COLLECTING herself sufficiently to know that she must not cry out or
alarm her aunt, Marcia hurried to the front staircase and stood a
moment on the landing, hesitating what to do. Sybert was lounging in
the doorway leading on to the loggia. She leaned over the balustrade
and called to him softly so as not to attract the attention of the
others. He turned with a start at the sound of his name, and in
response to her summons crossed the hall in his usual leisurely stroll.
But at the foot of the stairs, as he caught sight of her face in the
dim candle-light, he came springing up three steps at a time.
‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ he cried.
‘Gerald!’ Marcia breathed in a sobbing whisper.
‘Gerald!’ he repeated, anxious lines showing in his face. ‘Good
heavens, Marcia! What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know; he’s gone,’ she said wildly. ‘Come up here, where Aunt
Katherine won’t hear us.’ She led the way up into the hall again and
explained in broken sentences.
Sybert turned without a word and strode back to Gerald’s room. He stood
upon the threshold, looking at the empty little crib and tossed pillows.
‘It will simply kill Uncle Howard and Aunt Katherina if anything has
happened to him,’ Marcia faltered.
‘Nothing has happened to him,’ Sybert returned shortly. ‘The scoundrels
wouldn’t dare steal a child. Every police spy in Italy would be after
them. He must be with Bianca somewhere.’
He turned away from the room and went on down the stone passage toward
the rear of the house. He paused at the head of the middle staircase,
thinking the matter over with frowning brows, while Marcia anxiously
studied his face. As they stood there in the dim moonlight that
streamed in through the small square window over the stairs they
suddenly heard the patter of bare feet in the passage below, and in
another moment Gerald himself came scurrying up the winding stone
stairway, looking like a little white rat in the dimness.
Marcia uttered a cry of joy, and Sybert squared his shoulders as if a
weight had dropped from them. Their second glance at the child’s face,
however, told them that something had happened. His little white
nightgown was draggled with dew, his face was twitching nervously, and
his eyes were wild with terror. He reached the top step and plunged
into Marcia’s arms with a burst of sobbing.
‘Gerald, Gerald, what’s the matter? Don’t make such a noise. Hush,
dear; you will frighten mamma. Marcia won’t let anything hurt you. Tell
me what’s the matter.’
Gerald clung to her, crying and trembling and pouring out a torrent of
unintelligible Italian. Sybert bent down, and taking him in his arms,
carried him back to his own room. ‘No one’s going to hurt you. Stop
crying and tell us what’s the matter,’ he said peremptorily.
Gerald caught his breath and told his story in a mixture of English and
Italian and sobs. It had been so hot, and the nightingales had made
such a noise, that he couldn’t go to sleep; and he had got up very
softly so as not to disturb mamma, and had crept out the back way just
to get some cherries. (A group of scrub trees, cherry, almond, and
pomegranate, grew close to the villa walls in the rear.) While he was
sitting under the tree eating cherries, some men came up and stopped in
the bushes close by, and he could hear what they said, and one of them
was Pietro. Here he began to cry again, and the soothing had to be done
over.
‘Well, what did they say? Tell us what they said, Gerald,’ Sybert broke
in, in his low, insistent tones.
‘Vey said my papa was a bad man, an’ vey was going to kill him ‘cause
he had veir money in his pocket—an’ I don’t want my papa killed!’ he
wailed.
Marcia’s eyes met Sybert’s in silence, and he emitted a low breath that
was half a whistle.
‘What else did they say, Gerald? You needn’t be afraid. We won’t let
them hurt your papa, but you must remember everything they said, so
that we can catch them.’
‘Pietro said he was going to kill you, too, ‘cause you was here an’ was
bad like papa,’ Gerald sobbed.
‘Go on,’ Sybert urged. ‘What else did they say?’
‘Vey didn’t say nuffin more, but went away in ve grove. An’ I was
scared an’ kept still, an’ it was all _nero_ under ve trees; an’ ven I
cwept in _pianissimo_ an’ I found you—an’ I don’t want you killed, an’
I don’t want papa killed.’
‘Don’t be afraid. We won’t let them hurt us. And now try to remember
how many men there were.’
‘Pietro an’—some uvers, an’ vey went away in ve trees.’
