TREACHERY
It was almost midnight, and Palermo lay sleeping in the moonlight. The
concert was over, and the people who had shouted themselves hoarse with
enthusiasm had dispersed at last to their homes. The last of the
broad-wheeled, heavily-built carriages had rolled away through the white
streets of the town. One by one the promenaders had left the Marina, and
all sound had died away. There was a faint, sighing breeze in the orange
groves around the bay, but scarcely a ripple upon the water. One man
alone lingered drinking in the sweetness of the night. The Englishman
sat on the last seat of the Marina, in the shadow of a cluster of orange
trees.
He had seen her again--nay, more, he had heard her sing--this
girl-nightingale, who had taken the world by storm. Chance had favored
him, insomuch that he had been able to secure almost a front seat in the
concert room, and the wonderful music of her voice rang still in his
ears. He had stolen out here to try and think it all over, and to calm
the passion which had suddenly leaped up within him. It was quite a new
experience through which he was passing; he scarcely knew himself. He
was happy and miserable, sanguine and despondent, all in a moment. One
question was always before him--one end, one aim. How was he to know
her? How could he endure to live here, seeing her day by day for a brief
while, without making her acquaintance? There was nothing to be hoped
for from the Sicilian, who would not even tell him her name. Possibly,
though, she would visit, or be visited by, some of the nobility of the
place. This was almost his only hope. He had letters to most of them,
and he made up his mind to present them all on the morrow.
He sat there dreaming, with a burned-out cigar between his teeth, and
his eyes idly wandering over the blue Mediterranean. Suddenly the
stillness was broken by the sound of a soft gliding footstep close at
hand. He had heard no one approach, yet when he looked up quickly he
found he was no longer alone. A man in the garb of a native peasant was
standing by his side.
Naturally the Englishman was a little surprised. He half rose from his
seat, and then resumed it as he recognized the dark, swarthy face and
black eyes of the waiter who had told him Adrienne Cartuccio's name.
"Hullo! What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I was in search of the Signor!" was the hasty response. "For an hour I
have sought him everywhere, and now it is by chance that I am
successful."
The Englishman looked at him with suspicion. This change of dress was
doubtless for the purpose of disguise. What was the meaning of it?
"Well, and now you've found me, what do you want?" he asked, watching
him closely.
"I will tell the Signor. Is it not that he has an admiration for
Mademoiselle Cartuccio, the singer? Well, she is in danger! It is for
the Signor to rescue her."
The Englishman sprang up with sparkling eyes, and pitched his dead cigar
into the sea.
"In danger!" he repeated breathlessly. "Quick! Tell me where!"
The man pointed inland.
"Do you see that belt of white road there, leading up into the hills?"
"Yes; what about it?"
"Have you noticed anything pass along it?"
"There was a heavy cart or carriage and some mules, I think, went by
half an hour ago."
The native shrugged his shoulders.
"It was an hour, Signor, but no matter! Step back with me into the
shadow of those olive trees. That is better. Now we cannot be seen, and
I will explain."
The Englishman beat the ground with his foot.
"Explanations be damned!" he exclaimed. "Where is Mademoiselle
Cartuccio? Quick!"
The man held up his hands, and spoke more rapidly.
"This evening I heard by accident of a plot to carry off Signorina
Cartuccio by a rejected suitor. I hasten to inform the police, but on
the way I pause. I say to myself, what shall I get for my pains, and for
the risk I run? Nothing! Then I think of the Signor. I watched his face
when the Signorina pass by, and I say to myself he has the passion of
her. If I show him the way to save her he will be generous. He will win
the lady, and he will reward poor Andrea."
"That's all right. Tell me what to do, and I will give you fifty
pounds--anything you like. Don't waste time. Speak up!"
