They had no prisoners—only plunder, in the shape of plate, jewellery, trinkets, and other light personal effects. The villa di campagna of some old Roman noble had been the scene of their late raid, and they were carrying the spoils to their den.
That this was in some secluded part of the country was evident from the road taken to reach it. Now it was a rough causeway traversing a ridge; anon a mere scorzo, or cattle-track, zigzagging through the hills, or following the bed of a rivulet.
Long before reaching the end of their journey, the captive was fatigued and footsore. His shoes, none of the strongest, had yielded to the abrasion of the sharp stones; while the long tramp of the preceding day, with a half sleepless night on the street pavement, to say nothing of the beating the brutes had given him, had but ill prepared him for such an irksome march. His hands, too, were tied behind his back; and this, spoiling his balance, made progress still more difficult and disagreeable. The terrible depression of his spirits also detracted from his strength.
He had good reason for being dispirited. The rigorous watch, kept upon him all along the route, told him that he was not going to be easily let off. Already the brigands had broken faith with him; for he knew that the courier had come back, and of course brought back the scudi along with him.
Once only had he an opportunity of talking to the chief, just before starting away from the village. He reminded him of his promise.
“You have released me,” cried the ruffian, with a savage oath.
“In what way?” innocently asked the young Englishman.
“Hola! how simple you are, Signor Inglese! You forget the blow you gave to one of my band.”
“The renegade deserved it.”
“I shall be judge of that. By our laws your life is forfeit. With us it is blow for blow.”