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He saw the road to Martinello stretching out ahead of him like a ghost-gray canyon walled with gloom; he heard the creaking of saddles, the muffled thud of hoofs in the dust of the causeway, the song of a lover, then Blake halted suddenly, listening. From somewhere not far away came the sound again; it was a gunshot, deadened by the blanket of mist and drizzle that shrouded the streets. He turned.
One of them was singing, for it was the eve of his marriage, and you knew him by his voice as the Count of Martinello. Do you remember what happened then? Think! You were called Narcone the Butcher, and you boasted loudly of your skill with the knife as you dried your hands upon a wisp of grass. You left two men in the road that night, but the third returned to Terranova.
We cannot wait even for the fireworks, as much as I would like to. It is a long road to Martinello and we must be up early in the morning. You do not object?" "On the contrary, I was about to bear you off in spite of yourself." "Then I will have Ippolito fetch the horses." "Ippolito has been demonstrating the mastery of wine over matter. He is asleep in the manger." "Drunk? Oh, the idiot!
And now we had best begin presenting our good-nights, although I hate to go." To avoid the dampening effect of an early departure the three men rode out quietly from the courtyard at the rear of the house, leaving the merrymakers to their fun. "So, this is our last ride together," Norvin said, as they left the valley and began the long ascent of the mountain that lay between them and Martinello.
"Why aren't you making merry?" Blake inquired. The overseer shrugged his shoulders, replying, somberly, "I am waiting." "For what?" "Who knows? There are strangers here." "You mean," Blake's manner changed quickly "there may be enemies?" "If Cardi is in the mountains behind Martinello, may he not be here at Terranova? I am looking for a thick, black man. Aliandro has described him."
He looked up to see that his friend's face had gone colorless. Blake nodded silently. "Also a chap named some nobleman " He turned again to his memorandum-book. "Martel Savigno, Count of Martinello," Norvin supplied in a strained, breathless voice. "That's him! Why, you must know all about this affair."
As the riders clattered through the poorly lighted village, Blake saw the customary low-roofed houses, the usual squalid side-streets, more like steep lanes than thoroughfares, and heard the townspeople pronouncing the name of the Count of Martinello, while the ever-present horde of urchins fled from their path. A beggar appeared beside his stirrup, crying, "I die of hunger, your worship."
When after an interval of several minutes he felt that he had himself sufficiently in hand to talk without danger of self-betrayal, he seated himself and inquired: "What do you wish to know about the Count of Martinello and Narcone the bandit?" "I want to know all there is," said Donnelly. "Perhaps we can get at it quicker if you will tell me what you know.
You must wait." His face was twitching, and the sweat dripped from his square jaw as he nodded to Blake. They went out into the mocking glare of the garden lights, leaving her standing in the great hall like a statue of ivory, her lips dumbly framing the name of her lover. All Sicily blazed with the account of the assassination of the Count of Martinello and his overseer.
After an instant more, he queried, "You are perhaps a friend of that thrice-blessed angel, my padrona?" With an exclamation of relief Norvin laid a hand upon the old fellow's shoulder and shook him gently. "Have your eyes failed you, my good Aliandro?" he cried. "Don't you recognize the American? the Signore Blake, who came here with the Count of Martinello?
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