The Duke ran up. He was somewhat pale and excited, although
endeavouring to control himself. He was tall and robust, his beard
still black on his heavy jaws. From his mouth, full and imperious, came
forth explosive outbursts; his voracious eyes were troubled; his strong
nose, covered with red spots, quivered.
“Well, then?” asked Don Filippo, breathlessly, with a rattling sound,
as though suffocated.
“Do not fear, father, I am here,” answered the Duke, approaching the
bed and trying to smile.
Mazzagrogna was standing in front of one of the balconies, looking out
attentively. No cries reached them now and no one was to be seen.
The sun, gradually descending in the clear sky, was like a rosy circle
of flames, enlarging and glaring over the hill-tops. All the country
around seemed to burn and the southwest wind resembled a breath from
the fire. The first quarter of the moon arose through the groves of
Lisci. Poggio, Revelli, Ricciano, Rocca of Forca, were seen through the
window panes, revealed by distant flashes of lightning, and from time
to time the sound of bells could be heard. A few incendiary fires began
to glow here and there. The heat was suffocating.
“This,” said the Duke of Ofena, in his hoarse, harsh voice, “comes from
Scioli, but——”
He made a menacing gesture, then he approached Mazzagrogna.
He felt uneasy, because Carletto Grua could not yet be seen. He paced
up and down the hall with a heavy step. He then detached from a hook
two long, old-fashioned pistols, examining them carefully. The father
followed his every movement with dilated eyes, breathing heavily,
like a calf in agony, and now and then he shook the bed cover with his
deformed hands. He asked two or three times of Mazzagrogna, “What can
you see?”
Suddenly Mazzagrogna exclaimed, “Here comes Carletto, running with
Gennaro.”
You could hear, in fact, the furious blows upon the large gate. Soon
after, Carletto and the servant entered the room, pale, frightened,
stained with blood and covered with dust.
The Duke, on perceiving Carletto, uttered a cry. He took him in his
arms and began to feel him all over his body, to find the wounds.
“What have they done to you? What have they done to you? Tell me!”
The youth was weeping like a girl.
“There,” said he, between his sobs. He lowered his head and pointed
on the top, to some bunches of hair, sticking together with congealed
blood.
The Duke passed his fingers softly through the hair to discover the
wounds. He loved Carletto Grua, and had for him a lover’s solicitude.
“Does it hurt you?” he asked.
The youth sobbed more vehemently. He was slender, like a girl, with an
effeminate face, hardly shaded by an incipient blond beard, his hair
was rather long, he had a beautiful mouth, and the sharp voice of an
eunuch. He was an orphan, the son of a confectioner of Benevento. He
acted as valet to the Duke.
“Now they are coming,” he said, his whole frame trembling, turning
his eyes, filled with tears, towards the balcony, from which came the
clamours, louder and more terrible.
The servant, who had a deep wound upon his shoulder, and his arm up
to the elbow all stained with blood, was telling falteringly how they
had both been overtaken by the maddened mob, when Mazzagrogna, who had
remained watching, cried out, “Here they are! They are coming to the
palace. They are armed!”
Don Luigi, leaving Carletto, ran to look out.