Neither Bernard nor his companion slept much that night. Both realized
that it might be the last night of their lives. Bernard felt solemn, but
mingled with Sanderson’s alarm and anxiety was a feeling of intense
anger against Walter Cunningham for his desertion of them.
[Illustration: 277]
“It is a mean, contemptible trick that Cunningham has played upon us,”
he said. “For the sake of saving his paltry money he has doomed us both
to death.”
“I am sure it isn’t his fault.”
“Oh, you may excuse him if you will. I won’t do it. I understand him
better than you do.”
“I don’t feel like disputing you,” said Bernard gravely, “but I know him
well, and I am sure he would not leave me in the lurch.”
They tossed about on their beds and neither one slept. They woke and
rose unrefreshed.
Breakfast was brought them, but neither could eat a mouthful.
“I can’t eat anything. It would choke me,” said Sanderson.
“Walter Cunningham may come yet,” said Bernard, but his hope was very
faint.
“Then he had better hurry, that’s all I have got to say. I wish I could
communicate with the American minister. Our government should send over
a fleet of war vessels and blow Naples sky high.”
“You must remember that these men are outlaws—that it is their work,
and not the work of the government.”
“Then the government should suppress them. I wish,” Amos Sanderson
continued, with a groan, “that I had never set foot in this forsaken
country. I should have stood a better chance in a savage land.”
“The signor is not hungry?” said the bandit who had brought in the
breakfast. He spoke in Italian, but Bernard understood.
“No,” he answered, “we are not hungry.”
“How can you expect a man to have an appetite when he’s going to be
murdered?” growled Sanderson.
The bandit did not understand, and merely looked at him gravely.
“It’s too bad,” went on the American, “to leave the world, when a man
has made a fortune and is able to enjoy it. Why, I ought to live
twenty-five years yet. I am only forty-seven.”
“And I am not yet seventeen,” said Bernard.
“Yes, it’s hard luck for us both. And to think Cunningham has doomed us
to all this! I’d like to wring his neck. If I had gone it would have
been different.”
Bernard felt too despondent to defend his friend. In his secret heart he
felt that Cunningham ought to have managed somehow to come back and save
them from the doom which now awaited them.
“It is half-past eleven,” said the American, drawing out his watch,
which, perhaps because it was only of silver, the bandits had not
confiscated.
“Then we have half an hour to live. If only Mr. Cunningham would appear
in that time!” sighed Bernard.
Slowly the minutes passed, but there was no arrival.
Punctually at twelve o’clock the door opened and the bandits entered,
accompanied by the interpreter. There was a stern gravity upon the faces
of the three Italians, which caused the hearts of the captives to sink
within them.
“Well,” said the interpreter, “your friend has not come.”
“No, confound him!” exclaimed Sanderson fiercely. “I’d like to strangle
him.”
“Give him another day,” pleaded Bernard. “He must have met with some
delay.”
The interpreter shrugged his shoulders.
“Naples is only fifteen miles away, and it is now the seventh day.
Doubtless he is enjoying himself. He has no thought of returning.”
“I have no doubt you are right,” said Amos Sanderson bitterly.
“The signor agrees with me, then.”
“You should have let me go.”
“Would it have been any better?” asked the interpreter gravely.
“Yes. I give you my word it would.”
Then a sudden thought came to Mr. Sanderson.
“Look here,” he said, “you want money, don’t you?”
“That is what we want.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Send me to Naples, and I’ll bring you
five thousand scudi. I’ll hurry back as soon as I can.”
“Does the signor take us for fools? We have lost one of our prisoners.
Shall we let another go?”
“But you will have the boy left.”
“Well?”
“If I don’t come back you will have him in your power.”
Bernard looked at Amos Sanderson.
He was not especially pleased with his proposal, nor did he feel in the
least certain that he would come back. Still, his life would be
prolonged, and that would lead to something. Possibly it would give
Walter Cunningham time to return.
“I am willing to be left,” he said, “if you choose to let this gentleman
go.”
“You’re a trump, Bernard!” said Mr. Sanderson cordially. “I’ll come
back, I assure you. You see the boy is willing.”
“But we are not,” said the interpreter decidedly. “Of the three the boy
is the last one that we wish to retain.”
“But you want the money, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me go.”
“How will the signor get the money?”
“From my bankers.”
“But you gave your letter of credit to the other signor.”
“So I did,” said Amos Sanderson, with sudden recollection.
“And without your letter of credit you could get no money.”
Amos Sanderson was silent. He had no answer to make. He had still harder
thoughts in his heart of Walter Cunningham, whom he accused of the
basest treachery.
“Have you any more to say?” asked the interpreter.
“No,” answered Sanderson sullenly.
“And you?” turning to Bernard.
“I ask you to wait another day.”
“We cannot do it. It is clear that Signor Cunningham will not return.”
At a signal one of the bandits went to the door and opened it.
“Follow me,” said the interpreter.
Bernard and Sanderson had been so long confined that they were glad to
pass through the portal into the bright sunshine without.
“Now what are you going to do with us?” asked the American.
“You can choose in what way you will die. Shall it be by the knife or
the pistol?”
Just then Bernard turned his head. He uttered a joyful exclamation.
“Look!” he said in delight, “there he comes! There is Walter
Cunningham.”
A dozen rods away could be seen the figure of their missing companion.
He seemed to be extremely fatigued, and his clothing was covered with
dust.
“I knew he would come,” said Bernard triumphantly.