about to close my eyes, when the abbé returned, bearing a bowl in his hands. This St. Armande took from him, and approaching me said-- "Come, cavaliere--you must drink this at once." His tone was sharp and incisive, and looking up in some surprise, I saw he was pale to the lips, and wondered what bee had stung him. I rose to a sitting posture to take the cup; but he would not have it so, and passing his arm round my neck, made me drink like a child. The draught was cool and refreshing, and as I sank back on my pillows, my heart for a moment being gay at the thought of the letter, I said jestingly-- "Chevalier, you would make a most excellent nurse. Shave off that little moustache of yours, put on a black hood and gown, and _diavolo!_ But you would break as many hearts as you cured wounds." The words were barely out of my mouth, when he brought his foot down with an angry stamp on the carpet, and with a face as scarlet now as it had been pale before, turned on his heel and walked out of the room. I looked to the abbé, who was sitting watching me, stroking his chin with his hand. "St. John! But is he often taken this way?" The cleric rose, and not answering my question, spoke. "You had better try and sleep now, cavaliere, or else the potion may lose its effect." He then followed St. Armande. I would have risen to apologise, but I felt a pleasant numbness stealing over me, and in a minute or so my thoughts began to grow confused, and I seemed to sink into a sleep. Not so profound a slumber, however, as to be unconscious of what was going on around me. I was sure I once heard Bande Nere and Jacopo in my room, and that I was being carried apparently to a more comfortable bed. Then I felt soft hands bathing my wound, and heard a gentle voice whispering words of deep love in my ear. It was a dream, of course, but all through the night that soon came, Doris d'Entrangues hung over me, and tended me with words I cannot repeat. CHAPTER XXIII. THE PAVILION OF TREMOUILLE.