“The address first,” commanded the brigand.
“To whom?” asked the young Englishman making ready to write.
“Al Signor Generale Harding!” dictated the bandit.
“To General Harding!” translated Henry, dropping the pen and starting up from his seat. “My father! What know you of him?”
“Enough, signor pittore, for my purpose. Sit down again, and write what I dictate. That is all I want of you.”
Thus commanded, the artist resumed his seat; and once more taking up the pen, wrote the address thus dictated. As he did so, he thought of the last time he had penned the same words, when directing that angry letter from the roadside inn near to his father’s park. He had no time to give way to reminiscences, for the bandit exhibited great impatience to have the letter completed.
“Padre caro!” was the next phrase that required translation.
Again the secretary hesitated. Again went his memory back to the writing from the English inn, where he had commenced that letter without the prefix “Dear.” Was he now to use it at the dictation of a brigand?
The command was peremptory. The bandit, chafing at the delay, repeated it with a menace. His captive could only obey, and down went the words “Dear Father.”
“And now,” said Corvino, “continue your translation; don’t stop again. Another interruption may cost you your ears.”