“Time enough for that to-morrow,” interposed Guardiola, who seemed stung with the sympathy the stranger was receiving. “Sergeant!” he continued, turning to the soldier, “this interview has lasted long enough, and to little profit. You can take your prisoner back to the guard-house. I shall examine him more minutely in the morning.”
“Prisoner still?” was the surprised interrogatory of the sindico and his daughter.
“I warn you against what you are doing,” said the Englishman, addressing himself to the officer. “You will find that even your master, the Pope, will not be able to screen you from punishment for this outrage on a British subject.”
“And your master, Giuseppe Mazzini, will not be able to protect you for acting as a revolutionary spy, Signore Inglese.”
“Mazzini! Revolutionary spy! What do you mean?”
“I think, Captain Guardiola,” interposed the sindico, “you are altogether mistaken about this young man. He is no spy; but an honest English galantuomo—the friend of my son, Luigi. I shall be answerable for him.”
“I must do my duty, Signor Torreani. Sergeant! do yours. Take your prisoner back to the guard, and see that you bring him before me in the morning.”
The order was obeyed. The prisoner offered no resistance to it. There were other soldiers outside the door; and, as any attempt to escape would have been idle, Henry Harding had to submit to this additional degradation. He did not leave the room before exchanging a look with Lucetta that consoled him for the insult, and another with Captain Count Guardiola, that disturbed his countship’s equanimity for the remainder of the evening.