They questioned him some more, but got merely a variation of the same
story; it was evidently all he knew. Marcia called Granton to sit with
him and tremulously explained the situation. Granton received the
information calmly; it was all she had ever expected in Italy, she said.
Out in the hall again, Marcia looked at Sybert questioningly; she was
quite composed. Gerald was safe at least, and they knew what was
coming. She felt that her uncle and Sybert would bring things right.
‘What shall we do?’ she asked.
Sybert, with folded arms, was considering the question.
‘It’s evidently a mixture of robbery and revenge and mistaken
patriotism all rolled into one. It would be convenient if we knew how
many there were; Pietro and Gervasio’s stepfather and your man with the
crucifix we may safely count upon, but just how many more we have no
means of knowing. However, there’s no danger of their beginning
operations till they think we’re asleep.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It
is a quarter to ten. We have a good two hours still, and we’ll prepare
to surprise them. We won’t tell the people downstairs just yet, for it
won’t do any good, and their talk and laughter are the best protection
we could have. You don’t know where your uncle keeps his revolver, do
you?’
‘Yes; in the top drawer of his writing-table.’ She stepped into Mr.
Copley’s room and pulled open the drawer. ‘Why, it’s gone!’
‘I say, the plot thickens!’ and Sybert, too, uttered a short, low
laugh, as Copley had done on the terrace.
‘And the rifle’s gone,’ Marcia added, her glance wandering to the
corner where the gun-case usually stood.
‘It’s evident that our friend Pietro has been helping himself; but if
he thinks he’s going to shoot us with our own arms he’s mistaken. We
must get word to the soldiers at Palestrina—did you tell me the
servants were gone?’
‘I couldn’t find any one but Granton. The whole house is empty.’
‘It’s the Camorra!’ he exclaimed softly.
‘The Camorra?’ Marcia paled a trifle at the name.
‘Ah—it’s plain enough. We should have suspected it before. Pietro is a
member and has been acting as a spy from the inside. It appears to be a
very prettily worked out plot. They have waited until they think
there’s money in the house; your uncle has just sold a big consignment
of wheat. They have probably dismissed the servants with their usual
formula: “Be silent, and you live; speak, and you die.” The servants
would be more afraid of the Camorra than of the police.—How about the
stablemen?’
‘Oh, I can’t believe they’d join a plot against us,’ Marcia cried.
‘Angelo and Giovanni I would trust anywhere.’
‘In that case they’ve been silenced; they are where they won’t give
testimony until it is too late. I dare say the fellows are even
planning to ride off on the horses themselves. By morning they would be
well into the mountains of the Abruzzi, where the Camorrists are at
home. We’ll have to get help from Palestrina. If we could reach those
guards at the cross-roads, they would ride in with the message. It’s
only two miles away, but——’ He frowned a trifle. ‘I suppose the house
is closely watched, and it will be difficult to get out unseen. We’ll
have to try it, though.’
‘Whom can we send?’
He was silent a moment. ‘I don’t like to leave you,’ he said slowly,
‘but I’m afraid I’ll have to go.’
‘Oh!’ said Marcia, with a little gasp. She stood looking down at the
floor with troubled eyes, and Sybert watched her, careless that the
time was passing.
Marcia suddenly raised her eyes, with an exclamation of relief.
‘Gervasio!’ she cried. ‘We can send Gervasio.’
‘Could we trust him?’ he doubted.
‘Anywhere! And he can get away without being seen easier than you
could. I am sure he can do it; he is very intelligent.’
‘I’d forgotten him. Yes, I believe that is the best way. You go and
wake him, and I’ll write a note to the soldiers.’ Sybert turned to the
writing-table as he spoke, and Marcia hurried back to Gervasio’s room.
The boy was asleep, with the moonlight streaming across his pillow. She
bent over him hesitatingly, while her heart reproached her at having to
wake him and send him out on such an errand. But the next moment she
had reflected that it might be the only chance for him as well as for
the rest of them, and she laid her hand gently on his forehead.