The man's eyes shone with cupidity. He went on rapidly:
"The Signor is a prince. Listen! Along yonder road, before many minutes
have passed, will come the Signorina Cartuccio with her friend, attended
only by an aged servant. Men are waiting for them in the grove of orange
trees above the Villa Fiolesse. Their orders are to carry off the two
ladies to the other side of the island, where a place has been prepared
for them. For an hour I have searched for the Signor, that he might
procure aid, and so encounter these brigands, but in vain. I was in
despair."
"I want no help! How many of the black-guards are there?"
"Four, Signor!"
"Natives?"
"Yes, Signor."
"And cowards, I suppose?"
The man smiled.
"They have not much bravery, Signor. I know the men."
"I wouldn't have anyone else here for the world," the Englishman said,
shaking his fist.
"Does the Signor want a knife?" asked the man, thrusting his hand into
his inner pocket.
"Not I. We don't understand that sort of thing in our country, my brave
Andrea. Fisticuffs will settle this little matter, you'll see!"
The man looked up admiringly at the Englishman's commanding figure and
broad shoulders.
"I think they will run away from the Signor when they see him," he
whispered. "But let the Signor remember this: if one of them thrusts his
hand inside his coat, so, do not wait one moment--knock him down or get
out of his way. He will have the knife, and they know how to use it,
these brigands."
"Tell me the name of their leader--I mean the fellow who is trying to
carry off the Signorina. Will he be there?"
The man shook his head.
"I cannot tell the Signor his name. I dare not. I was once in his
service, and he has powers--hush!"
The two men held their breath, keeping well in the shadow of the orange
grove. They had reached the road, and in the distance they could hear
the sound of approaching voices.
"I leave you now, Signor," whispered his companion to the Englishman. "I
dare not be seen. To-morrow, at the hotel."
He glided noiselessly away. The Englishman scarcely heard him, he was
listening intently. Light footsteps were coming along the winding road
toward him, and soon a laughing voice rang out upon the night air.
"My dear Adrienne, don't you think we were a little foolish to walk home
so late as this? See, there is not a soul upon the promenade."
"_Tant mieux!_" was the light answer. "Is it not to escape from them
all, that we came this way? The stillness is exquisite, and the night
breeze from the sea, after that hot room, is divine. What a view we
shall have of the bay when we get to the top of the hill."
"They say that this place is infested with robbers, and it is terribly
lonely," was the somewhat fearful answer. "Why would you not let poor
Leonardo come with us?"
"Because I did not want Leonardo, _cherie_. Leonardo is very good, but
he wearies me by persisting to dwell upon a forbidden subject; and as
for protection--well, I fancy Giovanni is sufficient."
They were passing him now so close that he felt impelled to hold his
breath. He had only a momentary glimpse of them, but it was sufficient.
A few yards behind, a sullen-looking servant was trudging along, looking
carefully around. In the white moonlight their faces, even their
expressions, were perfectly visible to him; Adrienne's rapt and absorbed
by the still restful beauty of the dreaming night, and indifferent to
all fear; her companion, whose dark eyes were glancing somewhat
anxiously around her, and Giovanni's, whose furtive looks, more
expectant than apprehensive, marked him out to the Englishman as an
accomplice in whatever devilry was afoot. Unseen himself, he watched
them pass, and listened to their voices growing fainter and fainter in
the distance. They were out of sight and out of hearing.
He was preparing to follow them, when suddenly another sound broke the
stillness. He held his breath, and crouched down, watching. In a minute,
two dark forms, keeping carefully in the shadows by the side of the
road, crept stealthily past.
He waited till they, too, were out of sight, and then stood up with
tingling pulses, but quite cool. Moving on tip-toe, he stepped lightly
over the low stone wall into the road, and gazed after them.
The ascent was steep, and the road curved round and round in zig-zag
fashion. On one side it was bordered by a thickly-growing orange grove,
whose delicate perfume was sweetening the still languid air. On the
other was a stretch of waste open country, separated from the road by a
low wall. He chose the seaward side, and keeping under the shadow of the
trees, followed them, his footsteps sinking noiselessly into the thick
dust.
