“No, my good friends,” answered the officer smilingly, and in a tone intended to conciliate the inquirers, whose rude style of address could no longer be mistaken.
“Are you sure, signore? Are you quite sure of what you say?”
“Oh, quite sure. If we had seen the animal we should be most happy—”
“Your sheep is not here,” interrupted the young Englishman, who could no longer stand the pastore’s impertinence. “You know it is not. Why do you repeat your questions?”
“You lie!” cried one of the shepherds, who had not yet spoken—he who wore the red hood. “It is here. You, Signor Inglese, are the stray we are in search of. Thank our gracious Virgin, we’ve found you in such goodly company. We shall take back to our flock three sheep instead of one; and one of them such a beautiful young ewe—just the sort for our charming mountain pastures!”
Before the man had done speaking, Henry Harding recognised him. The voice was sufficient; but the capuce, now thrown back upon his shoulders, revealed the sinister countenance of Corvino!
“Corvino!” was the exclamation that passed mechanically from the lips of his late captive; and before its echo could reverberate from the adjoining cave, he was seized by two of the disguised bandits—the other two flinging themselves on the officer, while the chief himself laid hold of Lucetta.
With a desperate effort the young Englishman wrenched his arms free. But he had no weapon; and of what use would be his fists against the two assailants, who had now drawn their daggers, and were again advancing upon him? The young lady was still struggling in the embrace of the brigand chief—her cries loud enough to be heard all over the town. Meanwhile Guardiola was making no resistance, not even to the drawing of his sword, which was still dangling uselessly by his side.
With a quick eye Henry Harding perceived it; and, dashing between the two brigands who were closing upon him, he caught the weapon by the guard. Plucking it out of its sheath, he turned like a tiger upon his special opponents. The cowards shrank back; as they did so drawing their pistols, and firing at random. Neither of their shots took effect; and, in another instant, the swordsman was by the side of Corvino.
With a cry the brigand chief let go his struggling prize, and turned to receive the attack—flinging off his frezada and drawing a revolver—for this weapon had found its way into the hands of the Italian banditti. As good luck would have it, the first cap missed fire; and, before he could draw trigger upon a second, the sword of Guardiola, wielded by a more skilful hand than that of its owner, had rendered the brigand’s arm idle, and the revolver dropped to the ground.