The Moscio slung saddle-bags over his saddle, as though he were
travelling some distance, and led his horse down from the huts by
bypaths in the woods till he came to a place where the trees descended
almost to the road, so that he could reach the latter without crossing
any open country. Before emerging from cover he looked long and
carefully up and down the valley to be sure that no carabineers were in
sight, who might be surprised at seeing a well-dressed man come out of
the forest. A few peasants were visible, straggling along the road, and
far away a light waggon was ascending the hill. The Moscio led his horse
carefully across the ditch, and then mounted in leisurely fashion and
rode slowly away towards Santa Vittoria. The outlaw, who may at any
moment need his horse's greatest powers, spares him whenever he can, and
when not obliged to escape some danger will hardly ever put him to a
canter.
It was a full hour before the village was in sight. Once on the highway,
the Moscio felt perfectly at his ease, and barely took the trouble to
glance behind him at a turn of the road. He had excellent papers of
various descriptions about him, including a United States passport of
recent date, in which he appeared as an American citizen, and a proper
discharge as corporal from the military service, together with a highly
commendatory letter from the captain of the troop in which the unlucky
individual to whom the paper had belonged had served his time in Milan.
He also possessed a gun-license in the same man's name, and the
description of him which accompanied it suited him very well. Some of
the papers he had bought at a good price, and some he had taken without
much ceremony, because they suited him. To-day he did not even carry a
gun and was, in reality, altogether unarmed, though he would naturally
have been supposed to have a pistol or a knife about him, like other
people in Sicily. If anyone had asked his name, he would have said that
he was Angelo Laria of Caltanissetta, a small farmer. The name
corresponded with the papers of the soldier, and as he was unarmed it
would have been hard to find any excuse for arresting him on a mere
suspicion.
If a man carries so-called forbidden weapons, on the other hand, the
carabineers can arrest him for that offence alone, if they find it out,
and can hold him till he can prove his identity. A knife, such as one
can stab with, is forbidden, and the special license, which is required
to carry a pistol, is not often granted except to very well known
persons, though a vast number of people really carry revolvers without
any license at all.
The Moscio dismounted at the gate, walked up the street with his horse,
enquired for the sacristan, and brought him back to the little church
with the keys.
'Have the goodness to hold my horse' he said to the fat man. 'I only
wish to look at the church for curiosity, and I will go in alone.'
The sacristan did not know him by sight, but with a true Sicilian's
instinct recognised the 'maffeuso' in his manner. He proposed, however,
to tether the horse to an old stake that was driven into the ground near
the door, in order to go in with the stranger and explain how the priest
had murdered Francesco. He had got the account off very glibly by this
time.
'My friend' said the Moscio, 'in those saddle-bags I have important
papers and a quantity of valuable things, the property of an aunt of
mine who is dead, and may the Lord preserve her in glory! I am taking
these things myself; for greater safety, to my cousin, her son, who
lives in Taormina. Now the reason why I begged you to hold my horse is
not that I fear for him, though he is a good animal, but because some
evilly-disposed person might steal the property of my poor aunt. You
understand, and you will have the goodness to hold the horse while I go
in.'
The sacristan looked at him and smiled. The Moscio smiled very sweetly
in answer, pushed the door open and went in, closing it behind him and
leaving the keys on the outside. But when he was in the church, he took
from his pocket a small wedge of soft pine wood, gently slipped it in
under the door and jammed it noiselessly. It would have been rather
difficult to open the door from the outside after that. Then he walked
leisurely up the church, his spurs ringing loudly so that the sacristan
might hear through the door that he was in no hurry.
He went up the altar steps, and smiled as he noticed a few round, dark
spots on the marble, and one irregular stain. That was the very place
where it had happened. He knelt down and tried to put his arm through
the grating, but the space was too narrow. With the same leisurely
certainty he slipped off his velvet jacket and laid it on the altar,
rolled up his sleeves, and tried again, with his bare arm. No one,
seeing him in his coat, and glancing at his small hands, would have
suspected the solid muscles above. Even now the grating was too close.