‘Gervasio,’ she whispered. ‘Wake up, Gervasio. Sh—_silenzio!_ Dress
just as fast as you can. No, you haven’t done anything; don’t be
frightened. Signor Siberti is going to tell you a secret—_un
segreto_,’ she repeated impressively. ‘Put on these clothes,’ she
added, hunting out a dark suit from his wardrobe. ‘And never mind your
shoes and stockings. Dress _subito, subito_, and then come on
tiptoe—_pianissimo_—to Signor Copley’s room.’
Gervasio was into his clothes and after her almost before she had got
back. When undirected by Bianca, his dressing was a simple matter.
Sybert drew him across the threshold and closed the door. ‘What shall
we tell him?’ he questioned Marcia.
‘Tell him the truth. He can understand, and we can trust him.’ And
dropping on her knees beside the boy, she laid her hands on his
shoulders. ‘Gervasio,’ she said in her slow Italian, ‘some bad, naughty
men are coming here to-night to try to kill us and steal our things.
Pietro is one of them’ (Pietro had that very afternoon boxed Gervasio’s
ears for stealing sugar from the tea-table), ‘and your stepfather is
one, and he will take you back to Castel Vivalanti, and you will never
see us again.’
Gervasio listened, with his eyes on her face and his lips parted in
horror. Sybert here broke in and explained about the soldiers, and how
he was to reach the guard at the corners, and he ended by hiding the
note in the front of his blouse. ‘Do you understand?’ he asked, ‘do you
think you can do it?’
Gervasio nodded, his eyes now shining with excitement. ‘I’ll bring the
soldiers,’ he whispered, ‘_sicure_, signore, _sicurissimo_! And if they
catch me,’ he added, ‘I’ll say the _padrone_ has whipped me and I’m
running away.’
‘You’ll do,’ Sybert said with a half-laugh, and taking the boy by the
hand, he led the way back to the middle staircase, and the three crept
down with as little noise as possible.
They traversed on tiptoe the long brick passageway that led to the
kitchen, and paused upon the threshold. The great stone-walled room was
empty and quiet and echoing as on the first day they had come to the
villa. The doors and windows were swinging wide and the moonlight was
streaming in.
Sybert shook his head in a puzzled frown. ‘What I can’t make out,’ he
said in a low tone, ‘is why they should leave everything so open. They
must have known that we would find out before we went to bed that the
servants were missing. Who usually locks up?’
‘Pietro.’
‘You and I will lock up to-night.’ He considered a moment. ‘We mustn’t
let him out within sight of the grove. A window on the eastern side of
the house would be best, where the shrubbery grows close to the walls.’
Marcia led the way into a little store-room opening from the kitchen,
and Sybert gave Gervasio his last directions.
‘Keep well in the shadow of the trees across the driveway and down
around the lower terrace. Creep on your hands and knees through the
wheat field, and then strike straight for the cross-roads and run every
step of the way. _Capisci?_’
Gervasio nodded, and Marcia bent and kissed him and whispered in his
ear, ‘If you bring the soldiers, Gervasio, you may live with us always
and be our little boy, just like Gerald.’
He nodded again, fairly trembling with anxiety to get started. Sybert
carefully swung the window open, and the little fellow dropped to the
ground and crept like a cat into the shadows. They stood by the open
window for several minutes, straining their ears to listen, but no
sound came back except the peaceful music of a summer night—the murmur
of insects and the songs of nightingales. Gervasio had got off safely.
‘Now we’ll lock the house,’ Sybert added in an undertone, ‘so that when
our friends come to call they will have to come the front way.’
He closed the window softly and examined with approval the inside
shutters. They were made of solid wood with heavy iron bolts and
hinges. The villa had been planned in the old days before the police
force was as efficient as now, and it was quite prepared to stand a
siege.
‘It will take considerable strength to open these, and some noise,’ he
remarked as he swung the shutters to and shot the bolts.
They groped their way out and went from room to room, closing and
bolting the windows and doors with as little noise as possible. Sybert
appeared, to Marcia’s astonished senses, to be in an unusually
light-hearted frame of mind. Once or twice he laughed softly, and once,
when her hand touched his in the dark, she felt that same warm thrill
run through her as on that other moonlight night.
They came last to the big vaulted dining-room which had served as
chapel in the devotional days of the Vivalanti. The three glass doors
at the end were open to the moonlight, which flooded the apartment,
softening the crude outlines of the frescoes on the ceiling to the
beauty of old masters. Sybert paused with his back to the doors to look
up and down approvingly.
‘Do you know, it isn’t half bad in this light,’ he remarked casually to
Marcia. ‘That old fellow up there,’ he nodded toward Bacchus reclining
among the vines in the central panelling, ‘might be a Michelangelo in
the moonlight, and in the sunlight he isn’t even a Carlo Dolci.’
Marcia stared. What could he be thinking of to choose this time of all
others to be making art criticisms? Never had she heard him express the
slightest interest in the subject before. She had been under so great a
strain for so long, such a succession of shocks, that she was nearly at
the end of her self-control. And then to have Sybert acting in this
unprecedented way! She looked past him out of the door toward the black
shadow of the ilexes, and shuddered as she thought of what they might
conceal. The next moment Sybert had stepped out on to the balcony.
‘Mr. Sybert!’ she cried aghast. ‘They may be watching us. Come back.’
He laughed and seated himself sidewise on the iron railing. ‘If they’re
watching us, they’re doubtless wondering why we’re closing the house so
carefully. We’ll stop here a few minutes and let them see we’re
unsuspicious; that we’re just shutting the doors for fear of draughts
and not of burglars.’
‘They’ll shoot you,’ she gasped, her eyes upon his white suit, which
made a shining target in the moonlight.
‘Nonsense, Miss Marcia! They couldn’t hit me if they tried.’ He marked
the distance to the grove with a calculating eye. ‘There’s no danger of
their trying, however. They won’t risk giving their plot away just for
the sake of nabbing me; I’m not King Humbert. They don’t hate me as
much as that.’ He leaned forward with another laugh. ‘Come out and talk
to me, Miss Marcia. Let me see how brave you are.’
Marcia flattened herself against the wall. ‘I’m not brave. Please come
back, Mr. Sybert. We must tell Uncle Howard.’
If Marcia did not know Sybert to-night, he did not know himself. He was
under a greater strain than she. He had sworn that he would not see her
again, and he had weakly come to-night; he had promised himself that he
would not talk to her, that he would not by the slightest sign betray
his feelings, and he found himself thrown with her under the most
intimate conditions. They shared a secret; they were in danger
together. It was within the realms of possibility that he would be
killed to-night. The Camorrists had attempted it before; they might
succeed this time. He actually did not care; he almost welcomed the
notion. Ambition was dead within him; he had nothing to live for and he
was reckless. He thought that Marcia was in love with another man, but
he dimly divined his own influence over her. Once at least, he told
himself—once, before she went back to the boy she had chosen, she
should acknowledge his power; she should bend her will to his. He knew
that she was frightened, but she should conquer her fear. She should
come out into the moonlight and stand beside him, hand in hand, facing
the shadows of the ilex grove.
He bent forward, watching her as she stood in her white evening gown
outlined against the dark tapestry of the wall, her face surrounded by
glowing hair, her grey eyes big with amazement and fear.
He stretched out his hand toward her. ‘Marcia,’ he called in a low,
insistent tone. ‘Come here, Marcia. Come out here and stand beside me,
or I shall think you are a coward.’
She turned aside with a little shuddering gasp and hid her head against
the wall. What if they should shoot him in the back as he sat there?
Sybert suddenly came to himself and sprang forward with an apology.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Marcia; I didn’t mean to frighten you. I
don’t know what I’m saying.’
He began closing the doors and shutters farthest away. As he reached
her side he paused and looked at her. Her eyes were shut and she did
not move. He closed and barred the last shutter, and they stood silent
in the dark. Marcia was struggling to control herself. ‘I shall think
you a coward,’ was ringing in her ears. She had borne a great deal
to-day, from the moment when she had first seen the man asleep in the
grass; and now, as she opened her eyes in the darkness, a sudden rush
of fear swept over her such as she had experienced in the old
wine-cellar. It was not fear of any definite thing; she could be as
brave as any one in the face of visible danger. It was merely a wild,
unreasoning sensation of physical terror, bred of the dark and
overwrought nerves. She stretched out her hand and touched Sybert to be
sure he was there. The next moment she was beyond herself. ‘I’m
afraid,’ she sobbed out, and she clung to him convulsively.
She felt him put his arm around her. ‘Marcia! My dear little girl.
