A smart single knock at the door announced Sergeant Gask.
"Mr. Lascelles has sent me to say, sir, that the officer taken prisoner at Bagnara, who wished to be sent to Dalmatia on parole, appears to be an Italian."
"The rascal!" I exclaimed; "but perhaps he is a Roman or Venetian."
"He says the last, sir; but I could swear that he is a Calabrian born and bred."
"Bring him here, with a file of the barrier guard, that I may examine him myself."
Gask retired, and in five minutes returned with the prisoner—a sullen and dogged-like fellow, wearing a plain French uniform, blue, with scarlet facings, an aiguilette and shoulder-scales. He was swarthy, and his lank moustaches gave him a melancholy aspect; while the rolling of his restless eyes announced that he was very ill at ease.
On his entrance with the escort, Bianca withdrew. Imagine my surprise on recognising Pietro Navarro, who grew deadly pale on beholding me.
"Good-evening! Signor Navarro," said I; "I did not expect to meet a descendant of the worthy inventor of mines under circumstances so degrading."
"I am Pepe Biada, a Venetian, bearing a commission in the artillery of the emperor. You are making some mistake, signor, and I warn you to beware of reprisals. A heavy brigade of guns are already en route for Scylla, which cannot hold out a day against the forces now marching on it—no, San Martino!—not a single day."
"San Marteeno? ha! the true Neapolitan twang that," I exclaimed. "How many men are moving on this point?"