Neri uttered a ferocious curse between his teeth, and looked for an instant like a wild beast ready to spring.
“You betrayed me,” he said in fierce yet smothered accents—“you followed me—you hunted me down! Teresa told me all. Yes—she belongs to you now—you have got your wish. Go and take her—she waits for you—make her speak and tell you how she loves you—if you can!”
Something jeering and withal threatening in the ruffian’s look, evidently startled the young officer, for he exclaimed hastily:
“What do you mean, wretch? You have not—my God! you have not killed her?”
Carmelo broke into a loud savage laugh.
“She has killed herself!” he cried, exultingly. “Ha, ha, I thought you would wince at that! She snatched my knife and stabbed herself with it! Yes—rather than see your lying white face again—rather than feel your accursed touch! Find her—she lies dead and smiling up there in the mountains and her last kiss was for me—for me—you understand! Now go! and may the devil curse you!”
Again the gendarmes clashed their swords suggestively—and the brigand resumed his sullen attitude of suppressed wrath and feigned indifference. But the man to whom he had spoken staggered and seemed about to fall—his pale face grew paler—he moved away through the curious open-eyed by-standers with the mechanical air of one who knows not whether he be alive or dead. He had evidently received an unexpected shock—a wound that pierced deeply and would be a long time healing.
I approached the nearest gendarme and slipped a five-franc piece into his hand.
“May one speak?” I asked, carelessly. The man hesitated.
“For one instant, signor. But be brief.”