"They come—all is lost!" exclaimed Horace.
"No—not so—there is but one man—it is only Marco," said Raphael, as the powerful form of the bandit appeared advancing to the rock.
"But he knows all—I see it in his face; he comes a death-messenger!" cried Horace.
And certainly the dark, saturnine countenance of the robber wore a deeper shade of gloom than usual, such as could not escape the notice of the anxious eyes that sought to read in it their fate.
"He may know nothing, do not betray your own secret," whispered Raphael, who, however, could not but draw the same conclusion as young Cleveland had done from the bandit's appearance.
[CHAPTER XV.]
ONWARDS.
When Marco had reached the top of the parapet, Horace drew a little hope from the trivial circumstance that the bandit did not look at him, nor appear to notice his presence. He addressed himself at once to the improvisatore.
"Your preaching to the living is over, you may now pray for the dead," he said in a hollow, sepulchral voice, crossing himself as he spoke.
"Explain yourself!" exclaimed Raphael.