There’s nothing to be afraid of. When they find we are on our guard
they won’t dare molest us. Nothing can hurt you.’ It was so exactly his
tone to Gerald, she would have laughed had she not been crying too hard
to stop. Then suddenly his arms tightened about her. ‘Marcia,’ he
whispered hoarsely, ‘Marcia,’ and he bent his head until his lips
touched hers. They stood for an instant without moving; then she felt
him become quickly rigid as he dropped his arms and gently loosened her
hands. They groped their way into the hall without a word, and neither
looked at the other. They were both ashamed. The tears still stood in
Marcia’s eyes, but her cheeks were scarlet. And Sybert was pale beneath
the olive of his skin.
He stepped to the threshold of the salon. ‘Ah, Copley,’ he said in a
low tone. ‘Are you nearly through? I want to tell you something.’
Copley waved him off without looking up. ‘Sh—it’s a crucial moment.
Don’t interrupt. The scores are even and only one hand more to play.
I’ll be out in a few minutes.’
Marcia sat down in a chair on the loggia. It was on the opposite side
of the house from the ilex grove, and besides, her spasm of fear had
passed. Everything was blotted out of her mind except what had just
happened. Her thoughts, her feelings, were in wild commotion; but one
thing stood out clearly. She had thrown herself into his arms and he
had kissed her; and then—he had unloosed her hands. She shut her eyes
and winced at the thought; she felt that she could never face him again.
And on the other end of the loggia Sybert was pacing up and down,
lighting cigarettes and throwing them away. He, too, was fiercely
calling himself names. He had frightened her when he knew that she was
beside herself with nervousness; he had taken advantage of the fact
that she did not know what she was doing; he knew that she was engaged
to Paul Dessart, and he had forgotten that he was a gentleman. With a
quick glance toward the salon, he threw away his cigarette, and
crossing the loggia, he sat down in a chair at Marcia’s side. She
shrank back quickly, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees
and his eyes on the brick floor.
‘Marcia,’ he said in a tone so low that it was barely audible, ‘I love
you. I know you don’t care for me; I know you are engaged to another
man. I didn’t mean to see you again; most of all I didn’t mean to tell
you. I had no right to take advantage of you when you were off your
guard, but—I couldn’t help it; I’m not so strong as I thought I was.
Please forgive me and forget about it.’
Marcia drew a deep breath and shut her eyes. Her throat suddenly felt
hot and dry. The rush of joy that swept over her made her feel that she
could face anything. She had but to say, ‘I am not engaged to another
man,’ and all would come right. She raised her head and looked back
into Sybert’s deep eyes. It was he this time who dropped his gaze.
‘Mr. Sybert——’ she whispered.
A shadow suddenly fell between them, and they both sprang to their feet
with a little exclamation. A man was standing before them as
unexpectedly as though he had risen from the earth or dropped from the
sky. He was short and thick-set, with coarsely accentuated features; he
wore a loose white shirt and a red cotton sash, and though the shirt
was fastened at the throat, Marcia could see the mark of the crucifix
on his brown skin as plainly as if it were visible.
‘It’s the tattooed man!’ she gasped out, but as she felt Sybert’s
restraining touch on her arm she calmed herself.
The man took off his hat with a polite bow and an impertinent smile.
‘_Buona sera_, signorina,’ he murmured. ‘_Buona sera_, Friend of the
Poor. I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I come on business _molto
urgente_.’
‘What is your business?’ Sybert asked sharply.
‘My business is with Signor Copley.’
‘What is this? Some one to see me?’ Copley asked, appearing in the
doorway. ‘Well, my man,’ he added in Italian, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘Uncle Howard, don’t speak to him! It’s the tattooed man,’ Marcia
cried. ‘There’s a plot. He wants to kill you.’
An expression approaching amusement flitted over Mr. Copley’s face as
he looked his visitor over.
‘I wish to speak to the signore alone, in private, on urgent business,’
the man reiterated, looking scowlingly from one face to the other. He
did not understand the foreign language they spoke among themselves,
and he felt that it gave them an advantage.
‘Don’t speak to him alone,’ Sybert warned. ‘He’s dangerous.’
‘Well, what do you want?’ Copley demanded peremptorily. ‘Say whatever
you have to say here.’
