For a moment no one spoke. Then Stefano shrugged.
“Very well, Captain. Take my brother to prison—”
“He is not going to prison,” De Merode interrupted. “I have changed my mind. The Falcon deserves death. O’Shaughnessy, take the Count into the courtyard and select a firing squad.”
The guards led Andrea out. It was a strangely quiet moment. Galiana’s tears had stopped. She and Andrea exchanged a long look as he passed us. Then Grandfather rose to his feet.
“I wish to be with my grandson when he dies.”
De Merode nodded. “Escort the Prince,” he said to the soldier who stood by Grandfather’s chair.
Miss Rhoda, who had been crumpled in her seat, sat up.
“I, too.”
Grandfather stopped. His elbow bent, he offered his old enemy his arm. She took it. The two walked slowly toward the door, allies at last, and very touching in their grief and dignity. As they were about to pass out of the room, De Merode said, “The firing squad will await my orders, your Excellency.”
Grandfather glanced at him. “You know, of course. Captain, that I will spend my last soldi and my last ounce of strength to make sure you pay for this.”
De Merode bowed. Grandfather went on. The door closed. Then De Merode turned to Stefano. The moment had come, the moment for which all the rest had only been preliminary maneuvering.
“Well, Count? The choice is yours. Your life or that of your brother. Will you let the innocent suffer for you?”
Galiana lifted her tear-stained face from my shoulder.
“What does he mean? Stefano, can you save him?”
“Oh. yes,” De Merode said. “If Count Stefano chooses, his brother can be freed at once—to return to your arms, mademoiselle. Ask him now what he has done with your mother.”
“My mother?” Galiana repeated.
“She is nowhere in the castle. I have searched. Ask him. mademoiselle; ask him if he will sacrifice your mother and your lover—his own brother—to his insane ambition. You can help me, if you will.”
Then I saw what the ancient noble house of Fosilini was made of. Poor Galiana, driven almost mad by suspense and fear, drew herself up to her full height.
“I don’t understand,” she said simply. “But I trust Stefano and Francesca, and I do not trust you, Captain. You are a cruel man. I know nothing, but if I did, I would not tell you.”
De Merode shrugged. He had not expected anything from this quarter; he was merely testing all the possibilities and, in the process, giving another twist to the knife. This interview, the threat to Andrea and the anguish of his family, was part of De Merode’s revenge for the humiliation he had endured at the hands of his foe. The choice he was giving Stefano was no choice. The Falcon would die in any case. If Stefano remained silent and let the execution proceed, De Merode would kill him too. But he wanted a confession, not only to justify his acts to the board of inquiry which Grandfather’s influence would certainly demand, but to publish in Parezzo. The rebels must know that their leader was unable to lead them.
“Well, Count?” he repeated.
Stefano had been leaning on his cane. Now he straightened up.
“You leave me no choice,” he said, and began to remove his coat.
“Stefano,” I cried, trying to free myself of Galiana’s clinging arms.
“Stand back,” De Merode exclaimed, pulling his sword from the scabbard.
Stefano laughed. “What, are you afraid of an unarmed man and a pack of women?”
“Of these women, yes,” De Merode said grimly. He pointed his sword at Miss Perkins. “Did you think I would not investigate your Englishwomen? The old one is a member of an emigré secret society in London. The young one has been a thorn in my side ever since she came. Spies—”
He broke off with a hiss of satisfaction, his eyes riveted on the breast of Stefano’s shirt, as Stefano tossed his coat onto a chair. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the bloodstains were damningly conspicuous against the white linen.
“So I was right,” he breathed. “That bullet wound will be all the evidence I need when I take your body to Rome—after I have displayed it in Parezzo and crushed the revolt.”
“Aren’t you afraid your firing squad will obliterate the evidence?” Stefano asked mildly. Passing his cane from hand to hand, he seemed to be concerned with straightening his cuffs and smoothing his shirt sleeves.
“Do you think I am such a fool as to let you leave this room? You have too many tricks, Count.”
Without warning he lunged forward, the point of his sword directed at Stefano’s breast.
Stefano had been expecting the move, if the rest of us had not. He took one great leap backwards, landing on his toes with his knees bent, as the Captain’s blade ripped harmlessly through his shirt front. He tugged at his cane. It came apart, displaying a length of shining steel.
De Merode swore aloud. “A sword-stick! I should have known. It won’t save you, though.”
I let go of Galiana, who dropped to the floor. Miss Perkins caught my arms as I moved forward.
“Stay out of the way, Francesca. You can only distract him. Lock the door.”
I did so, just in time. Shouts from the men outside were soon followed by blows against the door. The heavy panels would hold…long enough. My back against the door, as if to brace it, I turned to watch the life-and-death struggle.
If Stefano had been in good physical condition, I would not have feared for him. But wounded as he was, with a weapon that was surely inferior to the Captain’s heavy sword…I felt suffocated as I watched Stefano slowly retreat, his fragile blade bending under the violent strokes of his adversary. Her advice forgotten, Miss Perkins circled the fighters like an old mastiff, watching for an opportunity to rush in.
In actual time the duel lasted only a few minutes. De Merode defeated himself. His rage was so extreme he forgot caution and, as Stefano said later, this was no time for chivalry. When the Captain stumbled over one of Grandfather’s prized Persian rugs, Stefano ran him through.
The struggle had been short but violent. Stefano was gasping for breath when he turned toward the French windows and flung them open. “This way,” he panted, as the library doors shuddered under the blows of the soldiers. “Quickly!”
