"Let me finish the work; he has seen too much," said the first speaker,
roughly.
"No, no! He is the American. Do you not understand?"
"Remember the order, Narcone," cautioned another.
But Narcone continued to curse as if mastered by the craving to kill,
and if the others had not laid hands upon him he might have made good
his intention. They argued with him, all at once, and in the midst of
the confusion which ensued a new voice called from the darkness:
"What have you there?"
"The American! He cannot stand."
A square figure came swiftly through the group, muttering angrily, and
the others fell back to give him room, all but Narcone, who repeated,
doggedly:
"Let me finish the work if you fear to do so."
His companions broke out at him again in a babble of argument,
whereupon the new-comer shouted at them in a furious voice:
"Silenzio! Who did this?"
No one answered for a moment, but at length the brigand who held
Blake's hands pinioned at his back with a sash or scarf ventured to
suggest:
"I am not so sure he is injured. We pulled him down first; he may only
be frightened."
"There was to be no shooting," growled the leader of the band.
"Eh? But you saw for yourself. There was nothing else to do," said
Narcone. "That Ricardo was an old wolf."
The thick-set man, whom Norvin took to be the infamous Cardi himself,
cried sharply:
"Come, come, Signore, speak! Are you hurt?"
The prisoner shook his head mechanically, although he did not know
whether he was injured or not. His denial seemed to satisfy the chief,
who said with relief:
"It is well. We did not wish to harm you. There would be consequences,
you understand? And now a match, somebody."
"It is not necessary," Narcone assured him with a laugh. "Of what use
to learn a trade like mine if one cannot strike true? The knife went
home, twice--once for us, once for poor Galli, who was murdered. It was
like killing sheep." Picking up the wisp of grass which he had dropped,
he began to dry his hands once more.
A tiny flame flickered in the darkness. It was lowered until it shone
upon the upturned face of Ricardo Ferara where he lay sprawled in the
dust, his teeth showing beneath his gray mustache, then died away, and
the black outlines of the bull-necked man leaped into relief again as
he stooped to examine Martel.
Not until that instant did the full, crushing horror of the affair come
home to the American, for events had crowded one another so closely
that his mind was confused; but when, in the halting yellow glare, he
saw those two slack forms and the crooked, unnatural postures in which
death had left them, his consciousness cleared and he strained at his
bonds like a fear-maddened horse.
His actual danger, however, was at an end. One of the band removed the
rifle which still hung from his shoulders and which he had forgotten;
another slipped the scarf from his wrists and directed him to go. He
staggered away down the road along which he and Martel and Ricardo had
come, walking like a sick man, for he was crippled with, fright. After
a few steps he began to run, heavily, awkwardly at first, stumbling as
if his joints were loose; but as his body awoke and the blood surged
through him he went faster and faster until he was fleeing like a wild
animal. And as he ran his terror grew. He fell many times, goblin
shapes pursued him or leaped forth from the shadows, but he knew that
no matter how fast he fled he could never escape the thing he had met
back there in the night. It was not the grisly sight of his murdered
friend nor the bared teeth of Ricardo Ferara grinning upward out of the
road which filled him with the greatest horror; it was the knowledge of
his own foul, sickening cowardice. He ran wildly as if to leave it
behind, but it trod in his tracks and kept step with him.
The pyrotechnics at Terranova were nearly over and the grounds echoed
to the applause of the delighted spectators. The Donna Teresa was
leaning upon the arm of Colonel Neri and saying:
"No one but that extravagant Martel would have entertained these poor
people so magnificently, but there is no reasoning with him when he has
an idea."
"It is the finest display since the fair at San Felice two years ago,"
the Colonel acknowledged. They had come out upon the open piazza which
overlooked the lawn, and the other guests who had been present at the
supper had followed suit and were gathered there to admire the
spectacle.
"The country people will never finish discussing it. Why, it has been
the greatest event this village ever witnessed. And Margherita! Have
you ever seen her so beautiful?" The old lady spoke with pride, for she
was very happy.
"Never!" Colonel Neri fondled his mustache tenderly. "She is ablaze
with love. Oh, that Martel has broken all our hearts, lucky fellow! I
could hate him if I did not like him so."
"You men, without exception, pretend to adore her but it is flattery;
you know that she loves it and that it pleases me. Now Martel--Madonna
mia! What is this?" She broke off sharply and pointed toward the main
gateway to the grounds.
By the light that gleamed from the trees on each side of the driveway
men could be seen approaching at a run; others were hurrying toward
them across the terrace, calling excitedly to one another. A woman
screamed something unintelligible, but the tone of her voice brought a
hush over the merrymakers.
In the midst of the group coming up the road was one who labored
heavily. He was bareheaded, gray with dust, and he staggered as if
wounded.