It was of light iron, however, and twisted in a decorative design. He
easily forced a scroll in one direction, a winding stem in another, and
got his hand down to the bottom of the depression in which the glass
casket was placed.
He withdrew the knife, and slipped it into the pocket of his
riding-breeches; then he readjusted the iron ornaments, buttoned his
shirt-sleeve, and put on his jacket. As he walked down the church again
he took the weapon out. The broad blade was stuck in its black leathern
sheath, and it required all his strength to loosen it. When he got it
out, he saw that the steel was covered with dark rust.
It was a pity, he thought, as he dropped it into his pocket again, for
it had evidently been a good knife. He would clean it with sand and a
brick, and sharpen it on a stone, during the evenings, not because he
could not have got a better one easily enough, but because it was an
agreeable and interesting remembrance. He drew the wedge from under the
door without making any noise and went out into the open air. The fat
sacristan had lit a clay pipe with a wild cherrywood stem, and was
slowly walking the horse up and down in the shade. The Moscio took a
small note from a neat pocketbook. Even when notes are scarce, in the
wild finances of modern Italy, the outlaws manage to have them because
they are easily carried.
'Do you wish me to change it for you?' enquired the sacristan, holding
the flimsy bit of paper between his thumb and finger.
'Keep it for yourself, my friend, with a thousand thanks,' replied the
Moscio.
But the sacristan refused, and held the note out to him, returning it.
'We are not of that kind,' he said, with dignity. 'We do not wish to be
paid for courtesy.'
'There are doubtless many poor persons in the village,' answered the
Moscio, smiling, and beginning to mount. 'You will do me a favour by
giving the money to those who need it, requesting them to pray for the
soul of my poor aunt.'
'In that case it is different,' replied the fat man, gravely. 'I thank
you in the name of our poor people. As for me, I am always here to serve
you and your friends.'
The Moscio glanced at the man's face as the last words were spoken.
Tebaldo had told him who the sacristan was, and had described him
accurately.
'A greeting to your brother, Don Taddeo the grocer,' said the outlaw,
settling himself in the saddle.
The sacristan looked up sharply. Being cross-eyed, it was almost
impossible to know with which eye he was looking at one. But the
expression did not change as he answered.
'Thank you. You shall be obeyed. Our service to your friends.'
They understood each other perfectly well, and the Moscio rode slowly
away into the brilliant light, leaving the fat man to lock up the church
and go home. The outlaw had made a friend of him, but had not thought
fit to ask him any questions about the state of the village or the
movements of the Saracinesca. It was of no use to go any further than
necessary at a first meeting, and the band had plenty of good sources of
information.
Tebaldo spent the morning in a sort of feverish anxiety against which
he struggled in vain. He went out for a stroll and passed twice before
Basili's house. The weather was beginning to be hot, and the blinds were
as tightly closed as though the house were not inhabited. As he passed
for the second time he fancied he heard Aliandra's voice singing softly
in the distance. He could hardly have been mistaken, for it had the
quality and carrying power, even when least loud, which distinguish the
great voices of the world, the half a dozen in a century that leave
undying echoes behind them when they are still. His blood rushed up in
his throat at the sound and almost choked him, so that he pulled at his
collar with his finger, as if it were too tight.
He had not intended to try to see her again, but the fascination of the
light and distant song was more than he could resist He knocked and
waited on the little steps outside the door. He was sure that he heard
someone moving upstairs and approaching a window, and he guessed that he
could be seen through the slats of the blinds. A long time passed and he
heard no sound. Then, as usual, the stable-man came to the door, with
his faithful, stolid face. He began to give the customary answer.
'The Signorina Aliandra has gone to the country with--'
'Let me come in,' said Tebaldo, interrupting the man roughly.
He was active, strong, and in a bad temper, and before the man could
hinder him, Tebaldo had pushed himself into the house and was shutting
the door behind him.
'And the notary is asleep,' said the man, concluding the formula, in a
tone of surprise and protest, but attempting no further resistance.
'Wake him, then!' cried Tebaldo, his naturally smooth voice rising to a
high and almost brassy tone. 'And the devil take you, your mother, and
both your souls!' he added, relapsing into dialect in his anger.
