temples, as in the presence of a supernatural apparition.
Marco, tattered and dusty, stood there on the threshold, held back by the doctor's hand on one arm.
The woman uttered a cry, “Marco! my son!”
Marco rushed forward; she stretched out to him her fleshless arms, and straining him to her heart with the strength of a tiger, she burst into a violent laugh, broken by deep, tearless sobs, which caused her to fall back, choking on her pillow.
But she speedily recovered herself, and mad with joy, she shrieked as she covered his head with kisses: “How do you come here? Why? Is it you? How you have grown! Who brought you? Are you alone? You are not ill? It is you, Marco! It is not a dream! Speak to me!”
Then she suddenly changed her tone: “No! Be silent! Wait!” And turning to the doctor, she said hurriedly: “Quick, doctor! this instant! I want to get well. I am ready. Do not lose a moment. Take Marco away, so that he may not hear.—Marco, my love, it is nothing. I will tell you about it. One more kiss. Go!—Here I am, doctor.”
Marco was taken away. The master, mistress, and women retired in haste; the surgeon and his assistant remained behind, and closed the door.
Signor Mequinez attempted to lead Marco to a distant room, but it was impossible; he seemed rooted to the pavement.
“What is it,” he asked. “What is the matter with my mother? What are they doing to her?”
And then Mequinez said softly, still trying to draw
