“Oh, do!” added Lucetta. “Let him come in here. If you wish, I shall retire.”
“Certainly not, signorina; that is, if you are not afraid to look upon one who has been a prisoner among banditti. If I mistake not, this is the povero pittore in whom you have expressed yourself so much interested. Shall I order him to be brought in here?”
It was evident that Guardiola wished it; so did Lucetta, from a different motive. The former intended to display his power in the presence of a prisoner, degraded by double captivity; the latter was inspired with an instinct for the stranger’s protection, and a secret partiality which she herself scarce understood.
It ended by the sergeant conducting his prisoner into the room, who proved to be Henry Harding.
The young Englishman seemed little surprised at the company to which he was introduced. But having just escaped from the keeping of brigands, he could ill comprehend why he should again be taken prisoner. That it was so, he had already been made aware by some rough treatment received at the hands of his new captors, who gave no heed either to his story or protestations.
He saw that he was now in the presence of their commander. No doubt the interview would end in his being released.
At a glance he had recognised the other occupants of the apartment. The sindico he had seen when passing through as the captive of the brigands. He well remembered him; but still better his daughter.
And she remembered the captive. His bare head, for he was hatless, the brown locks tossed over his temples, the tattered surtout and trousers, his small feet almost shoeless—all this délabrement of dress and person did not conceal from the eyes of Lucetta Torreani the handsome face and manly form she had once before looked upon, and with an interest that had made a lasting impression upon her memory. Even in his rags he looked noble as ever. The very scantiness of his garments displayed the fine symmetry of his figure; while his face, flushed with defiant indignation, gave him the look of a young lion chafing at the toils once more cast around him. He was not tied, but he was not at liberty.
At the same time he might have had reason to suppose himself in the presence of friends. He knew that the gentleman in civilian costume was the father of his friend Luigi; that the young lady was Luigi’s sister—that “little Lucetta,” of the increase in whose stature the letter had conjecturally spoken. And truly was she well grown, stately, statuesque—a fully-developed woman.
Of course neither father nor daughter could know him. They had but seen him as a stranger—a captive to banditti.