He must have been heard to the top of the house, and by Gesualda in her
kitchen. Immediately there came a sound of footsteps from above. But
Tebaldo was already mounting the stairs. Aliandra was coming down to
meet him, her face flushed with annoyance and her eyes sparkling.
'What is this, Don Tebaldo?' she asked, as soon as she caught sight of
him. 'By what right do you--'
He interrupted her.
'Because I mean to see you,' he answered. 'When you are in the country
with Gesualda visiting your friends, one ought not to hear you singing
in Randazzo as one passes your house.'
Aliandra was not really very angry that he should have got in, for she
was beginning to find her father's company a little dull. But she made a
movement of annoyance as though displeased at having betrayed herself by
her singing.
'Well--go down to the sitting-room,' she said. 'I cannot turn you out,
since you have got in.'
They descended, and she sent away the stable-man, and made Tebaldo go
into the front room, leaving the door open, however, as she followed
him. His anger disappeared when her manner changed. He took her hand and
tried to make her sit down, but she smiled and shook her head.
'I cannot stay,' she said. 'But as for your having been kept out, that
is really my father's doing. I suppose he is right, but I am glad to see
you for a moment. I was afraid you had gone back to Rome.'
'Not without seeing you. But what absurd idea possesses your father--'
'Hush! Not so loud! The doors are open upstairs, too, and one hears
everything.'
'Then I will shut the door--'
'No, no! Please do not! He would scold, for he would certainly know.
Besides, you must go.'
'I do not understand you at all,' said Tebaldo, lowering his voice. 'The
last time I saw you, you were just like yourself again, and now--I do
not understand. You are quite changed.'
'No. I am always the same, Tebaldo.' Her voice was suddenly kind. 'I
told you the whole truth in Rome, once for all. Why must I say it over
again? Is it of any use?'
'It never was of any use to say it at all,' answered Tebaldo. You do not
believe that I love you--'
'You are wrong. I do believe it--as much as you do yourself!' She
laughed rather irrelevantly.
'Why do you laugh?' he asked.
'Such love is a laughing matter, my dear Tebaldo. I am not a child. It
is better that love should end in laughter than in tears.'
'Why should it end at all?'
'Because you are engaged to marry another woman, dear friend. A very
good reason--for me.' She laughed again.
'You have only a dead man's word for it,' said Tebaldo, grimly.
'Unfortunately he is where he cannot take it back. But I can for him. It
is not true.'
He set his eyes, as it were, while he looked at her, in order to make
her believe that he was telling the truth. But she knew him well, for
she had known him long, and she doubted him still. She shook her head.
'It may not be literally true,' she said. 'But practically it is the
fact. You mean to marry the American. That is why neither my father nor
I wish you to come to the house. You injure my reputation here, in my
own town, as you do in Rome. If you loved me, you would not wish to do
that. I have held my head high at the beginning, and that is the
hardest. I did not mean to say it over again, but you force me to. Do
you want me? Marry me. If you were a rich man, I suppose I should be
ashamed to speak as I do. But we are both poor, you for a nobleman and I
for an artist. So there is no question of interest, is there? I have not
seen your American heiress. She may be handsomer than I, for I am not
the most beautiful woman in the world. She is rich. That is her
advantage. She may be a good girl, but she is no better than I, the
singer, the notary's daughter, who have nothing in my whole life to
blush for. Look at me, now, as I am. You know me. Choose between us, and
let this end. I am willing to marry you if you want me, but I am not
willing to sacrifice my good name to you, nor to any man in Europe,
king, prince, or gentleman. Here I stand, and you may look at me for the
last time, compare me with your foreign young lady, and make up your
mind definitely. If it is to be marriage, I will marry you at once. If
not, I will not see you again, if I can possibly help it, either here
or in Rome.'
As she finished her long speech she crossed her arms behind her and
faced him rather proudly, drawing herself up to her full height, smiling
a little, but with an earnest look in her eyes. She had never looked so
handsome. The few days of country life had completely rested her young
face.
'You are frank, at all events,' said Tebaldo, half mechanically, for he
was thinking more of her than of her words.
'And it is time that you should be frank, too,' she answered. 'You must
make your choice, and abide by it Aliandra Basili or the American girl.'
