"It is all
inflamed."
"Possibly the p-p-pressure of the iron has not
done it much good."
The Cardinal looked up with a frown.
"Have they been putting irons on a fresh
wound?"
"N-n-naturally, Your Eminence; that is what
fresh wounds are for. Old wounds are not much
use. They will only ache; you c-c-can't make
them burn properly."
Montanelli looked at him again in the same
close, scrutinizing way; then rose and opened a
drawer full of surgical appliances.
"Give me the hand," he said.
The Gadfly, with a face as hard as beaten iron,
held out the hand, and Montanelli, after bathing
the injured place, gently bandaged it. Evidently
he was accustomed to such work.
"I will speak about the irons," he said. "And
now I want to ask you another question: What do
you propose to do?"
"Th-th-that is very simply answered, Your Eminence.
To escape if I can, and if I can't, to die."
"Why 'to die'?"
"Because if the Governor doesn't succeed in
getting me shot, I shall be sent to the galleys, and
for me that c-c-comes to the same thing.
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