"Now drive on," I said.
He did, without a word, but turning as white as a sheet,—and made his old mules fly as if they'd got Vesuvius a foot behind them all the way. I kept my revolver ready till we came to Meta, after which there are plenty of houses.
When we drew up at the hotel I gave him his seven francs, and told him to think himself lucky that I didn't hand him over to the police. He had partly recovered by then, and had the cheek to grin and say—
"Ah, ze signor ees a genteelman,—he will give a poor Italiano a pourboire."
But I didn't.
I've often wondered since if he really meant to do for me. Anyhow, my revolver saved me, and was worth a dormouse.