Presently I Found Myself Back At The Concordia, Not Knowing
Exactly How I Had Returned.
The dyspepsia - I clung to this
hypothesis - was growing so violent that I had difficulty in
breathing:
Before long I found it impossible to stand.
My hostess was summoned, and she told me that Cotrone had "a great
physician," by name "Dr. Scurco." Translating this name from dialect
into Italian, I presumed that the physician's real name was Sculco,
and this proved to be the case. Dr. Riccardo Sculco was a youngish
man, with an open, friendly countenance. At once I liked him. After
an examination, of which I quite understood the result, he remarked
in his amiable, airy manner that I had "a touch of rheumatism"; as a
simple matter of precaution, I had better go to bed for the rest of
the day, and, just for the form of the thing, he would send some
medicine. Having listened to this with as pleasant a smile as I
could command, I caught the Doctor's eye, and asked quietly, "Is
there much congestion?" His manner at once changed; he became
businesslike and confidential. The right lung; yes, the right lung.
Mustn't worry; get to bed and take my quinine in dosi forti, and
he would look in again at night.
The second visit I but dimly recollect. There was a colloquy between
the Doctor and my hostess, and the word cataplasma sounded
repeatedly; also I heard again "dosi forti." The night that
followed was perhaps the most horrible I ever passed.
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