problem?" I interrupted, overcome by a yawn.

"It is that the English nobility, who follow the reformed religion, do not wish to have a Catholic king and are therefore plotting in favour of William, who is an ardent Protestant. Do lie down on my bed, boy," added the abbot with a voice grown gentler, as he pointed to his couch.

"But then England might remain heretical forever!" I exclaimed, putting down Cristofano's bag and lying down without further ado, while Atto moved to the mirror.

"Right. So in England there are now two factions: one Protestant and Orangist and the other Catholic. Even if he will never admit it, our Bedfordi must belong to the former," he explained, while the acute arching of one eyebrow, which I descried reflected in the mir­ror, betrayed the scant satisfaction which the abbot was obtaining from the examination of his own reflection.

"And how do you deduce that?" I asked, growing curious.

"From what I could gather, Bedfordi stayed awhile in Holland, a land of Calvinists."

"In Holland there are also Catholics: I know this from our guests who have sojourned long there, and they are surely faithful to the Church of Rome..."

"Of course. But the United Provinces are also William's country. Some ten years ago, the Prince of Orange defeated the invading army of Louis XIV And now Holland is the stronghold of the Orangist conspirators," retorted Atto as, with a snort of impatience, he pulled out a little brush and a small box and rouged his rather prominent cheeks.

"In other words, you think that Bedfordi went to Holland in order to conspire in favour of the Prince of Orange," I commented, trying not to stare too hard at him.

"No, no, let us not exaggerate," he replied, turning to me after taking one last satisfied look in the mirror. "I believe that Bedfordi is simply one of those who would like to see William on the throne, also because—do not forget this—in England the heretics are very numerous. He will be one of many messengers moving back and forth across the English Channel, at the risk of being arrested sooner or later and imprisoned in the Tower of London..."

He paused, drew up a chair and sat down by the bedside.

"You see then that we are not far from the truth."

"It is incredible," I commented, while all sleepiness receded.

I was both intimidated and agitated by these marvellous and sug­gestive accounts. Remote and powerful conflicts between the reign­ing powers of Europe were materialising before my eyes, in this hos­telry where I was but a poor apprentice.

"But who is this Prince William of Orange, Signor Atto?" I asked.

"Oh, a great soldier, overwhelmed with debts. That is all," replied the abbot drily. "For the rest, his life is absolutely flat and colourless, as are his person and his spirit."

"A penniless prince?" I asked incredulously.

"Indeed. And if he were not always short of money, who knows what he might not have achieved?"

I remained pensive and silent.