“You have answered your own question,” said Julien. “For the love of a woman man can make himself either a hero or a villain. But think, Vivienne, when this man is dead, no one can point the finger of scorn at us, or couple the word Rimbecco with our family name.”
“But it is a wicked plot,” cried Vivienne. “The Count has no proof. He could easily invent such a story as he told you. The night I followed you to the woods, Julien, I was robbed of my clothing and jewels and left to die in the storm. Lieutenant Duquesne saved my life. Then I saved his, for it was I who killed the two men who had been hired by Count Mont d’Oro to murder the man who, he now says, is Vandemar Della Coscia. How plain this all is! It is strange that you cannot see it, Julien. You and Pascal may do as you will, but I shall warn Lieutenant Duquesne so that he may escape. He is unarmed, and cannot defend himself against you all.”
Julien grasped his sister by the arm, but she broke away. Breathing heavily, and with wild, staring eyes, she rushed into the reception room, to the great astonishment of the assembled guests.
Before she could speak, other voices were heard. They were the voices of men, and they chanted the words which had so often preceded the death of some man or woman doomed by the vendetta:
“Place on the wall before my bed
My cross of honour well gained.
To my sons, my sons, in a far country,
Convey my cross and bloody vest.
He, my first born, will see the rents.
For each rent, a rent in another shirt,
A wound in another heart. Vengeance!
The hour for vengeance is nigh.
Make ready his bed in the valley of skulls;
He comes, the last of his race, but he
Comes to his couch with a stain on his shroud,
Only to die; the vendetta, the spirit of the vendetta
Is awake; it has slept too long. Blood for blood!
The noble house of Batistelli no longer shall
Bear the dread reproach of Rimbeccare; the stain
Shall now be washed away in blood.
Vandemar must die!”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Admiral Enright. “A most re-mark-a-ble serenade. What does it mean?”
The question was answered by the Mayor of Ajaccio: “It is the chant of the Death Brothers.”
“The Death Brothers?” asked Helen. “But this is a birthday fête, not a funeral.”
“In Corsica,” said the Mayor, “one is often followed by the other.”
“But,” cried the Admiral, “cannot you as mayor, order them away?”