"Oh, be not too sure of that."
"It has served me ever since that fatal day at Aspromonte."
"You are wrong. Either Francesca has been watched or some one has betrayed you."
"None could betray me. My secret is known to Francesca and myself alone," replied the outlaw, confidently.
"A clue to your hiding-place is in the hands of the Conte Manfredi, and ere to-morrow—yea, to-night, perhaps—a cordon of riflemen will be around it. Povero amico! I swear to you that this is the truth!"
"And my Francesca!" exclaimed Rivarola, mournfully, as he clasped his brown hands.
"She is here—here at last!" cried the young man, as a girl sprang into the cavern; but on beholding his uniform she uttered a low cry of terror, and shrank behind her father.
Her figure was slender and petite, yet she was full-bosomed and beautifully rounded. Her eyes were dark, but bright and sparkling, and softened in expression by their wonderfully long lashes, which, like her hair, were black as jet. Her attire was poor, but plain and neat, even to being piquante and pretty. Her scarlet bodice was handsomely embroidered, and her habit-shirt, like the square fold of linen that shaded her face, was white as snow, and contrasted well with the almost olive hue of her complexion.
"O padre mio! I have been pursued!" she exclaimed.
"By whom?" asked Rivarola, starting to his musket.