While we were standing there we heard a burst of coarse laughter from one of the soldiers at the café next door.
“I can’t understand why they are still here.” Miss Perkins muttered. “They are stationed at Parezzo; from what I hear of that city, there are wine shops and—er— entertainment of other sorts more interesting than anything this poor hamlet can supply.”
“Ask him,” I suggested, indicating Signor Carpaccio.
When the question was put, the man shrugged.
“It is only this wretched outlaw, this Falcon. He has sworn to tear down a reward notice if one should be put up. The soldiers are waiting for him to come. But,” he added quickly, as Miss Perkins made a movement toward the door, “there is no reason for the signorina to run away; the villain will not dare appear. He will certainly be captured if he does.”
“Of course he will appear,” Miss Perkins snapped. “His reputation depends on his keeping such rash, stupid promises. Girls—come, we must go.”
“But surely, Miss Perkins, he will wait till nightfall, or till tomorrow, when the soldiers are less alert,” I exclaimed. “It would be madness for him to come now.”
“Publicity is his aim, not caution,” Miss Perkins replied. “Where is Piero? We must leave at once.”
Galiana, her eyes sparkling, joined me in pleading for a delay. She was as anxious as I to catch a glimpse of the romantic bandit. Unlike myself, she seemed to believe he would appear soon. I could not believe any man, even a romantic bandit, would be so stupid. No; the Falcon would steal into town after dark, that would be the sensible thing to do.
However. Miss Perkins was adamant. She herded us out into the piazza, where we found Piero waiting by the fountain. He was chatting with one of the soldiers. The mood had relaxed. The drinkers were still drinking, and some fluttering skirts could be seen among the uniforms. The girls—for they were all young—did not seem to share the fear of their fellow townspeople. They were giggling and flirting. One bold-faced, black-haired beauty was strumming a stringed instrument and smiling up into the face of the soldier who bent over her. As we stood waiting for Piero to bring the horses, the girl struck a ringing chord and raised her voice in song. It was a strange, wild strain in a minor key, like a lament. I expected Miss Perkins would want to listen, but she urged us to mount, and we turned toward the narrow street that led to the castle.
We had almost reached it when a thunder of pounding hooves was heard. A shot rang out. The voice of the singer rose to a scream, and broke off. I tried to stop and turn around. The horses reared and danced; and for a few seconds all was confusion. However, I saw him come.
Like a bullet from a pistol barrel, the great black stallion came plunging out of one of the narrow vincoli, or alleyways—a space so confined it was a wonder a horse could pass through it, much less at that speed. The soldiers, still milling about, were not expecting anyone to come from that quarter. Before they could aim their weapons, the rider had reached the church steps. Swaying sideways in his saddle, he thrust at the newly affixed placard with the blade of his sword. The glue had not yet set; the paper pulled free and wrapped itself around the blade. The rider whirled it once around his head with an indescribable air of mockery and disappeared into another alleyway, as narrow as the first.
It transpired in far less time than it takes to describe it, yet I was left with an indelible memory of horse and rider. The bandit’s clothing matched the ebon hue of his steed. Even his head was covered with a close-fitting black hood. The only touch of color was the blood-red sash tied around his slender waist—the scarlet badge of rebellion. The somber colors were not depressing or sinister, however; on the contrary, I had never seen anything more vigorously alive than the man and his beautiful stallion.
I was still staring at the narrow orifice into which the rider had vanished, his dark attire blending with the gloom of the vincolo, when something struck Stella on the flank. She might have bolted if Piero had not snatched the bridle. I turned to see a jostling mass of horsemen filling the street behind me. The papal cavalry had been lying in ambush somewhere along that main thoroughfare—which, though narrow, was considerably wider than any of the other streets that led into the piazza. But the riders had been unable to follow the Falcon because of the impediment presented by our group. De Merode, his face livid with anger, was trying to lead his men through. It was he who had struck at Stella.
A few of the foot soldiers, less scatterbrained than their fellows, were already running in pursuit, but of course they had no hope of catching a rider—and such a rider!
We got ourselves straightened out finally, after considerable pushing and shouting. De Merode gave me a furious look before gathering his troop together and galloping off. I knew he must suspect us of deliberately barring his way, and I couldn’t entirely blame him. Considering the circumstances of our first meeting, he had some reason to wonder whose side Miss Perkins and I were on. Doubly reassured by my awareness of my innocence and by my grandfather’s unassailable position, I was quite willing to be the object of his mistrust rather than have that dangerous young man turn his attentions to the real conspirators—the girls who had been so friendly to his soldiers, distracting their attention and preventing them from reaching their weapons in time.