He was silent, for he was in a dilemma and was, besides, too nervous
from all he had been through to like being driven to a sudden decision.
On the other hand, her beauty stirred him now, as it had not done
before, and the idea of giving her up was unbearable. She looked at him
steadily for several seconds. More than once his lips parted, as though
he were going to speak, but no words came. Gradually her mouth grew
scornful and her eyes hard.
All at once she laughed a little harshly and turned towards the door.
'You have chosen,' she said. 'Good-bye.'
But the passionate longing that had assailed him outside, in the street,
at the sound of her voice, had doubled and trebled now. As she turned,
the folds of her gown followed her figure in a way that drove him mad.
'Aliandra!' he cried, overtaking her in an instant, and catching her in
his arms.
She struggled a little as he forced her head backwards upon his
shoulder.
'You!' He kissed the word upon her lips again and again. 'You! You!' he
repeated. 'I cannot live without you, and you know it! Yes--I will marry
you--before God, I will--'
And many passionate, broken words and solemn vows mingled with his
kisses as he stood there pressing her to him. It was not a noble love,
but it was genuine and fierce, as all the man's passions were, whether
for love, or hatred, or revenge. It was when he had let them drive him
to reckless deeds that his other nature asserted itself, calm and
treacherous and self-contained.
As for Aliandra herself; she had saved her self-respect, though few
people might respect her for what she had done. She was not a very
romantic or sentimental young woman, but according to her lights she was
a good girl. She had been taught to consider that all men were
originally and derivatively bad, and that every woman had a genuine
right to make the most advantageous marriage she could. She did not in
the least expect that Tebaldo would be faithful to her, but she firmly
intended to be an honest wife, on general principles. What she most
wanted was his name, for which she meant to earn a fortune by her art.
She had never been in love and, therefore, did not believe that love had
any real existence, a view not uncommon with very young people who have
no particular sentimentality in their composition. And so rigid were her
ideas in one direction that she resented the demonstrative way in which
Tebaldo expressed his decision.
He was almost beside himself, for his nerves had been already unstrung,
and her beauty completely dominated him for the time being, so that he
forgot even Miss Slayback's millions, his own evil deeds, and his
meeting with the outlaw. There was nothing which he was not ready to do.
Basili should draw up the marriage-contract at once, and on the
following morning they would be formally betrothed. Only the fact that
he could not with propriety be married within less than three months of
his brother's death recalled him to himself.
The afternoon was already advancing when he left the house and went back
to the inn, half dazed and almost forgetful alike of past and future, as
he walked up the street. Before he had gone a hundred yards, however, he
had regained enough composure to think of what he had to do, and when he
reached the inn, no one would have supposed that anything unusual had
happened to him.
As he rode out of the town half an hour later, he vaguely wondered at
himself for what he had done, and wondered, also, how he could get out
of his present difficult position.
He looked at his watch, and saw that it was growing late. He had far to
ride, and had intended to start much earlier in the afternoon. He had
the innkeeper's best horse, but it was rather a slow animal, not to be
compared with Basili's brown mare. He quickened his pace as well as he
could, however and cantered along the more level stretches of the
high-road. At the first opportunity he struck off into a bridle-path to
the right which led westward towards the heights above Maniace.
He had ridden several miles, in and out among the little undulations of
the upper valley, when he came out upon a broad bit of meadow, such as
one occasionally finds in that region, just beyond the black lands. He
put his horse at a gallop, taking advantage of the chance to gain a
little time, and riding diagonally for a point at the opposite side from
which the bridle-path led up to the hills, as he well knew.
He was less than half-way across the grass when he heard the heavy tread
of horses galloping after him, with the clanking of arms and a sound of
deep voices calling out to him. He looked round, but he knew already
that he was followed by mounted carabineers, and that they could
overtake him easily enough. After a moment's hesitation he drew rein and
waited quietly for the troopers to come up. He wished that he had
carried his rifle across his saddle-bow instead of at his back, for he
at first believed that there was some information against him from Santa
Vittoria, and that they meant to arrest him. On the other hand, to have
unslung his rifle, after seeing that they were carabineers, would have
been to acknowledge that he feared them. His mind worked quickly as he
sat still in his saddle, waiting for them.
