"Meaning us, my joy?" said Buttons, in Italian. "Not just yet, I believe, and not for some time. But how do you all do?"
The woman stared hard at Buttons, and then at the Captain. There were eight or ten women here. It was a large hall, the roof still entire, but with the plaster all gone. A bright fire burned at one end. Torches burned around. On a stool near the fire was a familiar form--a portly, well-fed form--with a merry face--a twinkle in his eye--a pipe in his mouth--calmly smoking--apparently quite at home though his feet were tied--in short, Mr. Figgs.
"Figgs, my boy!"
One universal shout and the Club surrounded their companion. In an instant Buttons cut his bonds.
"Bless you--bless you, my children!" cried Figgs. "But how the (Principal of Evil) did you get here? These are brigands. I've just been calculating how heavy a bill I would have to foot."
The brigands saw the release of Figgs, and stood looking gloomily at the singular prisoners, not quite knowing whether they were prisoners or not, not knowing what to do. Each member of the Club took the most comfortable seat he could find near the fire, and began talking vehemently. Suddenly Buttons jumped up.
"A thousand pardons--I really forgot that there were ladies present. Will you not sit here and give us the honor of your company?"
He made a profound bow and looked at several of them. They looked puzzled, then pleased; then they all began to titter.
"Signor makes himself very much at home," said one, at length.
"And where could there be a pleasanter place? This old hall, this jolly old fire, and this delightful company!"