“If by any chance,” he thought, “Mateo proves to be related to Gianetto, or if he is his friend and should take it into his head to defend him, the charges of his two rifles would reach two of us, as sure as a letter reaches its address; and suppose he should draw a bead on me, notwithstanding our relationship!”
In his perplexity he adopted an extremely courageous course—he went forward alone toward Mateo, to tell him what had happened, accosting him as an old acquaintance; but the short distance that separated them seemed to him terribly long.
“Hallo! my old comrade,” he cried; “how goes it, old fellow? It’s me, Gamba, your cousin.”
Mateo, without a word in reply, halted, and as the other spoke he raised the barrel of his gun slowly, so that it was pointed at the sky when the adjutant met him.
“Good-day, brother,” said the adjutant, “it’s a long while since I saw you.”
“Good-day, brother.”
“I looked in to say good-day to you and Cousin Pepa as I passed. We have had a long jaunt to-day; but we ought not to complain of fatigue, as we have made a famous capture. We have caught Gianetto Sanpiero.”
“God be praised!” cried Giuseppa. “He stole a milch goat from us last week.”
Those words made Gamba’s heart glad.
“Poor devil!” said Mateo, “he was hungry.”