“Will you inform the authorities of the outrage that has been perpetrated?” said the American. Pasquale shrugged his shoulders.
“It would be as much as my life is worth,” he replied.
“I suppose,” replied Cunningham, “that the bandits are unwilling to let the vetturino know their headquarters. So they have sent him away.”
“I believe he is in the plot.”
“I don’t think so. He seems an honest sort of fellow. But what can he do single handed? Should he betray these men, it would, as he says, be as much as his life is worth.”
The captives did not particularly enjoy carrying their baggage, and the American in particular grumbled not a little, but there seemed no help for it.
They ascended a rising ground, and then made a descent to a plain. After an hour’s walking, quite spent with fatigue, they reached a large, irregularly built stone house, which was in a state of partial ruin. It was very old, dating back probably to the middle ages.
“I wonder whether that is the bandits’ retreat?” said Bernard.
“At any rate, it is an improvement upon the hotel where we spent last night.”
The question was soon settled. Through a doorway the bandits led the way into a courtyard, and; crossing it, one of them took out a huge key and opened an oaken door.