"Some one has been hurt," exclaimed the Colonel. "Maledetto! There has
been a fight." He dropped his companion's arm and hastened to the
steps, then halfway down paused, staring. He whirled quickly and cried
to the old lady: "Wait! Do not come."
But Madame Fazello had seen the white face of the runner, and screamed:
"Mother of God! The American!"
The other guests from the balcony pressed forward with alarmed
inquiries. No one guessed as yet what had befallen, but the loud voices
died away, a murmuring tide swept the merrymakers toward the castello.
"What has happened, Signore?" Colonel Neri was crying. "Speak!"
"The Mafia!" Blake gasped. "Martel--is--" His knees sagged and he would
have pitched forward had not the soldier supported him. "We met
them--in the woods. Cardi--"
"Cardi!" echoed the Colonel in a harsh voice.
"Cardi!" came from a dozen frightened throats. The Donna Teresa uttered
a second shrill cry, and then through the ranks of staring, chalk-faced
peasants the Countess came running swiftly.
"Cardi!" she cried. "What is this I hear?"
"Go away, Signorina, I beseech you," exclaimed the Colonel of
carbineers. "Something dreadful has occurred." But she disregarded him
and faced Norvin Blake.
He raised his dripping, dust-smeared face and nodded, whereat she
closed her eyes an instant and swayed. But she made no outcry.
"Take her--away," he wheezed painfully. "God in heaven! Don't
you--understand?"
Even yet there was no coherent speech and the people merely stared at
one another or inquired, dully:
"What did he say? What is this about Cardi?"
"Take her away," Blake repeated. But the Countess recovered herself and
with a little gesture bade him go on. He told his story haltingly,
clinging to the Colonel to prevent himself from falling, his matted
head rolling weakly from side to side. When he had finished a furious
clamor broke forth from the men, the women, and the children. Neri
commanded them roughly to silence.
"Run to the village, some one, and give the alarm," he ordered in the
voice of a sick man. "Call Sandro and his men and bid them bring extra
horses."
A half-dozen fleet-footed youths broke away and were off before he had
finished speaking. Then Blake was helped into the hall of the castello,
where the confusion was less.
Lucrezia Ferara, who had been in the rear of the house and was among
the last to hear the evil tidings, came running to him with colorless
lips and eyes distended, crying:
"The truth, Signore, for the love of Christ! They tell me he is
murdered, but I know it is a lie."
The notary's wife attempted to calm her, but the girl began to scream,
flinging herself upon her knees at the feet of the American, begging
him to tell her it was all a mistake.
"My father would not die," she cried, loudly. "He was here but an hour
ago and he kissed me."
She would not be calmed and became so violent that it required force to
remove her. As soon as she was out of the way, Colonel Neri began
questioning Norvin rapidly, at the same time striving by his own
example to steady the young man, who was in a terrible condition of
collapse. Bit by bit, the soldier learned all there was to learn of the
shocking story, and through it all the Countess Margherita stood at his
elbow, never speaking. Her eyes were glazed with horror, her lips were
whispering something over and over, but when her cousin appealed to her
to leave the scene she seemed not to hear him. She only stood and
stared at the exhausted man until he could bear it no longer and,
hiding his face in his hands, he began to shiver and cringe and sob.
It seemed to him that she must know; that all these people must know
the truth, and see his shame as if it were blazoned in fire. Their
horror was for him; their looks were changing even now to contempt and
hatred. Why did they not accuse him openly instead of staring with
wide, shocked eyes? Realization had come to him long before he had
reached Terranova, and he was sick with loathing for himself. Now,
therefore, in every blanched cheek, in every parted lip, he felt an
accusation. He supposed all the world would have to know it, and it was
a thing he could never live down. He wished he might have died as
Martel had died, might die even now, and escape this torture; but with
every breath life flowed back into him, his heart was no longer
bursting, his lungs were no longer splitting.
"Why do you wait?" he queried at length, thinking of Martel out there
on the lonely mountainside. "Why don't you go fetch him?"
Neri said, soothingly: "Help will be here in a few moments, Signore.
You could not sit a horse yet a while."
"I?" Blake asked blankly, and shuddered. So they expected him to return
through that darkness--to guide them to the horror from which he had
just fled! He would not go! His mind recoiled at the thought and terror
came upon him afresh. Nevertheless, he made an effort at self-control,
lurched to his feet, and chattered through clicking teeth: "Come on!
I'm ready."
"Presently! Presently! There will be men and horses here in a moment."
In a lower tone the Colonel urged: "For the love of our Saviour, can
you not send the Contessa away? I am afraid she is dying."
Blake went to the girl and laid a shaking hand upon her arm,
stammering, wretchedly:
"Contessa, you--you--" He could not go on and turned appealingly to the
others.
"You say he is dead?" she inquired dully. "How can that be when you
told me there was no danger?"
"I did not know. Oh--" he lowered his working features. "If it had only
been I, instead!"