Once the two ladies paused to look back. He stopped too; and the two
bending figures between them drew closer into the shadows, and waited.
He was some distance away, but the sound of her voice floated clearly
down to him on a breath of that faint night air.
"Ah, how beautiful it is," she cried, pointing downward; "just a few
steps, and we shall see the sea glistening through the leaves of the
orange trees."
"I am sure that it is not prudent, Adrienne. We have come past the
footpath down to the villa, and this upper road is so lonely. Listen! I
fancied that I heard footsteps."
There was a moment's silence, then a low musical laugh which sounded to
him like the sweetest music.
"It was the echo of our own, you foolish child. There is nothing to
fear, and have we not Giovanni?"
Again they turned, and again he followed. Suddenly his heart gave a
great bound. About fifty yards in front of the two girls was a
rudely-built country carriage, drawn by a pair of mules and with a
single man on the box. They had paused at such an unexpected sight, and
seemed to be deliberating in whispers whether or no they should proceed.
Before they had come to any decision, the two men had crept out from the
shadow of the wall and trees into the road, and with bent bodies hurried
toward them.
He did not shout out or make any noise; he simply lessened the distance
between him and them by increasing his pace. The two stooping forms,
casting long, oblique shadows across the white, hard road, were almost
level with their intended victims. Now the shadow of one of them crept a
little in advance of the ladies, and Adrienne Cartuccio, seeing it,
stepped suddenly back with a cry of alarm.
"Giovanni! Giovanni! There are robbers! Ah!"
The cry became a shriek, but it was instantly stifled by a coarse hand
thrust upon her mouth. At the same moment her companion felt herself
treated in a similar manner. They could only gaze into the dark
ruffianly faces of their captors in mute terror. The whole thing had
been too sudden for them to make any resistance, and Giovanni, their
trusted escort, seemed suddenly to have disappeared. As a matter of
fact, he was watching the proceedings from behind a convenient bowlder.
The man who was holding Adrienne pointed to the carriage, the door of
which the driver had thrown open.
"This way, Signorina," he said "It is useless to struggle. We shall not
harm you."
She shook her head violently, and with a sudden effort thrust his hand
away from her mouth.
"What do you want?" she cried. "Who are you? You can have my jewels, but
I will never step inside that carriage. Help! help!"
He wound his arms around her, and, without a word, commenced dragging
her across the road.
"You may shout as much as you like," he muttered. "There will only be
echoes to answer you."
A sudden warning cry rang out from his companion, and, with a start, he
released his victim. The Englishman had stepped into the middle of the
group, and, before he could spring back, a swinging left-hander sent him
down into the dust with a dull, heavy thud.
"You blackguard!" he thundered out Then turning quickly round he faced
the other man, who had sprung across the road with bent body, and with
his right hand in his breast. There was a gleam of cold steel, but
before he could use the knife which he had drawn, his arm was grasped
and held as though by a vice, and slowly bent backward. He dropped the
weapon, with a shriek of pain, upon the road, and fell on his knees
before his captor.
The Englishman's grasp relaxed, and taking advantage of it, the man
suddenly jumped up, leaped over the wall, and disappeared in the
plantation. Pursuit would have been impossible, but none of them thought
of it.
The two ladies looked at their preserver standing in the middle of the
road--fair and straight and tall, like a Greek god, but with a terrible
fury blazing in his dark blue eyes.
"You are not hurt, I trust?" he asked, his breath coming quickly, for he
was in a towering passion. He was not speaking to the darker of the two
girls at all; in fact, he was unconscious of her presence. He was
standing by Adrienne Cartuccio's side, watching the faint color steal
again into her cheeks, and the terror dying out of her eyes, to be
replaced by a far softer light. Her black lace wrap, which she had been
wearing in Spanish fashion, had fallen a little back from her head, and
the moonlight was gleaming upon her ruddy golden hair, all wavy and
disarranged, throwing into soft relief the outline of her slim, girlish
figure, her heaving bosom, and the exquisite transparency of her
complexion. She stood there like an offended young queen, passionately
wrathful with the men who had dared to lay their coarse hands upon her,
yet feeling all a woman's gratitude to their preserver. Her eyes were
flashing like stars, and her brows were bent, but as she looked into his
face her expression softened. Of the two sensations gratitude was the
stronger.
