As he said this, his stature seemed to grow; and it was clear that he thought himself a hero. He waited, expecting, no doubt, that I should express my admiration of his exploits; but I remembered the last, and said to him,
"You forget the daughter of the Englishman—her head——"
"Questo Inglese era un impertinente," replied he. "Why did he not send the ransom? He knew, or ought to have known, the laws of brigands; we could not have spared her life had we wished it. No; it would have been an act of injustice—of gross partiality."
Here some of the brigands, who had heard his words, came up, and by their gestures gave confirmation of their general's words.
"And who among the band," I inquired, "was the executioner; for, like Louis XI, I suppose you had your Tristan?"
He pointed to the back of the cave, and called Geronymo, the figure whom I had first observed. He came forward.
"Son quì!" said the man with a hoarse guttural voice, that might have been mistaken for the howl of a wolf.
I looked at him attentively, and not without a sense of horror and disgust. His long and bony, yet athletic form, might have served as a model for a gladiator, for the muscles protruded like one of Michael Angelo's anatomical figures: his cadaverous sallow countenance pale with crime,—his eyes deep sunk, and overhung by thick bushy eyebrows, and emitting a gloomy light as within caverns,—his thin and straight upper lip, with the lower underhung like that of a dog-fish, fitted him well for the bourreau of Signor Gasparoni.
"So you were the executioner of the Englishman's daughter, Geronymo, eh?" I inquired.
"Si, signor," said he, with a grin of satisfaction, that betrayed a pride of office, and a superiority over his fellows.