Mr. Copley’s wounded arm was bandaged the best that they could manage and a soldier dispatched to Palestrina for a doctor. Gerald was put to bed and quieted for the third time that night, and the excitement in the house was subsiding to a murmur when Marcia came downstairs again. Melville met her by the door of the loggia, evidently anxious that she should not go out. She had no desire to; she had seen more than she cared to see.
‘We have caught two of the men,’ he said; ‘but I am afraid that the rest have got off—that precious butler of yours among them.’
‘Where is Mr. Sybert?’ she asked. The thought of Tarquinio had suddenly occurred to her; she had forgotten him in the distraction of helping with her uncle.
‘He’s locking the house.’
‘I will see if I can help him,’ and she turned into the salon.
Melville looked after her with a momentary smile. He had a theory which his wife did not share.
Marcia passed through the empty salon and the little ante-room, and hesitated with her hand on the dining-room door. She had a premonition that he was within; she turned the knob softly and entered.
Sybert sprang up with a quick exclamation. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ he said. ‘I thought I had locked the door. Draw the bolt, please. I brought him in here and I’m trying to bring him round. If they find him he’ll be sent to the galleys, and it seems a pity. He’s got a wife and child to support.’
Marcia looked down on the floor where Tarquinio was lying. Sybert had thrown the glass doors open again and the moonlight was flooding the room. A towel, folded into a rough bandage, was wrapped around the young Italian’s head, and his pale face beneath it had all the dark, tragic beauty of his race.
‘Poor man!’ she exclaimed as she bent over him. ‘Are you sure he’s alive?’ she asked, starting back.