The porter entered upon a final malediction, which might be supposed to
have gathered destructive force by collecting into itself all those that
had gone before, and he directed the whole complex anathema upon the
soul of the coward who had done the foul deed, and upon his mother, his
sisters and his daughters if he had any, and upon the souls of all his
dead relations, men, women and children, and all of his relations that
should ever be born, to the end of time. He had been a sailor in his
youth.
"Who did that to you?" he asked, when he had thus devoted the unknown
offender to everlasting perdition.
"Give me some water, please," said Zorzi, instead of answering the
question.
"Water! Oh yes!" Pasquale went to the earthen jar. "Water! Every devil
in hell, old and young, will jump and laugh for joy when that man asks
for water and has to drink flames!"
Zorzi drank eagerly, though the water was tepid.
"Drink, my son," said Pasquale, holding his head up very tenderly with
one of his rough hands. "I will put more within reach for you to drink,
while I go and get help."
"They have sent for a surgeon," answered Zorzi.
"A surgeon? No surgeon shall come here. A surgeon will divide you into
lengths, fore and aft, and kill you by inches, a length each day, and
for every day he takes to kill you, he will ask a piece of silver of the
master! If a surgeon comes here I will throw him out into the canal.
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