"Hush, sir, that touches me nearly too," gravely said Capponi, who was of kin to Madonna Luisa's husband. Here the Prior came forth, very irate. "The Cardinal will none of my assistance," said he, "and yet I have been held to know something. He is out of his head, and yet exacts obedience as if he were himself. Not content with obstinately refusing to lose blood, which would reduce the fever at once, and leave him as cool as a cucumber, he insists that a courier on a fleet horse shall instantly be despatched to Fondi for a certain Jew physician, named Bar Hhasdai, in whom he has more faith than in all the Christian leeches in Italy. The Jew hath never been baptised, therefore I cannot consent to send for him." "Nay, but," said Donati, solicitously, "if the Cardinal himself desires him, I see not how you are exonerated from having him, baptised, or otherwise." "Send for him yourself, then," said the Prior; "you have plenty of your own people." "That will I readily," said Donati, and he left the refectory for that purpose. Those who remained behind, discussed the chances of the Pope's sovereign remedy arriving in time to be of use, and talked over the present political aspect of affairs in Rome, Florence, and Bologna; and of the various deaths of the Medici--which was almost as dreary a subject as their lives. Meanwhile, there lay the poor Cardinal on his crimson satin mattresses, with his once ruddy, handsome face, now pale as ashes, pressed against a crimson satin pillow fringed with gold--nothing white, nothing cool and comfortable about him--there he lay, alternately flushing and chilling, torn with pain and languishing with sickness and faintness--and all the while ideas were rushing through his distracted head like clouds across a racking sky; and the one predominant thought was, "Treachery! treachery!" _Now_, he who had conspired, knew what it was to be conspired against. Oh! what a long, long night! He scarcely knew or cared that people from time to time looked in on him, stooped over him to hear if he breathed, touched his heart, his wrist, drew the coverlet closer over him, and went away. He scarcely knew or cared whether many were around him or only the faithful Salviati. His thoughts were following a fleet horse tearing along the road to Fondi, and striking sparks as it clattered down the lava paved street. Then he seemed to see the yellow-faced Jew, in a red night-cap, peering forth from one of the high, unglazed windows, as the courier shouted out his name--and behind him that Hebrew youth, whether son or acolyte, whom the Cardinal had seen at his door in passing, only a few hours before, with his pale, delicate face, and long, spiral curls, and look of sadness and submission. How singular that that face, only once seen, and seen for a moment, should have stereotyped itself on his mind as the type of Isaac about to be sacrificed!--and now he seemed to see him collecting