“Stay, signor,” he said in a low, deep voice, speaking in the Italian language. “You are already suspected by one who knows not mercy, and if he were to discover your wild attempt to carry off that lady, your death would be the consequence. Return and abandon it; for ere you can get beyond the sound of the waves, as they dash on the cliffs below, you will be pursued and overtaken.”
“I know not who you are, signor,” said Fleetwood; “but, as I believe your warning is given in kindness, I thank you. To follow your advice is impossible, and I must beg you, as a favour, not to detain us—I need not ask you, I trust, not to betray us.”
“I feel sure that Signor Montifalcone will not do so,” exclaimed Ada, recognising at once the voice of the young Italian. “He will rather exert himself to assist us—I am not mistaken in his generosity.”
Paolo was silent a minute, when, releasing his grasp of Fleetwood’s arm, he sighed as if his heart would break, and took Ada’s hand. “Lady,” he said, in a tone of deep melancholy, “you sign my death-warrant; but it shall not prevent me from obeying your wishes. I will accompany you to your boat, if you have one prepared, and, when you have gone, I will endeavour to deceive those who attempt to follow you. Further, I know not how to aid you.”
“We are grateful to you for your promised aid,” said Fleetwood; “and now, lead on, we can ill afford further delay.”
“It is for the lady’s sake I act,” muttered Paolo, beginning to move onward down the path.
Ada overheard him. “It is because you are generous, and would preserve the lives of others, even though you risk your own,” she said, in a low tone, touching his arm. “But if there is danger in remaining here, come with us. You can be conveyed in safety to your native country, and can ascertain if your father yet lives.”
“What! and leave my unhappy sister to her fate?” said the young man, turning round his countenance towards her, which, even with the faint light afforded by the moon, she observed wore an expression of the deepest grief. “I have but one object to live for,—for her sake alone I consent to endure existence. Do not ask me to quit her.”
“Oh that she would have come too,” said Ada. “She might yet be saved.”
“She would not accompany you, lady,” answered Paolo. “Pirate though he is, Zappa is still her husband, and no power would now make her quit him. But I delay you, and increase the risk of discovery, already sufficiently great, by speaking. I will say no more, but that I pray, when in safety in your native land, you will not forget the unhappy exile whom once you knew, and who would gladly have died to serve you.”