Corvino, who stood near superintending the amputation, uttered a loud shout, at the same time commanding the amputator to desist. The cry was called forth at sight of the uplifted hand, or rather the little finger.
“Diavolo!” he exclaimed, springing forward and seizing the captive by the wrist. “You’ve done yourself a service, signore—you’ve saved your ears, at least for this time. Here’s a present for your father much more appropriate. Perhaps it will point out to him the line of his duty, which he has shown himself so inclined to neglect. ‘The hand to guard the head’—that’s the motto among us. We shall permit you to adopt it to a proportionate extent, by allowing your little finger to be the protector of your ears. Ha! ha! ha!”
The brigands echoed the laughter of their chief, without exactly comprehending the witticism that had called it forth. They were soon enlightened as to the significance of the jest. The scarred finger was before their eyes. They saw it was an old cicatrice, sure to be recognised by any father who had taken the slightest interest in the physical condition of his son. This was the explanation of Corvino’s interference to stay the cutting off of their captive’s ears.
“We don’t wish to be unnecessarily cruel,” continued the chief in a tone of mock mercy; “no more do we wish to spoil such a pretty countenance as that which has made conquest of Popetta, and might have done the same for,”—here he leant close to his captive, and hissed spitefully into his ear—“Lucetta.”
The cutting off of one ear, of both of them, would not have given Henry Harding so much pain as the sting of that cruel whisper. It thrilled him to his heart’s core. Never in all his life had he felt, as at that moment, the despair, the absolute horror of helplessness. His tongue was still free, and he could not restrain it. He would speak, though he knew the words might cost him his life.
“Brute!” he vociferated, fixing his eye full upon the brigand chief; “if I had you upon fair ground, I’d soon change your sham exultation to an appeal for mercy. You dare not give me the chance. If you did, I would show these ruffians around you that you’re not fit to be their captain. You killed your wife to make way for another. Not you, madame,” he continued, bowing derisively to the betrayer of Popetta, “but another, whom God preserve from ever appearing in your place. You may kill me—cut me into pieces, if you will—but, depend upon it, my death will not go unavenged. England, my country, shall hear of it. Though you now fancy yourselves secure, you will be tracked into the very heart of your mountain fastnesses—hunted up, and shot down like dogs—like wolves, as you are—That’s what will come to every one of you.”
Ha was not allowed to proceed. Three-score angry voices breaking in upon his impetuous speech put an end to it.
“What care we for your country,” cried they. “England, indeed!”
“Damn England!” shouted Doggy Dick. “Inglaterra al inferno!” vociferated others. “France and Italia the same! The Pope, too, if you choose to throw him in. What can they do to us? We are beyond their power; but you are in ours, signore. Let us prove it to him!”
A score of stilettos, suddenly and simultaneously drawn, were gleaming in the eyes of the captive as he listened to these words. He had half repented his hasty speech—believing it would be his last—when he saw the brigand chief interfering. He saw this with surprise: for Corvino had quailed before his challenge with a look of the most resentful malice. His surprise was of short duration. It ended on hearing what the chief had to say.