"Command, Signor; I am ready," was the whispered answer.
"First; have you succeeded as you expected? The carriage and mules and men?"
"In ten minutes I could have them all here, Signor. The task was not easy, but it is accomplished. They are at the Signor's disposal. All that remains is for you to give the orders."
The Sicilian was perfectly silent for a moment. The darkness hid his face—hid the shame which for a moment lowered it, the shame which an honorable gentleman feels when he stoops to dishonor. It passed away before the stronger feeling, and when he spoke his tone was firm though low.
"It is well. Listen, Pietro. The attempt is to be made to-night, in three hours' time. You will be prepared? The notice is sufficient?"
"More than sufficient, Signor. The sooner the better. The mouths of my men are closed with gold, and they are carefully chosen; but, one and all, they love the wine, and wine, in its way, is as powerful as gold. See that animal yonder, Signor. My men love the drink as well as he, and before he reached that state he might have chattered away a dozen secrets."
The Sicilian watched the man who was lying on the sawdust-strewn floor. Something in his breathing attracted him, and he leaned forward.
"Is he asleep, do you think?" he whispered. "I thought I saw his eyes open."
Pietro rose, and crawling like a cat, drew close to the drunken man. He passed his hand lightly over him, and listened to his breathing. Finally he crept back to his seat.
"That is no spy!" he whispered; "he is only a common fisherman, and he is stupefied with drink. I watched him when he came in. Proceed, Signor. Let me know your plans."