“Surely, signora, you are jesting with me?”
“Jesting! Ah! it is no jest. I have witnessed it once—twice—often. It is the invariable custom among these wretches with whom I have the misfortune to be associated. It is one of their laws; and will be carried out to a certainty!”
“You come to me as a friend?” inquired the captive, as if to test the sincerity of his visitor.
“I do! You may believe me.”
“You have some advice to give me, signora? What is it?”
“It is that you should write again—write to your friends. You must have some friends—you the son of a great galantuomo, as your countryman, Ricardo, tells us you are. Write to these friends—tell them to see your father, and urge upon him the necessity of sending the ransom demanded. It is your only chance of escaping from the fate I have told you of—that is, from being fearfully mutilated, first tortured and then shot.”
“Surely, there is another?” said the captive, for the first time speaking in—a tone of appeal to his strange counsellor.
“Another! If you think so, tell me what it is.”
“Your favour, signora!”
“How?”