The night was warm and clear. A light breeze stirred the ivy, and shook the leaves of the old lime, by whose aid Pierrebon had made his ascent. Within I sat at the table, my cloak unclasped, now sipping my wine, now gently touching with my finger the dark patch on my sleeve near my shoulder. Without, Pierrebon stood on guard in the black shadow. Down below, Piero began to sing, as only men of his country can, and the deep bass voice, with all its liquid Italian words, pealed melodiously into the night.
I listened, murmuring to myself: "Strange! Here is one who can sing of his Alban hills and his Margarita one moment and cut a throat the next. But here they come!"
For Trotto's voice had stopped the singer, and then I heard them coming upstairs. The heavy step of Piero halted, however, in the passage, and Trotto entered alone, rubbing his hands together as usual, his white teeth shining between their setting of red lip and short black moustache and beard. Of a truth Messire Torquato was a handsome man if an evil one. He came in with a set smile on his face. "The ladies are safely at rest, and——"
"And we can while away the time with this wine, some more supper, and a little talk."
"But your wounds, monsieur! They must be attended to. I have told
Piero to bring up some salve and bandages."
"Bah!" I laughed, "let them keep. My wound, not wounds, is but a scratch, and hurts far less than the one that lost you that forefinger." And I pointed to his left hand, which wanted a forefinger.
The captain's eyes flashed, and he dropped his hand to his side, though he said, calmly enough:
"I got that at Volterra. I was there with the Caraffa."
"And I with Enghien. You see, we were comrades-in-arms without knowing it. 'Tis a pity we never met. We must fight our battles over again. Come, let us drink to the old days!"
"With all my heart," was the reply. "A moment; and I will tell Piero to wait." And he stepped to the door.