By the light that gleamed from the trees on each side of the driveway men could be seen approaching at a run; others were hurrying toward them across the terrace, calling excitedly to one another. A woman screamed something unintelligible, but the tone of her voice brought a hush over the merrymakers.
In the midst of the group coming up the road was one who labored heavily. He was bareheaded, gray with dust, and he staggered as if wounded.
"Some one has been hurt," exclaimed the Colonel. "Maledetto! There has been a fight." He dropped his companion's arm and hastened to the steps, then halfway down paused, staring. He whirled quickly and cried to the old lady: "Wait! Do not come."
But Madame Fazello had seen the white face of the runner, and screamed:
"Mother of God! The American!"
The other guests from the balcony pressed forward with alarmed inquiries. No one guessed as yet what had befallen, but the loud voices died away, a murmuring tide swept the merrymakers toward the castello.
"What has happened, Signore?" Colonel Neri was crying. "Speak!"
"The Mafia!" Blake gasped. "Martel—is—" His knees sagged and he would have pitched forward had not the soldier supported him. "We met them—in the woods. Cardi—"
"Cardi!" echoed the Colonel in a harsh voice.
"Cardi!" came from a dozen frightened throats. The Donna Teresa uttered a second shrill cry, and then through the ranks of staring, chalk-faced peasants the Countess came running swiftly.