“Ha, ha!” laughed the brigand, his comrades joining in the laugh. “You’re a good judge of character, signor artista. You can keep your sketches and your spare suit too, neither of which commodities would be likely to suit our market. Write, then, for the scudi.”
Again the artist was about to use the pen.
“Hold!” once more exclaimed the bandit. “You have friends in the cittada. What a mistake I was making not to think of them! They can give something towards your ransom.”
“I have not a friend in Rome; at least not one who would pay five scudi to rescue me from a rope.”
“Bah! you are jesting, signore.”
“I am speaking the simple truth.”
“If that be so,” said the brigand, who seemed to melt a little at mention of the rope, “If that be so,” he added reflectingly, “then—ah, we shall see. Hark you, signor painter, if what you say be true, you may sleep in your own lodgings to-night. If false, you will spend your night here in the hills, and perhaps minus your ears, you understand me!”
“I should be dull not to do so.”
“Buono—buono! And now one word of warning. Let there be no trickery in what you write—no deception in what you say. The messenger who carries your letter to the cittada will learn all about you—even to the quality of your spare suit and the value of your pictures. If you have friends he will find them out. If not, he will know it. And, by the Virgin, if it turn out that you are playing with us, your ears shall answer for it!”
“So be it. I accept the conditions.”