By this time, they had carried him to his bed-room, which, though the best guest-chamber of the monastery, was furnished with ascetic plainness; a crucifix, a bénitier, and a wooden pallet, comprising most of its moveables, the meagreness of which contrasted strangely enough with the crimson satin cushions and mattresses the Cardinal had brought with him, and which belonged to his horse-litter. "Air! air!" he said, feebly, as his friends pressed round him. "It will be well, I think, for all of you to leave the chamber," said the Prior, "except Salviati, Brother Marco, and myself. The Cardinal is in a high fever--I will open a vein for him." "Not on your life," gasped Ippolito. Meanwhile, all retired from the room except those whom the Prior had named. "Marsh miasma, no doubt," said Donati, as he returned to the refectory. "There was a pestiferous vapour on the marshes to-day." "And he would ride so fast," said Capponi, resuming his seat at table. "For my part, I wonder we are not ill too. I feel quite spent, and want something solid. I dare say a good night's rest will set him up again. He is of a full habit, like many of the Medici: it does not do for them to over-heat themselves. He takes everything too violently. What excellent beccaficoes! I prefer, however, thrushes stuffed with bergamots." While these two were composedly resuming their repast, there were others who did not even sit down to table, but stood apart in a little knot, anxiously debating whether the Cardinal had or had not exclaimed, "Ahí! tradimento!"-- Anxious looks were cast towards the door; and once or twice an envoy was despatched to the sick room. The first of these came back with disturbed aspect, saying, "His Eminence positively refuses to be bled, and the Prior is at his wit's end." "What a pity!" said Strozzi. "There is no finer remedy." "If it were any one else," pursued the first, "the Prior might take the matter into his own hands; but 'tis ticklish meddling with a Cardinal." "Especially when that Cardinal's a Medici," said young Strozzi, with his father's unpleasant smile. "I'll go and see to it myself." Presently Strozzi returned, saying mysteriously, "A courier is instantly to be despatched to the Pope, to beg of him a certain oil he possesses, known to be a sure antidote to all poison." "Poison!" repeated they all. "Can it be so?" said Capponi, wiping his lips, and rising from table. "This ought to be looked to." "Nay, I say not that it _is_ so, I only say that he thinks so," replied Strozzi. "At all events, I'm going instantly to despatch a messenger." "Sad, sirs, sad!" said Capponi, looking his companions in the face, as Strozzi passed out. "Nay, I expect not that it will turn out anything serious," said Donati. "The Strozzi are tender on the subject of poison," observed Messer Giunigi, the fourth Florentine, under his breath, "since the death of Madonna Luisa."