But when they were fifty yards away one of them spoke, and reined in his
charger.
'It is Don Tebaldo Pagliuca!' he exclaimed in a tone of surprise, and in
the desolate stillness of the lonely field, Tebaldo heard the words and
understood that he had been mistaken for someone else.
The other trooper laughed a little, and they both trotted up to
Tebaldo, saluting when they were near him.
'I beg your pardon,' said the older soldier. 'We took you for a
stranger. It is a lonely place, and we have news that the brigands are
somewhere in the neighbourhood. I trust we have not annoyed you,
signore. Accept our excuses.'
Tebaldo smiled easily.
'You took me for an outlaw,' he said 'It is natural enough, I am sure.
Do you know your way? Can I be of any service to you?'
The elder trooper asked one or two questions about the directions in
which the bridle-paths led. He evidently knew the country tolerably
well, and Tebaldo was wise enough not to deceive him. After a few
moments' conversation, he offered the men a couple of cigars, which they
gratefully accepted and hid in the inner pockets of their tunics, after
which they saluted again and rode away in the direction whence they had
come. In disturbed times such patrols are to be met with occasionally on
almost every practicable bridle-path, and the foot-carabineers scramble
up and down through the country in pairs, even where there are no paths
at all.
As he rode on alone Tebaldo was aware that his heart was beating faster
than usual. He had been startled by the unexpected meeting, and for one
moment had expected to be arrested. He now reflected that he had no real
cause to fear any such catastrophe, since, by this time, the Moscio had
certainly recovered the knife, which represented the only possible
evidence against him. But the physical impression remained, and it was
very like fear. He had rarely been afraid of anything in his life, and
the sensation was disturbing, for it warned him that the strain on his
whole nature was beginning to weaken him.
He pressed on, urging his lazy horse whenever the ground permitted, and
cutting across through the woods, from one bridle-path to another, as
often as he could, shortening the way to gain time. He was near the foot
of the hill on which the outlaws were camping and was just about to
cross the streamlet which ran down from the spring, when a man in tweed
clothes, that had an English look, quietly stepped out from behind a
bush and stood in his way, at the water's edge, holding a rifle in his
hand. Tebaldo's horse stopped of his own accord.
'Your name, if you please,' said the outlaw, civilly.
'Tebaldo Pagliuca. I come by appointment to visit one of your friends.'
'Name him, if you please.'
'The Moscio,' said Tebaldo, knowing that if the names had not agreed
with those given to the sentinel as a pass, the man would probably have
killed him instantly as a spy.
'I will show you the way,' said the brigand, slinging his rifle on his
shoulder.
'I know the way perfectly,' answered Tebaldo. 'Pray do not trouble
yourself.'
'It is a pleasure,' returned the other, and he cleared the little stream
at a bound.
Tebaldo guessed that he was not altogether trusted even now. As the man
walked up the hill he whistled softly, and in a few moments, emerging
from the brush into a little clearing, Tebaldo saw the Moscio waiting
for him. It was dusky under the trees, but Tebaldo could see the
pleasant smile on the girlish face. The Moscio had his rifle under his
arm, and was smoking a cigarette. The man who had led Tebaldo to the
spot disappeared into the brush, returning to his post by the stream.
Tebaldo dismounted.
'Have you met anyone?' enquired the outlaw shaking hands.
'No,' answered Tebaldo, 'not since I left the high-road.'
He had reflected that he had done unwisely in not turning back with the
carabineers and riding with them as far as the road, in order to disarm
any possible suspicions, and he knew that the Moscio would think so too.
He should, if necessary, have even waited till the next day before
coming up to the camp, but his anxiety to see the knife safe in the
Moscio's possession had outweighed everything else.
'So much the better,' answered the outlaw, unsuspiciously. 'By the bye,
here is your knife. Is this it?'
He held it out to Tebaldo, who took it eagerly, his fingers closing
round the sheath, as though he were afraid of dropping it. He breathed
hard between his teeth once or twice, as he looked at it in sheer
satisfaction.
