In spite of the double load, the animal, urged by a brace of hearty kicks, started off nimbly, and galloped headlong down a steep declivity on which anything but a Corsican steed would have broken its neck a dozen times.
Then Colomba retraced her steps, calling Miss Nevil at the top of her voice; but no answering cry was heard.
After walking hither and thither for some time, trying to recover the path, she stumbled on two riflemen, who shouted, “Who goes there?”
“Well, gentlemen,” cried Colomba jeeringly, “here’s a pretty racket! How many of you are killed?”
“You were with the bandits!” said one of the soldiers. “You must come with us.”
“With pleasure!” she replied. “But there’s a friend of mine somewhere close by, and we must find her first.”
“You friend is caught already, and both of you will sleep in jail to-night!”
“In jail, you say? Well, that remains to be seen. But take me to her, meanwhile.”
The soldiers led her to the bandits’ camp, where they had collected the trophies of their raid—to wit, the cloak which had covered Orso, an old cooking-pot, and a pitcher of cold water. On the same spot she found Miss Nevil, who had fallen among the soldiers, and, being half dead with terror, did nothing but sob in answer to their questions as to the number of the bandits, and the direction in which they had gone.
Colomba threw herself into her arms and whispered in her ear, “They are safe!” Then, turning to the sergeant, she said: “Sir, you can see this young lady knows none of the things you are trying to find out from her. Give us leave to go back to the village, where we are anxiously expected.”