“A few lines written by thy fair hand to my dictation,” answered Stephano.
Giulia cast upon him a look of profound surprise.
“Here, lady, take my tablets, for I see that your own are not at hand,” cried the chief. “Delay not—it grows late, and we may be interrupted.”
“We may indeed,” murmured Giulia, darting a rapid look at the water-clock. “It is within a few minutes of midnight.”
She might have added—“And at midnight I expect a brief visit from Manuel d’Orsini, ere the return of my husband from a banquet at a friend’s villa.” But of course this was her secret; and anxious to rid herself of the company of Stephano, she took the tablets with trembling hands and prepared to write.
“I, Giulia, Countess of Arestino,” began the brigand, dictating to her, “confess myself to owe Stephano Verrina a deep debt of gratitude for his kindness in recovering my diamonds from the possession of the Jew Isaachar, to whom they were pledged for a sum which I could not pay.”
“But wherefore this document?” exclaimed the countess, looking up in a searching manner at the robber-chief; for she had seated herself at the table to write, and he was leaning over the back of her chair.
“’Tis my way at times,” he answered, carelessly, “when I perform some service for a noble lord or a great lady, to solicit an acknowledgment of this kind in preference to gold.” Then, sinking his voice to a low whisper, he added with an air of deep meaning, “Who knows but that this document may some day save my head?”
Giulia uttered a faint shriek, for she comprehended in a moment how cruelly she might sooner or later be compromised through that document, and how entirely she was placing herself in the bandit’s power.
But Stephano’s hand clutched the tablets whereon the countess had, almost mechanically, written to his subtle dictation; and he said, coolly: “Fear not, lady—I must be reduced to a desperate strait indeed when my safety shall depend on the use I can make of this fair handwriting.”