“You would help him to escape again if you could, no doubt?” I inquired with a half smile.
The ready wit of the Sicilian instantly asserted itself.
“Not I, eccellenza,” he replied, with an air of dignity and most virtuous honesty. “No, no, not now. The law is the law, and I, Andrea Luziani, am not one to break it. No, Carmelo must take his punishment; it is for life they say—and hard as it seems, it is but just. When the little Teresa was in the question, look you, what could I do? but now—let the saints that choose help Carmelo, for I will not.”
I laughed as I met the audacious flash of his eyes; I knew, despite his protestations, that if Carmelo Neri ever did get clear of the galleys, it would be an excellent thing for him if Luziani’s vessel chanced to be within reach.
“You have your brig the ‘Laura’ still?” I asked him.
“Yes, eccellenza, the Madonna be praised! And she has been newly rigged and painted, and she is as trig and trim a craft as you can meet with in all the wide blue waters of the Mediterranean.”
“Now you see,” I said, impressively, “I have a friend, a relative, who is in trouble: he wishes to get away from Naples quietly and in secret. Will you help him? You shall be paid whatever you think proper to demand.”
The Sicilian looked puzzled. He puffed meditatively at his cigar and remained silent.
“He is not pursued by the law,” I continued, noting his hesitation. “He is simply involved in a cruel difficulty brought upon him by his own family—he seeks to escape from unjust persecution.”
Andrea’s brow cleared.