First, he came in and established as I had that Widow Blundy was still perfectly asleep, then knelt down beside her, took out his rosary and prayed deeply for a short while. As I say, I had considered doing something of the same myself in a more Protestant way, but knew her better than to think even that would be welcomed. Then he acted most strangely indeed, taking out a small phial which he opened, and spreading some oil on his finger. He applied this finger gently to her forehead, made the sign of the cross and prayed again before putting the bottle back under his coat.

This was odd enough, although might be explained by great personal devotion, which I could admire as much as I condemned his error in doctrine. Thereafter, he bewildered me completely, as he got up abruptly and began searching the room. Not out of idle curiosity, but a thorough and determined search, pulling the small number of books off the shelves and flicking through them one by one before shaking them to see if anything should flutter out. One, I noted, he tucked under his coat so it could not be seen. Then he opened the little chest next to the door which contained all the Blun-dys’ possessions, and went through that as well, meticulously searching for something. Whatever it was he did not find it, for he closed the lid with a heavy sigh, and muttered some imprecation in his native language—I did not understand the words, but the sense of disappointment and frustration was clear enough.

He was standing in the room, clearly wondering what to do next, when Sarah arrived.

“How is she?” I heard her say, and my heart stirred to hear her voice again.

“She is not well at all,” said the Italian. He had a thick accent, but spoke clearly and evidently understood the language perfectly. “Can you not attend to her more?”

“I have to work,” she replied. “Our position is already grave now my mother cannot earn. Will she recover?”

“It is too soon to say. I am drying out the wound, then I will rebind it. I fear she is developing a fever. It may pass, but I am concerned. You must check every half hour for signs of the fever getting worse. And, strange as it may seem, you must keep her warm.”

I see here that my recollection of the conversation matches that of Mr. Cola very well; his memory is sound as to the beginning of the matter, so I will not continue to repeat what he has already said. I will, however, add that I noticed something he does not mention, which is that there was instantly in that room a most palpable tension between the two of them, and, while Sarah behaved perfectly normally, concerned only for her mother, Cola became distinctly and ever more agitated as the conversation proceeded. I thought initially that he was alarmed at the thought that his bizarre behavior might have been spotted, but realized this could not be. I should have left instantly, and slipped away while I had the chance to do so unobserved, but I could not bring myself to go.

“I am fortunate indeed. Forgive me, sir. I mean no insolence. My mother told me how well and generously you acted to her, and we are both deeply grateful for your kindness. We are not used to it, and I am truly sorry I misspoke. I was frightened for her.”

“That is quite all right,” Cola replied. “As long as you do not expect miracles.”

“Will you come again?”

“Tomorrow, if 1 can. And if she worsens, come and find me at Mr. Boyle’s. I will be attending him. Now, about payment,” he said.

I reproduce, more or less word for word, the conversation as set down by Mr. Cola, and admit that his account, as far as my own memory serves, is impeccable. I will merely add one thing which, strangely, finds no mention in his description. For as he spoke about payment, he took a step closer to her, and rested his hand on her arm.

“Oh yes, your payment. How could I think you would forget about that. We must deal with that urgently, must we not?”

It was only then that she broke away, and led him into the room where I swiftly concealed myself in the gloom so I might escape observation.

“Very well then, physician, take your payment.”

And, as Cola says, again with perfect truth, she lay herself down and pulled up her dress, revealing herself to him with the most obscene of gestures. But Cola does not mention the tone in her voice, the way her words trembled with anger and contempt, and the sneer on her face as she spoke.

Cola hesitated, then took a step backward and crossed himself. “You disgust me.” It is all in his account, I merely plagiarize his words. But again I must differ on a point of interpretation, for he says he was angry and I did not detect that. What I saw was a man horrified, almost as though he had seen the devil himself. His eyes were wide, and he all but cried out in despair as he recoiled from her and averted his gaze. It was many days before I learned the reasons for this bizarre behavior.

“Lord forgive me, your servant, for I have sinned,” he said in Latin, which I could understand and Sarah could not. I remember it well. He was angry at himself, not at her, for she was nothing to him but a temptation which had to be resisted. Then he ran, stumbling in his hurry out of the room, not slamming the door, it is true, for he left too fast to shut it at all.

Sarah lay there on the straw pallet, breathing deeply. She rolled over and buried her head in her arms, face down into the straw. I thought she was merely going to sleep, until I heard the unmistakable sounds of her weeping her heart out, heavy choking sobs which tore at my soul and rekindled, in an instant, all my affections.

I could not help myself, and paused not even an instant to reflect on what I was doing. She had never cried so before, and the sound of such deep sadness flooded my heart, dissolving all bitterness and rancor, and leaving it pure and clean. I took a step forward, and knelt down beside her.

“Sarah?” I said softly.

She jumped in fright as I spoke, pulling her dress down to cover herself and recoiling from me in terror. “What are you doing here?”

I could have given long explanations, could have made up a story about how I’d just arrived and was anxious about her mother, but the sight of her face made me abandon any thought of pretense. “I have come to ask your forgiveness,” I said. “I do not deserve it, but I have wronged you. I am so very sorry.”

It was easy to say, and I felt as I spoke that those words had been waiting their chance for months. Instantly I felt better, and relieved of a great weight. What was more, I truly think I did not mind whether she forgave me or not, for I knew she would be quite within her rights not to do so, as long as she accepted that my apology was genuine.

“This is a strange time and place to say such a thing.”

“I know. But the loss of your friendship and regard is more than I can bear.”

“Did you see what happened just now?”

I hesitated before admitting the truth, then nodded.

She did not instantly reply, then began shaking; I thought that it was with tears once more, but then discerned to my astonishment that it was with laughter.

“You are a strange man indeed, Mr. Wood. I cannot make you out at all. On no evidence at all, you accuse me of the most vile behavior, and when you see a scene such as that, you ask my forgiveness. What am I to make of you?”

“I hardly know what to make of myself, sometimes.”

“My mother is going to die,” she continued, the laughter ceasing, and her mood changing on the instant.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I am afraid she is.”

“I must accept it as God’s will. But I find it impossible to do so. It is strange.”

“Why so? No one has ever said obedience and resignation are easy.”

“I am so frightened of losing her. I am ashamed, for I can hardly bear to see her the way she is now.”

“How did she break her leg? She fell, Lower told me, but how could that be?”