Some quirk inside my head made me venturesome.
"What is his name?" I queried. "You never name him."
"His orders!" Bulla snapped. "I know his name; not another man of our band knows it. He never uses it and takes great pains to keep all outsiders who know his name from suspecting that he is King of the Highwaymen; and similarly to make sure that all outsiders who know him as King of the Highwaymen get no inkling of his name. If the knowledge got abroad the usefulness to him of his brother and sister in Rome would be destroyed."
I apologized for my question.
"No harm done," Bulla smiled. "I don't have to answer any questions unless
I want to, and I don't mind questions from you."
"If you don't," I pursued, emboldened, "perhaps you'll be willing to explain how it can be that your king holds you and your band in such high esteem, whereas, to all appearances, you have not acquired a sesterce- worth of loot since long before I reached this neighborhood; in fact, as far as I can hear, have not succeeded in robbing anyone since you located your camp here?"
"I am perfectly willing to explain," laughed Bulla, looking more formidable when he smiled or laughed than when expressionless. "We are no cheap bandits to rob market-women, poor farmers, ordinary travellers or such small fry. We angle for bigger fish. We bide our time. We are here to make three big strokes and then a quick disappearance. Once we have our hands on our chosen prisoners to be held for ransom we shall be off for the mountain heights and the thickest forests; once we have the booty we hope for, those in charge of it will ride fast and far and get clear out of this part of Italy. Is that intelligible?"
"Entirely," said I, and was mute.
Bulla gazed at me almost genially.
"I don't in the least mind telling you," he said, "just what we are waiting for. Half the countryside knows and are alert to help us all they know how.