This is a burn, and it needs an old woman to dress it. Women are evil
beings, a chastisement sent upon us for our sins. But an old woman can
dress a burn. I go. There is the water."
Zorzi called him back when he was already at the door.
"The fire! It must not go down. Put a little wood in, Pasquale!"
The old porter grumbled. It was unnatural that a man so badly hurt
should think of his duties, but in his heart he admired Zorzi all the
more for it. He took some wood, and when Zorzi looked, he was trying to
poke it through the 'bocca.'
"Not there!" cried Zorzi desperately. "The small opening on the side,
near the floor."
Pasquale uttered several maledictions.
"How should I know?" he asked when he had found the right place. "Am I a
night boy? Have I ever tended fires for two pence a night and my supper?
There! I go!"
Zorzi could hear his voice still, as he went out.
"A surgeon!" he grumbled. "I should like to see the nose of that surgeon
at the door!"
Zorzi cared little who came, so that he got some relief. His head was
hot now, and the blood beat in his temples like little fiery hammers,
that made a sort of screaming noise in his brain. He saw queer lights in
circles, and the beams of the ceiling came down very near, and then
suddenly went very far away, so that the room seemed a hundred feet
high.
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