'It is yours, I suppose?' observed the Moscio, interrogatively, for
Tebaldo had forgotten to speak. 'There was no other.'
'Yes. I thank you. I am very grateful to you.' The words were as sincere
as any the man had ever uttered, and he handed the knife back.
'Not at all,' answered the outlaw. 'It was interesting to see the place.
I am glad to have served you. Since you have taken the trouble to come
so far, will you accept our hospitality this evening? You can hardly get
back to Randazzo to-night. Mauro is in a very good humour this evening,
and the weather is pleasant. You will not suffer much inconvenience. The
huts are quite dry. We will try and make you some return for your former
hospitality.'
Tebaldo accepted readily enough, and they began to ascend the hill at
once. It was some distance to the top. The Moscio turned to the right at
a big, old chestnut tree.
'That is not the best way,' remarked Tebaldo. 'Keep on another ten yards
and then turn to the left. There is an old bridle-path on the other side
of the hawthorn bushes.'
The Moscio laughed softly.
'It is a pity that you are not with us,' he said. 'You know the paths
better than we do.'
'I was born near here,' answered Tebaldo. 'I have known these woods
since I was a boy.'
'I wish I had. I sometimes lose my way in this part of Sicily.'
The path began exactly where Tebaldo had said that it did, the entrance
being hidden by hawthorn and blackberry bushes. He went on a few steps,
doubled behind the brambles, and led the Moscio along a much better way
than the outlaws had discovered for themselves. The outlaw appreciated
the advantage, and reflected that Tebaldo could help the band in a
thousand ways if he chose. Without passing by the spring, they suddenly
found themselves at the top of the hill. The path stopped abruptly
against the back of one of the wooden huts, having formerly crossed the
summit at this point.
'Let me go first,' said the Moscio, and he passed Tebaldo and his horse
and went round the corner of what was really little more than a shed,
roughly enclosed with half-rotten planks.
Various exclamations of surprise greeted their appearance from an
unexpected quarter.
'Our friend, Don Tebaldo Pagliuca,' said the Moscio, addressing a number
of men who were sitting and lying about on the dry ground. 'He knows the
woods better than we, and has shown me a new path from the big chestnut
tree.'
'He is welcome,' said Mauro, in a dull and muffled voice, but with some
cordiality.
He and most of the others rose and greeted Tebaldo warmly. Some had
known him already, and almost all had known Ferdinando well.
They were a strange-looking set of men. Most of them were well dressed,
and so far as their clothes were concerned might have been taken for a
party of southern country gentlemen and rich young farmers, camping
during a day's shooting. Mauro, who was by far the oldest, might have
been seven or eight and thirty years of age, but not more, and most of
the others were evidently under thirty. They were all strong-looking,
with the toughened appearance of men accustomed to live in the open air
and to take exertion as a matter of course. The Moscio alone had
preserved his marvellous, child-like freshness of complexion. The
'Moscio' means the 'soft,' being similar to our English word 'mush,' and
the youth's looks accounted for the name, while his remarkable strength
and utter fearlessness contrasted rather comically with the epithet.
The peculiarities in the appearance of his companions were chiefly in
their faces and expressions. Most of them had the oddly sinister,
unchanging smile with something contemptuous in it which so often
characterises adventurers, both within the pale of society and beyond
its bounds. Such men do not laugh easily. In their eyes, too, there was
the look one sees in those of some Red Indians and of dangerous wild
animals aware of pursuit and always inclined to turn at bay rather than
escape. Tebaldo felt, rather than saw, the glances that were turned upon
him as he stood in their midst, still holding his horse by the bridle.
