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Updated: June 26, 2025
Then were heard a few scattered yells of derision and protest, a few shouts of anger and derision against the carabinieri. There were once more gangs of men and groups of youths along the street. They sent up an occasional shout. But always over their shoulders, and pretending it was not they who shouted.
They were short of food, short of ammunition, short of everything save valor. The picturesque but impractical uniforms they wore the green tunics and cherry-colored breeches of the Guides, the towering bearskins of the gendarmes, the shiny leather hats of the Carabinieri were foul with blood and dirt.
The authorities were already at the cottage; the Pretore of Marechiaro with his Cancelliere, Dr. Marini and the Maresciallo of the Carabinieri. "They have come already?" Hermione said. "So soon?" She took the note. It was from Artois. "There is a boy waiting, signora," said Giuseppe. "Gaspare is with the Signor Pretore." She opened Emile's note.
"It shall be as the little signorina wishes;" and the carabinieri laughed. It was some jest, and they would take their part in it willingly. Hillard resigned, and Bettina took to her heels. Her victory was a permanent one, for the carabinieri released Hillard only when they knew it would be impossible for him to take up the pursuit.
Hillard, wild with despair, made as though to intervene. "Remain where you are!" he was warned. As the carabinieri were about to lay hands upon La Signorina, a loud voice from the hall stopped them. "One moment!" An officer in riding breeches and dusty boots entered and approached the dramatic group. Hillard and Merrihew recognized him instantly. It was the man with the scar.
There was something in the flashing eyes and set jaws that made him realize that the safest thing for him to do at that moment was to stand perfectly still! "Signori," began Hillard calmly, "before you act, will you not do me the honor to explain to me the meaning of this visit?" "It is not he!" said one of the carabinieri. "It is the master, and not the servant.
The heart-broken hero, with a few trusty men, made his way from the Adriatic to the Mediterranean, was arrested by the Sardinian Carabinieri at Chiaveri, conveyed to Genoa, where La Marmora was in command, and there embarked for Tunis; hence, finding nowhere a refuge, he proceeded to the Island of La Maddalena, off the shore of Sardinia, and hence again to Gibraltar and Tangier.
They were making a demonstration against the imprisonment of one of the railway-strikers. I was there. They went on all right, with a good bit of howling and gibing: a lot of young louts, you know. And the shop-keepers shut up shop, and nobody showed the Italian flag, of course. Well, when they came to the Via Benedetto Croce, there were a few mounted carabinieri.
The saddled animals, which were to carry the members of the party were held at a short distance while the men were seeing to the final preparations. Four horses had been procured for Derby, Porter, Tiggs, and Jenkins; the carabinieri had their own horses, and Padre Filippo his mule.
The cloud passed and revealed the shining muskets of two carabinieri, doubtless attracted by the untoward sounds. Giovanni, agile and muscular as a wolf, stole over the stream and disappeared into the blackness beyond. But there was an expression of horror on his face which could not have been intensified had Dante and Vergil and all the shades of the Inferno trooped at his heels.
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