The station hands and porters were shouting by the stopping train, and Rossi's dark eyes with their long lashes were looking through the line of men for some one who carried a yellow letter.
"Facchino!"
"Signore?"
"Seen the telegraph boy about?"
"No, Signore."
Rossi leapt down to the platform, and at the same moment three Carabineers, who had been working their heads from right to left to peer into the carriages as they passed, stepped up to him and offered a folded white paper.
He took it without speaking, and for a moment he stood looking at the soldiers as if he had been stunned. Then he opened the paper and read: "Mandate di Cattura.... We ... order the arrest of David Leone, commonly called David Rossi...."
A cold sweat burst in great beads from his forehead. Again he looked into the faces of the soldiers. And then he laughed. It was a fearful laugh—the laugh of a smitten soul.
The scene had been observed by passengers trooping to the Customs, and a group of English and American tourists were making apposite comments on the event.
"It's Rossi." "Rossi?" "The anarchist." "Travelled in our train?" "Sure." "My!"