“A hundred louis d’or for each,” cried Pascal Batistelli.
“Will you put it in writing?” asked Paoli.
“No,” said Pascal, “the word of a Batistelli is sufficient.”
It was about five o’clock in the afternoon when the old man again presented himself to Cromillian and handed him the letter which Vandemar had written, and which he had most carelessly and incautiously addressed to Manuel Della Coscia.
Cromillian looked at the superscription, and then said:
“I will see that this letter reaches the party to whom it is addressed.”
The old man bowed once more, and soon vanished among the trees.
Cromillian looked again at the superscription on the letter.
“Young and thoughtless!” he ejaculated. “Headstrong and brave, too, or he would not be true to his name.”
He placed the letter inside of his jacket and walked briskly into the dense wood, nor did he stop until he was fully a mile from the camp. He then threw himself upon the turf, broke the seal, and read the following: