The prince was at Castrogiovanni, where he had a villa, when Bruno’s letter was brought to him. He read it, and asked if the messenger was waiting for an answer. He was told, “no” and immediately he put the letter into his pocket, with as much sang froid as if it had merely been on some trivial subject.
The night fixed upon by Bruno had arrived; the spot he had indicated in his letter was on the southern ridge of mount Etna, near one of the numerous extinct volcanoes that were indebted for their existence of a day to its eternal fires—an existence, nevertheless, sufficient for the destruction of cities. The volcano in question was called Montebaldo; for each of these terrible hills received a name at the time it was raised up from the earth. Ten minutes’ walk from its base a colossal and isolated tree arose, called the chesnut of a hundred horses, because around its trunk, the circumference of which is equal to 178 feet, and beneath its foliage, which of itself forms a forest, a hundred horsemen and their steeds can take shelter.
It was at the root of this tree Bruno was to seek the money he wished to borrow of the prince; consequently, about eleven o’clock in the evening he left Centorbi, and towards midnight he began to discern by the light of the moon the gigantic tree, and the small house built between its stems, in which its immense produce is harvested. As he drew near, Pascal thought he could distinguish a shadow cast upon one of the five trunks which arose from the same root. Soon afterwards the shade appeared a reality; the bandit stopped, cocked his carbine, and cried, “Who goes there?”
“A man, to be sure!” exclaimed a powerful voice. “Why, zounds! you did not expect the money could come alone?”
“No, certainly not,” said Bruno; “but I did not think the man who brought it would have been bold enough to wait for my coming.”
“Then you are not acquainted with Prince Hercules de Butera? that is all.”
“How! yourself my lord?” said Bruno, throwing his carbine over his shoulder and advancing hat in hand to the prince.
“Yes, it is I, you rogue,” replied the prince; “I, who thought a bandit might be in want of money the same as any other man; and I did not wish to refuse my purse even to a bandit, only I took the fancy of bringing it myself for fear he should imagine I was afraid of him.”
“Your excellency is worthy of your high reputation,” said Bruno.
“And you, are you deserving of yours?” asked the prince.