Below us stretched the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean, gleaming and sparkling in the morning's sun, and though we were within a couple of hundred yards of our destination, not a sound broke the dead silence, nor was there any sign of human life anywhere about. We reached the edge of the cliff and half-fearfully looked down below. Instantly the whole view burst upon us, and we saw that we were but barely in time. As we looked upon the little scene, with its picturesque grouping, it seemed hard to believe that it was not some elaborate tableau which met our horrified eyes, rather than a grim, ghastly reality. Standing about on the smooth, velvety little stretch of turf, which seemed to hang right over the sea like a suspended platform, were the brigands, most of them with folded arms, and all with eyes fixed upon the little grove of cypresses. Foremost amongst them stood José, with a long cigarette between his thin lips, and a fierce, satisfied look upon his dark face. Simultaneously our eyes followed theirs, and a sickening horror crept over me, for, dangling from the boughs of one of the trees, was the struggling, quivering body of a man, whose feet, only a few inches from the ground, were making spasmodic but vain efforts to reach it. It was a fearful sight.
With a cry which rang out like the angry roar of a lion, my father sprang forward. For a moment he balanced himself on the edge of the cliff, and then with a single bound, which turned my heart sick to see, he leaped on to the plateau below. With fascinated eyes I watched him rush to the tree with the gleaming blade of a knife in his hand, and in a second the rope was severed, and the man lay in a heap on the ground, and then with a wild cry and a look on his face which no mortal painter could have depicted and no words describe, my father threw his hands up towards the heavens, and staggered backwards.
I rushed down the narrow path and stood by his side. His whole frame was shaking as though with a great horror; but his face, white to the lips, was rigid as solid marble. As he felt my touch upon his arm, he pointed with quivering finger to the man who lay doubled up upon the ground, although no sound came from them. With a new horror my eyes followed his gesture, and the man was my Uncle Rupert.
The momentary torpor into which my father's sudden appearance and action had thrown the little company of brigands had passed away, and with an angry exclamation José sprung forward.
"Mille diable! what did the Monsieur Anglais mean by this interference! How dared he thus presume to interfere with a simple act of justice!"
"Carlo! Paulato! String the fellow up again at once," he added, turning rapidly round.
My father seemed to have recovered himself; but, to my surprise, he stood stock still.
"Father, they will hang him again," I cried; but he never moved.
I looked into his face, and shrunk back terrified. The passionate hatred of a lifetime was convulsing and blackening his features, and flashing fiercely from his blazing eyes.
"Let them," he muttered, "let them. A dog's death is fittest for him!"