"Odd sort of bandits," he remarked. "Why, they hadn't the pluck of a chicken between them, especially this one."
He touched the prostrate figure with his foot, and the two girls shuddered.
"He is—is not dead, is he?" Margharita asked.
"Not he. I shouldn't say that he was very badly hurt either," the Englishman declared, bending down and listening to his breathing. "More frightened than anything. He'll get up and be off directly we leave. You will let me see you home?" he continued, speaking to Adrienne.
She looked up at him with a gleam of humor in her wet eyes.
"You don't imagine that we should let you go and leave us here?" she said. "Come, Margharita."
The Englishman looked at the other girl, almost for the first time, as she came up and joined them. Her dark eyes were full of tears and her face was troubled. There was very little relief or thankfulness for her escape in her expression. The Englishman was no physiognomist, but he was a little puzzled.
"There is no danger now, Signorina," he said reassuringly. "To-morrow I will go to the police, and I dare say that we shall get to the bottom of the whole affair."
She shuddered, but made no reply, walking on by their side, but a little distance apart. As for the Englishman, he was in paradise. To all intents and purposes, he was alone with Adrienne Cartuccio, listening to her low voice, and every now and then stealing a glance downward into those wonderful eyes, just then very soft and sweet. That walk through the scented darkness, with the far-off murmur of the sea always in their ears, was like the dawning of a new era in his life.
It was she who talked most, and he who listened. Yet he was very happy; and when they reached her villa, and he left them at the door, she gave him a white flower which he had found courage to beg for.