Fabio was intending to wait until she should awake, and then go to
Ferrara--when suddenly some one tapped lightly at the door of the
bedroom. Fabio went out and beheld before him his aged major-domo,
Antonio.
"Signor," began the old man, "the Malay has just informed us that Signor
Muzio is ailing and desires to remove with all his effects to the town;
and therefore he requests that you will furnish him with the aid of some
persons to pack his things--and that you will send, about dinner-time,
both pack-and saddle-horses and a few men as guard. Do you permit?"
"Did the Malay tell thee that?" inquired Fabio. "In what manner? For he
is dumb."
"Here, signor, is a paper on which he wrote all this in our language,
very correctly."
"And Muzio is ill, sayest thou?"
"Yes, very ill, and he cannot be seen."
"Has not a physician been sent for?"
"No; the Malay would not allow it."
"And was it the Malay who wrote this for thee?"
"Yes, it was he."
Fabio was silent for a space.
"Very well, take the necessary measures," he said at last.
Antonio withdrew.
Fabio stared after his servant in perplexity.--"So he was not
killed?"--he thought ... and he did not know whether to rejoice or to
grieve.--"He is ill?"--But a few hours ago he had beheld him a corpse!
Fabio returned to Valeria. She was awake, and raised her head. The
husband and wife exchanged a long, significant look.
"Is he already dead?" said Valeria suddenly.--Fabio shuddered.
"What ... he is not?--Didst thou.... Has he gone away?" she went on.