The man glanced at Marcia and Sybert, and then, shrugging his shoulders
in true Italian fashion, turned to Copley.
‘I wish the money of the poor,’ he said.
‘The money of the poor? I haven’t any money of the poor.’
‘_Si, si_, signore. The money you stole from the mouths of the
poor—the wheat money.’
Marcia shuddered at the word ‘wheat.’ It seemed to her that it would
follow her to her dying day.
‘Ah! So it’s the wheat money, is it? Well, my good man, that happens to
be my money. I didn’t steal it from the mouths of the poor. I bought
the wheat myself to give to the poor, and I sold it for half as much as
I paid for it; and with the money I intend to buy more wheat. In the
meantime, however, I shall keep it in my own hands.’
‘You don’t remember me, signore, but I remember you. We met in Naples.’
Copley bowed. ‘On which occasion I put you in jail—a pleasure I shall
avail myself of a second time if you trouble me any further.’
‘I have come for the money.’
‘You fool! Do you think I carry thirty thousand lire around in my
pockets? The money is in the _Banca d’Italia_ in Rome. You may call
there if you wish it.’
The man put his hands to his mouth and whistled.
‘Ah! It’s a plot, is it!’ Copley exclaimed.
‘_Si_, signore. It is a plot, and there are those who will carry it
out.’
He turned with an angry snarl, and before Sybert could spring forward
to stop him he had snatched a stiletto from his girdle. Copley threw up
his arm to protect himself, and received the blow in the shoulder.
Before the man could strike again, Sybert was upon him and had thrown
him backward across the balustrade. At the same moment half a dozen men
burst from the ilex grove and ran across the terrace; and one of
them—it was Pietro—levelled the stolen rifle as he ran.
‘Back into the house!’ Sybert shouted, ‘and bar the salon windows.’ He
himself sprang back to the threshold and snatched out his revolver.
‘You fools!’ he cried to the Italians in front. ‘We’re all armed men.
We’ll shoot you like dogs.’
For answer Pietro fired the rifle, and the glass of an upper window
crashed.
Sybert closed the door and dropped the bar across it. He faced the
excited group in the hall with a little laugh. ‘If that’s a specimen of
his marksmanship, we haven’t much to fear from Pietro.’
He glanced quickly from one to the other. Marcia, in the salon, was
slamming the shutters down. Mrs. Melville and Mrs. Copley were standing
in the doorway with white faces, too amazed to move. Copley, in the
middle of the hall, with his right arm hanging limp, was dripping blood
on the marble pavement while he loudly called for a pistol; and
Melville was standing on a chair hastily tearing from the wall a
collection of fourteenth-century Florentine arms.
‘Pietro’s got your pistol,’ Sybert said. ‘But I’ve got five shots in
mine, and we’ll do for the sixth man with one of those bludgeons. I
ought to have shot that tattooed fellow when I had the chance—he’s the
leader—but I’ll make up for it yet.’
A storm of blows on the door behind him brought out another laugh.
‘That door is as solid as the side of the house. They can hammer on it
all night without getting in.’
The assailants had evidently arrived at the same conclusion, for the
blows ceased while they consulted. A crash of glass in the salon
followed, and Sybert sprang in there, calling to Melville to guard the
hall window. The shutters held against the first impact of the men’s
bodies, and they drew off for a minute and then redoubled the blows.
They were evidently using the butt of the rifle as a battering-ram, and
the stoutest of hinges could not long withstand such usage. With a
groan one side of the shutter gave way and swung inward on a single
hinge.
‘Put out the lights,’ Sybert called over his shoulder to Marcia, and he
fired a shot through the aperture. The assailants fell back with groans
and curses, but the next moment, raising the cry, ‘_Avanti! Avanti!_’
they came on with a rush, the Camorrist leading with the stolen
revolver in his hand. Sybert took deliberate aim and fired. The man
slowly sank to his knees and fell forward on his face. His comrades
dragged him back.
Marcia, in the darkness behind, shut her eyes and clenched her hands.
It was the first time she had ever seen a person die, and the sight was
sickening. The men withdrew from the window and those waiting inside
heard them consulting in low, angry guttural tones. The next moment
there was a crash of glass at the hall window which opened into the
loggia, and again the rifle as a battering-ram.
