Fortune spares such as he is to try
people's temper, and annoy humanity."
"But is he decidedly better?" asked Isabella, with some interest.
"Yes, the surgeon reports him out of danger. Yesterday he was in a
fever from his wounds. I can't conceive how he got them, and no one
seems to know much about it."
"There's Carlo and father, on the Plato; good-by, sister I'm going
to join them."
CHAPTER XVII.
THE ASSASSIN.
THE apartment where General Harero was confined to his bed by the
severe wounds he had received, presented much such an aspect as
Lorenzo Bezan's had done, when in the early part of this story the
reader beheld him in the critical state that the wounds he received
from the Montaros on the road had placed him. It was dark and gloomy
then. The same surgeon who had been so faithful a nurse to our hero,
was now with the wounded officer. Notwithstanding the excitement of
his patient's mind, he had succeeded in quieting him down by proper
remedies, so as to admit of treating him properly for his wounds,
and to relieve his brain, at least in part, from the excitement of
feeling that a spirit of revenge had created there.
A knock was heard at the door just at the moment when we would have
the reader look with us into the apartment, and the surgeon admitted
a tall, dark person, partly enveloped in a cloak.
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