“It is my place to ask the first question. Why am I here a prisoner?”
“That remains to be seen. Have you a passport?”
“A rational interrogatory to put to a man who has just escaped out of the clutches of brigands!”
“How are we to know that, signore?”
“Well,” said the young man, “I assert it. And,” he continued, looking quizzically towards his own person, “I think my appearance should corroborate the assertion. But, if not, I shall make my appeal to the signorina here; whom, if I mistake not, I have had the honour of seeing before. She, perhaps, may remember me, since for some hours I had the misfortune to furnish her with a melancholy spectacle while stretched upon the pavement underneath her balcony.”
“I do remember you!—I do, signore! Yes, papa, it is the same.”
“And I also saw him, Captain Guardiola. He was carried through here by the bandits. He is the English artist of whom we have been just speaking.”
“That may be,” rejoined Guardiola, with an incredulous smile. “Englishman, artist, and prisoner to the banditti—all these in one. But the gentleman may still have another character, not yet declared.”
“What other?” demanded the gentleman in question. “Una spia.”
“Spy!” echoed the prisoner. “For whom—and what purpose?”