"You are not hurt?" he repeated "I am sorry that I did not get here
sooner, before that fellow touched you."
She held out her hand to him with a little impetuous movement.
"Thanks to you. No, Signor," she said, her eyes suddenly filling with
tears. "Oh, how grateful we are, are we not, Margharita?"
"Indeed, indeed we are. The Signor has saved us from a terrible danger."
He laughed a little awkwardly. Where is the Englishman who likes to be
thanked?
"It is nothing. The fellows were arrant cowards. But what was the
carriage doing here?"
He pointed along the road. Already the clumsy vehicle had become a black
speck in the distance, swaying heavily from side to side from the pace
at which it was being driven, and almost enveloped in a cloud of dust.
Adrienne shook her head. Margharita had turned away, with her face
buried in her hands.
"I cannot imagine. Perhaps they were brigands, and intended to carry us
off for a ransom."
The Englishman shrugged his shoulders.
"Odd sort of bandits," he remarked. "Why, they hadn't the pluck of a
chicken between them, especially this one."
He touched the prostrate figure with his foot, and the two girls
shuddered.
"He is--is not dead, is he?" Margharita asked.
"Not he. I shouldn't say that he was very badly hurt either," the
Englishman declared, bending down and listening to his breathing. "More
frightened than anything. He'll get up and be off directly we leave. You
will let me see you home?" he continued, speaking to Adrienne.
She looked up at him with a gleam of humor in her wet eyes.
"You don't imagine that we should let you go and leave us here?" she
said. "Come, Margharita."
The Englishman looked at the other girl, almost for the first time, as
she came up and joined them. Her dark eyes were full of tears and her
face was troubled. There was very little relief or thankfulness for her
escape in her expression. The Englishman was no physiognomist, but he
was a little puzzled.
"There is no danger now, Signorina," he said reassuringly. "To-morrow I
will go to the police, and I dare say that we shall get to the bottom of
the whole affair."
She shuddered, but made no reply, walking on by their side, but a little
distance apart. As for the Englishman, he was in paradise. To all
intents and purposes, he was alone with Adrienne Cartuccio, listening to
her low voice, and every now and then stealing a glance downward into
those wonderful eyes, just then very soft and sweet. That walk through
the scented darkness, with the far-off murmur of the sea always in their
ears, was like the dawning of a new era in his life.
It was she who talked most, and he who listened. Yet he was very happy;
and when they reached her villa, and he left them at the door, she gave
him a white flower which he had found courage to beg for.
"May I call on you to-morrow?" he asked, trembling for the answer.
"If you would like to, yes," she answered readily. "Come early if you
have nothing to do, and we will give you afternoon tea _a l'Anglaise_.
By the bye," she added, a little shyly, "is there not something which
you have forgotten?"
He divined her meaning at once.
"Of course, I ought to have told you my name!" he exclaimed hastily.
"How stupid of me. It is St. Maurice--Lord St Maurice."
"Lord St Maurice! Then are you not the fortunate possessor of that
delightful little yacht in the harbor?"
"Yes, if you mean the _Pandora_, she's mine. Do you like sailing? Will
you come for a sail?" he asked eagerly.
"We'll talk about it to-morrow," she laughed, holding out her hand.
"Good-night."
He let her hand go. If he held it a moment longer, and a little more
firmly than was absolutely necessary, was he much to blame?
"Good-night," he said. "Good-night, Signorina," he added, bowing to
Margharita. "I shall come to-morrow afternoon."
Then he turned away, and walked with long swinging steps back to the
hotel.