'Put them inside,' said San Giacinto, as they were arranging the things. 'Put them on the back seat with that case.'
'Yes, the cartridges,' said the porter knowingly, as he felt the weight of the package.
'And God send you no need of them!' exclaimed the coachman, a big dark man with a stubbly chin, a broad hat, and a shabby velvet jacket.
'Amen!' ejaculated the porter.
'Are you going with us all the way?' asked San Giacinto of the coachman, looking at him keenly.
'No, signore. The master will drive you up from Piedimonte. He is known up there, but I am of Messina. It is always better to be known—or else it is much worse. But the master is a much-respected man.'
'Since he has come back,' put in the porter, his shaven mouth stretching itself in a grim smile.
'Has he been in America?' asked Orsino, idly, knowing how many of the people made the journey to work, earn money, and return within a few years.
'He has been to the other America, which they call Ponza,' answered the man.
The coachman scowled at him, and poked him in the back with the stock of his whip, but San Giacinto laughed. Ponza is a small island off the Roman coast, used as a penitentiary and penal settlement.