"Leave this place, Raphael Velda," said the conte, in a low, hoarse voice.
"Never!"
"Indeed! When are you due at Oppido?"
"I have my captain's leave till midnight, signore."
"Mezzanotte? Good. It wants but two hours of that time now," said the mocking conte, looking at his watch. "You know, I presume, the penalty of drawing upon a superior officer?"
"No—not when in defence of my own life, and of one who is dearer to me than life."
"Veramente—indeed!" drawled the other, curling up his enormous moustache, which he wore in imitation of King Victor Emanuel. "This girl—the daughter of a brigand—of a Garibaldino—is beyond the pale of all protection."
"She is my betrothed wife, signore," said Raphael, with a deep burst of emotion.
"Your life is in my hands, Velda, as a consorter with outlaws."
"Not more a consorter than yourself, signore, if the mere fact of being here makes me one."