“The rascal defended himself like a lion,” continued the adjutant, slightly mortified; “he killed one of my men, and, not content with that, he broke Corporal Chardon’s arm; but there’s no great harm done; he was only a Frenchman. After that, he hid himself so completely that the devil himself couldn’t have found him. If it hadn’t been for my little cousin, Fortunato, I could never have unearthed him.”
“Fortunato!” cried Mateo.
“Fortunato!” echoed Giuseppa.
“Yes, Gianetto was hidden under the haystack yonder; but my little cousin showed me the trick. And I’ll tell his uncle the caporal, so that he’ll send him a handsome present for his trouble. And his name and yours will be in the report I shall send the advocate-general.”
“Malediction!” muttered Mateo.
They had joined the squad. Gianetto was already lying on the litter, ready to start. When he saw Mateo with Gamba, he smiled a strange smile; then, turning towards the door of the house, he spat on the threshold, saying:
“House of a traitor!”
Only a man who had made up his mind to die would have dared to utter the word traitor as applying to Falcone. A quick thrust of the stiletto, which would not have needed to be repeated, would have paid for the insult instantly. But Mateo made no other movement than to put his hand to his forehead, like a man utterly crushed.
Fortunato had gone into the house when he saw his father coming. He soon reappeared with a mug of milk, which he handed to Gianetto with downcast eyes.
“Away from me!” shouted the outlaw in a voice of thunder. Then, turning to one of the voltigeurs, “Comrade,” he said, “give me a drink.”