The Net Part 9

"Who is this?" he cried, thrusting his face into the American's and showing a brutal countenance bristly with a week's growth of beard.

"The stranger," one of Blake's captors answered, whereupon the tall man uttered a violent exclamation.

"Wait!" cried the other. "He is already dying. He cannot stand."

Some one else explained, "It is indeed the American, but he is wounded."

"Let me finish the work; he has seen too much," said the first speaker, roughly.

"No, no! He is the American. Do you not understand?"

"Remember the order, Narcone," cautioned another.

But Narcone continued to curse as if mastered by the craving to kill, and if the others had not laid hands upon him he might have made good his intention. They argued with him, all at once, and in the midst of the confusion which ensued a new voice called from the darkness:

"What have you there?"

"The American! He cannot stand."

A square figure came swiftly through the group, muttering angrily, and the others fell back to give him room, all but Narcone, who repeated, doggedly:

"Let me finish the work if you fear to do so."

His companions broke out at him again in a babble of argument, whereupon the new-comer shouted at them in a furious voice:

"Silenzio! Who did this?"

No one answered for a moment, but at length the brigand who held Blake's hands pinioned at his back with a sash or scarf ventured to suggest:

"I am not so sure he is injured. We pulled him down first; he may only be frightened."

"There was to be no shooting," growled the leader of the band.

"Eh? But you saw for yourself. There was nothing else to do," said Narcone. "That Ricardo was an old wolf."

The thick-set man, whom Norvin took to be the infamous Cardi himself, cried sharply:

"Come, come, Signore, speak! Are you hurt?"

The prisoner shook his head mechanically, although he did not know whether he was injured or not. His denial seemed to satisfy the chief, who said with relief:

"It is well. We did not wish to harm you. There would be consequences, you understand? And now a match, somebody."

"It is not necessary," Narcone a.s.sured him with a laugh. "Of what use to learn a trade like mine if one cannot strike true? The knife went home, twice--once for us, once for poor Galli, who was murdered. It was like killing sheep." Picking up the wisp of gra.s.s which he had dropped, he began to dry his hands once more.

A tiny flame flickered in the darkness. It was lowered until it shone upon the upturned face of Ricardo Ferara where he lay sprawled in the dust, his teeth showing beneath his gray mustache, then died away, and the black outlines of the bull-necked man leaped into relief again as he stooped to examine Martel.

Not until that instant did the full, crus.h.i.+ng horror of the affair come home to the American, for events had crowded one another so closely that his mind was confused; but when, in the halting yellow glare, he saw those two slack forms and the crooked, unnatural postures in which death had left them, his consciousness cleared and he strained at his bonds like a fear-maddened horse.

His actual danger, however, was at an end. One of the band removed the rifle which still hung from his shoulders and which he had forgotten; another slipped the scarf from his wrists and directed him to go. He staggered away down the road along which he and Martel and Ricardo had come, walking like a sick man, for he was crippled with, fright. After a few steps he began to run, heavily, awkwardly at first, stumbling as if his joints were loose; but as his body awoke and the blood surged through him he went faster and faster until he was fleeing like a wild animal. And as he ran his terror grew. He fell many times, goblin shapes pursued him or leaped forth from the shadows, but he knew that no matter how fast he fled he could never escape the thing he had met back there in the night. It was not the grisly sight of his murdered friend nor the bared teeth of Ricardo Ferara grinning upward out of the road which filled him with the greatest horror; it was the knowledge of his own foul, sickening cowardice. He ran wildly as if to leave it behind, but it trod in his tracks and kept step with him.

The pyrotechnics at Terranova were nearly over and the grounds echoed to the applause of the delighted spectators. The Donna Teresa was leaning upon the arm of Colonel Neri and saying:

"No one but that extravagant Martel would have entertained these poor people so magnificently, but there is no reasoning with him when he has an idea."

"It is the finest display since the fair at San Felice two years ago,"

the Colonel acknowledged. They had come out upon the open piazza which overlooked the lawn, and the other guests who had been present at the supper had followed suit and were gathered there to admire the spectacle.

"The country people will never finish discussing it. Why, it has been the greatest event this village ever witnessed. And Margherita! Have you ever seen her so beautiful?" The old lady spoke with pride, for she was very happy.

"Never!" Colonel Neri fondled his mustache tenderly. "She is ablaze with love. Oh, that Martel has broken all our hearts, lucky fellow! I could hate him if I did not like him so."

"You men, without exception, pretend to adore her but it is flattery; you know that she loves it and that it pleases me. Now Martel--Madonna mia! What is this?" She broke off sharply and pointed toward the main gateway to the grounds.

By the light that gleamed from the trees on each side of the driveway men could be seen approaching at a run; others were hurrying toward them across the terrace, calling excitedly to one another. A woman screamed something unintelligible, but the tone of her voice brought a hush over the merrymakers.

In the midst of the group coming up the road was one who labored heavily. He was bareheaded, gray with dust, and he staggered as if wounded.

"Some one has been hurt," exclaimed the Colonel. "Maledetto! There has been a fight." He dropped his companion's arm and hastened to the steps, then halfway down paused, staring. He whirled quickly and cried to the old lady: "Wait! Do not come."

But Madame Fazello had seen the white face of the runner, and screamed:

"Mother of G.o.d! The American!"

The other guests from the balcony pressed forward with alarmed inquiries. No one guessed as yet what had befallen, but the loud voices died away, a murmuring tide swept the merrymakers toward the castello.

"What has happened, Signore?" Colonel Neri was crying. "Speak!"

"The Mafia!" Blake gasped. "Martel--is--" His knees sagged and he would have pitched forward had not the soldier supported him. "We met them--in the woods. Cardi--"

"Cardi!" echoed the Colonel in a harsh voice.

"Cardi!" came from a dozen frightened throats. The Donna Teresa uttered a second shrill cry, and then through the ranks of staring, chalk-faced peasants the Countess came running swiftly.

"Cardi!" she cried. "What is this I hear?"

"Go away, Signorina, I beseech you," exclaimed the Colonel of carbineers. "Something dreadful has occurred." But she disregarded him and faced Norvin Blake.

He raised his dripping, dust-smeared face and nodded, whereat she closed her eyes an instant and swayed. But she made no outcry.

"Take her--away," he wheezed painfully. "G.o.d in heaven! Don't you-- understand?"

Even yet there was no coherent speech and the people merely stared at one another or inquired, dully:

"What did he say? What is this about Cardi?"

"Take her away," Blake repeated. But the Countess recovered herself and with a little gesture bade him go on. He told his story haltingly, clinging to the Colonel to prevent himself from falling, his matted head rolling weakly from side to side. When he had finished a furious clamor broke forth from the men, the women, and the children. Neri commanded them roughly to silence.