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Updated: April 30, 2025
He heard his name called and saw Savigno's figure outlined briefly against the gray background, saw another figure blend with it, then heard Martel's voice end in a rising cry which lived to haunt his memory. It rose in protest, in surprise, as if the Count doubted even at the last that death could really claim him. Then it broke in a thin, wavering shriek.
He let his thoughts run free in this manner, sitting his horse listlessly, for he was tired mentally and physically, watching the gray road idly as it slipped past beneath the muffled hoofs, and lulled by Savigno's musical humming. It was while he was still in this half-somnolent, semidetached frame of mind that he rode into a sudden white-hot whirl of events.
He recalled vaguely that the road lay like a mysterious canon walled in with darkness, and that his thoughts were miles away when his horse shied without warning, nearly unseating him and bringing him back to a sense of his surroundings with a shock. Simultaneously he heard a cry from Ricardo; it was a scream of agony, cutting through Savigno's song like a saber stroke.
To Norvin the popular clamor, which rose high during the next few days, had a sickening familiarity. At the time of Martel Savigno's murder he had looked upon justice as a thing inevitable, he had felt that the public wrath, once aroused, was an irresistible force; yet he had seen how ineffectually such a force could spend itself.
Even now, when he had begun to consider his self-mastery complete, it had required no more than the unexpected mention of Martel Savigno's name and that of his murderer to awaken pangs of poignant distress, the signs of which he could not altogether conceal.
There was a breathless pause before Maruffi spoke. "Lucrezia Ferara!" he said, hoarsely, as if wishing to test the sound of the name. "So Oliveta is the daughter of the overseer, and you are Savigno's sweetheart." His words were directed at Margherita, who answered in a thin, shrill, broken voice: "What are you doing here?" "I came for that wanton's blood. Give her to me." "Oliveta? She is gone."
What a peaceful, pastoral place you have here! I arrive to be met by an armed guard, I hear talk of Mafiosi, men ride out at night with rifles, and old women predict unspeakable evil. What is all the mystery?" "Nonsense! There is no mystery. Do you think I would drag you, my best friend, into danger?" Savigno's lips were smiling, but he awaited an answer with some restraint.
To illustrate how curiously the Sicilian mind works on these subjects, there were some who even spoke of it as demonstrating the fairness of the bandits, thus to exclude Savigno's friend from any connection with their quarrel. During the long hours since the night of his friend's death Blake had looked at himself in all his nakedness of soul, and the sight was not pleasant.
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