'Is this so?' he asked the physician. 'Can your skill avail nothing here?' 'He is in God's hands,' said Mombelli, mumbling indistinctly. 'Send them away,' said Facino, and his eyes indicated Mombelli and the servant. 'There is little time, and I have things to tell you. We must take order for what's to follow.' The orders did not amount to very much. He required of Bellarion that he should afford the Countess his protection, and he recommended to him also Filippo Maria. 'When Gian Galeazzo died, he left his sons in my care. I go to meet him with clean hands. I have discharged my trust, and dying I hand it on to you. Remember always that Gian Maria is Duke of Milan, and whatever the shortcomings he may show, for your own sake if not for his, practise loyalty to him, as you would have your own captains be loyal to you.' When at last, wearied, and announcing his desire to rest, Facino bade him go, Bellarion found Mombelli pacing in the Hall of Mirrors, and sent him to Facino. 'I shall remain here within call,' he said, and oblivious of his own fatigue he paced in his turn that curious floor whereon birds and beasts were figured in mosaics under the gaudy flashing ceiling of coloured glass, whence the place derived its name. There Mombelli found him a half-hour later, when he emerged. 'He sleeps now,' he said. 'The Countess is with him.' 'It is not yet the end?' Bellarion asked. 'Not yet. The end is when God wills. He may linger for some days.' Bellarion looked sharply at the doctor, considered him, indeed, now for the first time since his arrival. This Mombelli was a man of little more than thirty-five. He had been vigorous of frame, inclining a little to portliness, rubicund if grave of countenance with strong white teeth and bright dark eyes. Bellarion beheld now an emaciated man upon whose shrunken frame a black velvet gown hung in loose folds. His face was pale, his eyes dull; but oddest of all the very shape of his face had changed; his jaw had fallen in, so that nose and chin were brought closer like those of an old man, and when he spoke he hissed and mumbled indistinctly over toothless gums. 'By the Host, man! What has happened to you?' Mombelli shrank visibly from the questions and from the stern eyes that seemed to search his very soul. 'I ... I ... have been ill,' he faltered. 'Very ill. It is a miracle I am alive to-day.' 'But your teeth, man?' 'I have lost them as you see. A consequence of my disease.' A horrible suspicion was sprouting in Bellarion's mind, nourished by the memory of the rumour of this man's death which Venegono had reported. He took the doctor by the sleeve of his velvet gown, and drew him towards one of the double windows. His shrinking, his obvious reluctance to undergo this closer inspection, were so much added food to Bellarion's suspicion. 'How do you call this disease?' he asked.