They were not there—they had gone.
Eagerly he inquired where.
"To Rome," was the reply.
"To Rome!" he muttered, between his set teeth; and mounting his horse hurriedly, he rode away.
He was not one to be daunted. He had set a certain task before himself, and could not easily be turned aside. He thought bitterly of the ingratitude with which he had been treated. He brought before his mind the "stony British stare," the supercilious smile, and the impertinent and insulting expression of Hawbury's face as he sat on his saddle, with his chin up, stroking his whiskers, and surveyed him for the first time. All these things combined to stimulate the hate as well as the love of Girasole. He felt that he himself was not one who could be lightly dismissed, and determined that they should learn this.
"'TO ROME!' HE MUTTERED, BETWEEN HIS SET TEETH."