“Povero!” half soliloquised Lucetta; “I wonder what has happened to him. Do you think, papa, they have set him free?”
“I fear not, figlia mia. They will only do so when the riscatta reaches them.”
“Ah, me! How much do you think they will require?”
“You speak, signorina,” interposed the Captain Count, “as if you had a mind to send the ransom yourself.”
“Willingly—if I were able. That would I.”
“You seem greatly interested in the Inglese. Uno povero pittore!”
The last words were uttered in a tone of sneering contempt.
“Uno povero pittore!” repeated the girl, her eyes kindling with indignation. “Know, Signor Count Guardiola, that my brother is uno povero pittore; and proud of it too, as so am I, his sister.”
“A thousand pardons, signorina; I did not know that your brother was an artist. I only meant that this poor devil of an Inglese after all may be no artist, but a spy of that monster Mazzini! The thing isn’t at all improbable. Our last news tell us, that the arch-impostor has arrived in Genoa, whither he has come almost direct from England. This fellow may be one of his pilot fish, sent in advance to spy out the land. Perhaps he’s been rather fortunate in having fallen into the hands of the brigands. Should he come into my clutches, and I find any trace of the spy about him, I won’t wait for any riscatta before consigning his neck to a halter.”
The indignation which was rising still higher in the breast of Lucetta Torreani, became more perceptible in the pallor of her cheeks and the quick flashing of her eyes. She was hindered from declaring it in speech. Before she could reply, a voice was heard outside the door, accompanied by a knock, as of some one seeking admission. This was granted; less by the host of the house than his military guest, who had by this this grown to regard himself as its master.