‘Ah!’ said Sybert under his breath, and he thrust the revolver into
Marcia’s hand. ‘Quick, take that to Melville and bring me one of those
spiked truncheons. We’ll make ’em think we’ve got a regular arsenal in
here.’
Marcia obeyed without a word, and the next moment shots and cries rang
out in the hall. She had scarcely placed the unwieldy weapon in
Sybert’s hands when another man thrust himself into the salon opening.
They had evidently determined to divide their forces and attack the two
breaches at once. Both Marcia and Sybert recognized the man instantly.
It was Tarquinio, the son of Domenico, the baker of Castel Vivalanti.
‘Tarquinio! You fool! Go back,’ Sybert cried.
‘Ah-h—Signor Siberti!’ the young fellow cried as he lunged forward
with a stiletto. ‘You have betrayed us!’
Sybert shut his lips, and reversing the truncheon, struck him with the
handle a ringing blow on the head. Tarquinio fell forward into the
darkness of the room, and the moonlight streamed in on his bloody face.
Sybert bent over him a moment with white lips. ‘You poor fool!’ he
muttered. ‘I had to do it.’
The next moment Marcia uttered a joyous cry that rang through the rooms.
‘Listen!’
A silence of ten seconds followed, while both besieged and besiegers
held their breath. The sound was unmistakable—a shout far down the
avenue and the beat of galloping hoofs.
‘The soldiers!’ she cried, and the men outside, as if they had
understood the word, echoed the cry.
‘_I soldati! I soldati!_’
The next moment a dozen carabinieri swept into sight, the moonlight
gleaming brightly on their white cross-belts and polished mountings.
The men on the loggia dropped their weapons and dashed for cover, while
the soldiers leaped from their horses and with spiked muskets chased
them into the trees.
Sybert hastily bent over Tarquinio and dragged him back into the shadow.
‘Is he alive?’ Marcia whispered.
‘He’s only stunned. And, poor fellow, he doesn’t know any better; he
was nothing but their dupe. It’s a pity to send him to the galleys for
life.’
They dropped a rug over the man and turned into the hall, which was hot
with the smell of powder and smoking candles. Sybert threw the door
wide and let the moonlight stream in. It was a queer sight it looked
upon. Copley, weak from his wound, had collapsed into a tall carved
chair, while the two ladies, in blood-stained evening dresses, were
anxiously bending over him. Melville, with the still smoking revolver
in his hand and a jewelled dagger sticking from his pocket, was
frenziedly inquiring, ‘For the Lord’s sake, has any one got any
whisky?’ Gerald, in his white nightgown and little bare legs, was
howling dismally on the stairway; while Granton, from the landing,
looked grimly down upon the scene with the air of an avenging Nemesis.
The next moment the soldiers had come trooping in, and everything was a
babel of cries and ejaculations and excited questions. In the midst of
the confusion Mrs. Copley suddenly drew herself up and pronounced her
ultimatum.
‘On the very first steamer that sails, we are going back to America to
_live_!’
Marcia uttered a little hysterical laugh, and Melville joined in.
‘And I think you’d better go with them, my boy,’ he said, laying a
grimy hand on Sybert’s arm. ‘I suspect that your goose is pretty
thoroughly cooked in Italy.’
Sybert shook the elder man’s hand off, with a short laugh that was not
very mirthful.
‘I’ve suspected that for some time.’ And he turned on his heel and
strode out to the loggia, where he began talking with the soldiers.
‘Poor fellow!’ Melville glanced at Marcia and shook his head. ‘It’s a
bad dose!’ he murmured. ‘I have a curiosity to see with what grace he
swallows it.’
Marcia looked after Sybert with eyes that were filled with sympathy.
She realized that it was a bitter time for him, though she did not know
just why; but she had seen the spasm that crossed his face at
Tarquinio’s cry, ‘You have betrayed us!’ She half started to follow
him, and then she drew back quickly. Through the open door she had
caught a glimpse of Sybert and a soldier bending over the Camorrist’s
body. They had opened his shirt in front, and she had seen the purple
crucifix covered with blood. She leaned back against the wall, faint at
the sight. It seemed as if the impressions of this dreadful day could
never leave her!