Mauro himself was dark, clean shaven, close cropped, and already bald on
the top of his head. He had often disguised himself successfully as a
priest, for he had been educated in a seminary, had turned atheist, had
been a journalist, and had finally got into trouble by shooting his
editor in consequence of a quarrel which had apparently begun about a
question of grammar, but had in reality been connected with politics, so
that the deed had been regarded as an act of justice and patriotism by
the mafia. There had been a reward of twenty thousand francs on Mauro's
head, dead or alive, for several years, and photographs of the famous
brigand were sold everywhere in Palermo, Messina, and Catania, but there
was not a carabineer in the island who could boast of having seen the
man himself. He was taciturn and reticent, too, though he could be
fluent enough when he pleased; and although he put a gold piece into his
purse for everyone he killed, as the Moscio had said, he could never be
induced to tell how many there were in the little leathern bag. He never
did anything unnecessarily, but was capable of the most blood-curdling
cruelty when any end was to be gained, and was merciless to informers
when they fell into his hands, not exactly out of love for inflicting
pain, but in order to inspire a salutary terror. He was extremely
temperate in his habits and simple in his clothes, though his weapons
were always of the best and of the newest device, and he had a large
account with the leading bank of Palermo. He intended to emigrate, he
said, when he should be rich enough, but those who knew him did not
believe that he could be satisfied to settle down as a well-to-do
proprietor in the Argentine Republic. The Moscio always said that Mauro
would yet repent of his ways, enter a monastery, mortify the flesh, and
die in the odour of sanctity. Whereat Mauro generally nodded
thoughtfully, as though he himself regarded such a termination to his
career as quite within the bounds of possibility.
As for the rest of the band, none of them were in any way so remarkable
as their leader. The man known as Leoncino was believed to be a son of
the famous Leone, and boasted of it. He had stabbed a rival in a village
love affair, after having been brought up rather mysteriously in the
house of a rich farmer. Schiantaceci was undoubtedly a gentleman by
birth, a sad young fellow, with a drooping brown moustache, fiery eyes,
and a very sweet voice in which he often sang softly on a summer's
evening when it was not dangerous to make a noise in the camp. No one
knew his real name. In a fight he always behaved as though he wished to
be killed, which is generally the surest way of killing others.
Among the rest there were men of all classes. There was a man who had
been mayor of his village, there was a butcher, there were three or four
deserters from the army, who had each killed a comrade, and one who had
attacked his lieutenant but had not killed him. There was a chemist's
apprentice who had poisoned his master, and an actor who had strangled
his manager's wife in a love quarrel. There were also two anarchists who
had escaped imprisonment under Crispi's rule. But there was not one in
the number who had done less than two murders at the time when Tebaldo
went up to the camp.
One of the outlaws led his horse away, and he sat down by Mauro a little
apart from the rest. In the middle of the open space a fire was burning
down to a bed of coals. It had been very carefully built and slowly fed
so as to produce the smallest possible amount of smoke. A well-cleaned
gridiron was stuck upright in the earth by the handle, and at the
entrance to one of the huts the man who was a butcher was cutting a huge
piece of fresh meat into steaks.
After the first greetings, the men relapsed into silence, and paid
little attention to Tebaldo. Mauro talked with him in low tones. The
chief seemed, indeed, unable to speak loud. He asked many questions
about the Saracinesca, but he would have considered it a breach of
civility to refer to the truth about Francesco's death.
'These Saracinesca are naturally antipathetic to you,' he observed, 'and
I daresay you would not be sorry if one of them put his ears in pawn at
my bank.'
'They are a powerful family,' answered Tebaldo, cautiously. 'If one of
them were taken by you, there would be reinforcements of carabineers
throughout Sicily.'
'These carabineers are much like flies,' said Mauro, thoughtfully. 'They
come in swarms, they buzz, and they fly away again, leaving nobody much
the worse. It means a little more caution for a month or two. That is
all. But the Saracinesca would pay a good sum to keep the young heir's
nose on his face, and San Giacinto would probably write a cheque at my
dictation before he were half roasted.'
He spoke quietly and in a reflective tone.
'For my part,' replied Tebaldo, 'I wish them no good, as you may
imagine. But the younger Saracinesca is in Rome. San Giacinto came back
last night, it is true, but he is safe at Camaldoli.'
'Safe is a relative term when we are in the neighbourhood,' remarked
Mauro. 'Especially if you will give us your assistance,' he added. 'On
the whole, it would be more convenient to take San Giacinto. He could
write the cheque, and I could cash it almost before there were any
alarm, holding him until we got the money. If we took the young one, we
should have to communicate with the family. That is always
disagreeable.'
