His cropped black head was bare, and in his hand he carried a cap
of black velvet.
We looked at each other awhile, and his eyes were sad and wistful, laden
with pity, as I thought, for my condition. Then he moved forward with a
creak of leather and jingle of spurs that made pleasant music.
He set a hand upon the shoulder of the kneeling Gervasio.
"He will live now, Gervasio?" he asked.
"0, he will live," answered the friar with an almost fierce satisfaction in
his positive assurance. "He will live and in a week we can move him hence.
Meanwhile he must be nourished." He rose. "My good Leocadia, have you the
broth? Come, then, let us build up this strength of his. There is haste,
good soul; great haste!" She bustled at his bidding, and soon outside the
door there was a crackling of twigs to announce the lighting of a fire.
And then Gervasio made known to me the stranger.
"This is Galeotto," he said. "He was your father's friend, and would be
yours."
"Sir," said I, "I could not desire otherwise with any who was my father's
friend. You are not, perchance, the Gran Galeotto?" I inquired,
remembering the sable device on argent of which the priest had told me.
"I am that same," he answered, and I looked with interest upon one whose
name had been ringing through Italy these last few years.
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