I expressed these ideas to Miss Perkins, not without difficulty, for we were trotting along at a rapid pace.
“Quite right,” she gasped. “The girl who sang—a signal—”
She broke off with a grunt as our horses, urged by Piero, broke into a gallop. She had said enough, however; and I contemplated this new idea with growing amazement and indignation. Had our romantic bandit had the cold-blooded effrontery to use us as a shield? The girl’s song might well have been a signal; and if so, then the Falcon must have been lurking in the immediate vicinity, perhaps in one of the walled courtyards of the houses near the piazza. That would suggest that he lived in the town, or very close to it. What really disturbed me was the fact that he must have known of our trip to the village in order to plan his strategy. He must have spies in the very stronghold of his enemies—in the castle itself.
Chapter 6
We were late returning, and the others were just sitting down to tea. It was in the Salon of the Nymphs that day; Miss Rhoda preferred to use the formal rooms in turn, to make sure they were properly kept up. This, one of the smaller salons, was particularly pleasant on hot days, for the water theme suggested by the ceiling paintings had been carried out in the color scheme and ornaments. The basreliefs of flowers and vines twining across the pale-green paneling had been done in soft silver gilt instead of the garish gold prevalent elsewhere. The draperies were of silvery green satin. The chandeliers of Murano glass, in delicate shades of blue and green frosted with crystal, suggested waves breaking in sprays of foam. The rugs, which had been specially woven in Persia, were of the same cool sea shades. Even the Nereids on the ceiling sprawled languidly in aquamarine shallows, although their curves were rather more prominent than slender sea nymphs ought to have had. As Miss Perkins once remarked, the artists had used mythological themes only as an excuse for painting unclothed female forms.
Galiana was the first to enter, rudely pushing past Miss Perkins in her anxiety to tell the exciting news. I thought Grandfather would have a fit. He turned an unbecoming shade of scarlet that clashed horribly with his mauve smoking jacket, and rushed from the room.
“Profanity is so useful to gentlemen in relieving their feelings,” remarked Miss Perkins, gazing after him. “No, Francesca, don’t follow him; he will not be able to express himself freely in your presence.”
“My daughter.” said the Contessa gently, “you should not have told the Prince.”
Galiana, who was so brash and assertive with others, never contradicted her mother, so I came to her defense.
“He would have heard it sooner or later. The village must be buzzing with the news, and Piero will spread it among the servants.”
“It is certainly a most inappropriate time, however,” sniffed Miss Rhoda. “He was on the verge of a tantrum already, after reading the newspaper.”
“Ah,” said Miss Perkins, reaching eagerly for the copy of Monitore. which lay on a table. “What is the news?”
“The worst possible,” said Miss Rhoda, as the Countess sighed and shook her head. “That bandit Garibaldi has captured Palermo.”
Miss Perkins, her face aglow, read of her hero’s exploits.
“All of Sicily must be in his hands by now,” she muttered. “The newspaper is a week old.”
“Much good may it do him,” snapped Miss Rhoda. “The largest Bourbon army is on the mainland; if Garibaldi dares to cross the straits, he and his hobgoblin crew will be annihilated.”
“On the contrary,” cried Miss Perkins. “This is only the beginning. The kingdom of the Two Sicilies will fall into his hands like a ripe plum. It is rotten with discontent. And then—”
“He would never dare attack the realm of His Holiness,” said the Contessa in a strangled voice. “God would not permit such blasphemy!”
“God and Cavour,” said Miss Perkins dryly. “The Prime Minister of Piedmont does not want Garibaldi to claim credit for liberating the Papal States as well as the Two Sicilies. Cavour is jealous of Garibaldi—”
“For heaven’s sake, must we discuss politics?” demanded Miss Rhoda. “It is a most inappropriate subject. At least, Miss Perkins, I beg you to be silent in the presence of the Prince.”
“But his Excellency and I have had several good heated discussions.” exclaimed Miss Perkins. “I think he enjoys them.”
“Well, I do not,” said Miss Rhoda; and that was the end of that.
However, Miss Perkins received support from Stefano, who joined us for dinner that evening. He immediately introduced the subject of Garibaldi’s success, with a sly sidelong look at Grandfather; and although the old gentleman fumed, it seemed to relieve his spleen to pound on the table and shout. Stefano egged him on; but he didn’t agree with Miss Perkins either. Like all moderates, he incurred the ire of extremists on both sides, and bore it with amused condescension.
The latest exploits of the Falcon amused him even more. Galiana, always eager to gain his attention, described the incident in her breathless fashion; and Stefano shook his head, with a sneering smile.