'You might have difficulty in cashing the cheque,' suggested Tebaldo.
'None whatever,' replied Mauro. 'You are quite mistaken. That is always
easy, though of course money in cash is preferable. A cash transaction
is always better, as a mere matter of business.'
Tebaldo had not by any means anticipated that he was to be called in as
an ally in such an affair, and did not like the prospect at all. He
promised himself that he would return to Rome as soon as possible. For
the present he put aside the extremely complicated position in which he
was placed by having given two promises of marriage. He felt
uncomfortable, too, and chilly. He shivered a little, and Mauro noticed
it, and called for a cup of wine. Tebaldo swallowed it eagerly and felt
better.
'It will be necessary for you to help us,' said Mauro, presently, and in
a tone of quiet decision. 'No one knows the land about Camaldoli as
well as you do, and the approaches to the house.'
'I would rather not be involved in the capture,' answered Tebaldo.
'I am sure you will not refuse,' replied Mauro, smiling at him. 'It will
be a little return for the service the Moscio has done you. He was very
glad to help you, of course, but you must not forget that you are one of
us now, and that we always help each other when we can. I am sure you
will not refuse.'
Tebaldo glanced sideways at the quiet, priest-faced man who had been the
terror of Sicily for years. He realised that the outlaw had spoken the
truth, and that he might at any moment have to turn outlaw himself, if
the secret of the knife were known. He knew the brigands and their ways.
They would keep faith with him, even at the risk of their own lives, but
he must submit to their conditions. They had him in their power, and he
must help them if they required him to do so. If he refused, information
would be in the hands of the carabineers in twelve hours, which would
drive him into outlawry, if he escaped at all. But if he helped them,
they would stand by him. He had not foreseen such a situation.
'What is it that you wish me to do?' he enquired after a short pause.
'I will tell you,' answered Mauro. 'There are now only four carabineers
quartered at Camaldoli, and as they ride on patrol duty like the rest,
there are never more than two in the house at a time. There is San
Giacinto himself, so that there are three men to deal with. The rest of
the people are Sicilians, and will give no trouble.'
'San Giacinto is equal to two or three ordinary men,' observed Tebaldo.
'Is he?' Mauro spoke indifferently. 'One man is very like another, at
the end of a rifle-barrel,' he continued, 'and if one pulls the trigger,
they are all exactly alike. The point is this. We intend to surprise
Camaldoli to-morrow night. You must lead us by the ways you know to the
low rampart at the back, behind the stables and over the river. There is
a way up on that side, but we do not know it. We shall find a ladder
resting against the wall on that side. A friend will place it there.'
'Why do you not get him to show you the way?' asked Tebaldo.
'He lives in the house,' answered Mauro. 'The gates are shut at Ave
Maria, and there is a roll-call of the servants and men. San Giacinto,
or whichever of the Saracinesca is there, locks the gate himself and
keeps the keys in his own room. They all go to bed early, and the house
is always quiet between midnight and two o'clock. There is no moon just
now, and if we can get round to the back without rousing the dogs, or
attracting attention in any way, we can get possession of the place in
five minutes. The carabineers sleep in a room on the court. They have to
sleep sometimes, like other people. Barefooted we shall make no noise on
the stones. Leave the rest to us.'
'And have they no sentinels at night?' enquired Tebaldo. 'Do they keep
no watch?'
'No. The house would be hard to enter without a ladder at the one weak
point. One would be sure to rouse everybody before one got in. But once
in the court, we can silence the two carabineers in a moment, and then
we shall be fifteen to one against San Giacinto. I would not give much
for his safety, then. The main thing is to reach the ladder quietly and
all together. The paths are difficult, there is water in the stream
still, and we must know where to ford it in the dark, for we could not
safely approach from the other side. Your help is absolutely necessary
to this enterprise. As I said, I am quite sure that you will give
it--quite sure.'
He emphasised the last words a little, and Tebaldo knew what he meant.
There was no choice.
'I will do as you wish,' he said reluctantly. 'I will come here before
sunset, and when it is time I will lead you by the shortest way.'
The Moscio's eyes were watching him and met his own as he looked up.