"What have you there?"

"The American! He cannot stand."

A square figure came swiftly through the group, muttering angrily, and the others fell back to give him room, all but Narcone, who repeated, doggedly:

"Let me finish the work if you fear to do so."

His companions broke out at him again in a babble of argument, whereupon the new-comer shouted at them in a furious voice:

"Silenzio! Who did this?"

No one answered for a moment, but at length the brigand who held Blake's hands pinioned at his back with a sash or scarf ventured to suggest:

"I am not so sure he is injured. We pulled him down first; he may only be frightened."

"There was to be no shooting," growled the leader of the band.

"Eh? But you saw for yourself. There was nothing else to do," said Narcone. "That Ricardo was an old wolf."

The thick-set man, whom Norvin took to be the infamous Cardi himself, cried sharply:

"Come, come, Signore, speak! Are you hurt?"

The prisoner shook his head mechanically, although he did not know whether he was injured or not. His denial seemed to satisfy the chief, who said with relief:

"It is well. We did not wish to harm you. There would be consequences, you understand? And now a match, somebody."

"It is not necessary," Narcone assured him with a laugh. "Of what use to learn a trade like mine if one cannot strike true? The knife went home, twice—once for us, once for poor Galli, who was murdered. It was like killing sheep." Picking up the wisp of grass which he had dropped, he began to dry his hands once more.

A tiny flame flickered in the darkness. It was lowered until it shone upon the upturned face of Ricardo Ferara where he lay sprawled in the dust, his teeth showing beneath his gray mustache, then died away, and the black outlines of the bull-necked man leaped into relief again as he stooped to examine Martel.

Not until that instant did the full, crushing horror of the affair come home to the American, for events had crowded one another so closely that his mind was confused; but when, in the halting yellow glare, he saw those two slack forms and the crooked, unnatural postures in which death had left them, his consciousness cleared and he strained at his bonds like a fear-maddened horse.

His actual danger, however, was at an end. One of the band removed the rifle which still hung from his shoulders and which he had forgotten; another slipped the scarf from his wrists and directed him to go. He staggered away down the road along which he and Martel and Ricardo had come, walking like a sick man, for he was crippled with, fright. After a few steps he began to run, heavily, awkwardly at first, stumbling as if his joints were loose; but as his body awoke and the blood surged through him he went faster and faster until he was fleeing like a wild animal. And as he ran his terror grew. He fell many times, goblin shapes pursued him or leaped forth from the shadows, but he knew that no matter how fast he fled he could never escape the thing he had met back there in the night. It was not the grisly sight of his murdered friend nor the bared teeth of Ricardo Ferara grinning upward out of the road which filled him with the greatest horror; it was the knowledge of his own foul, sickening cowardice. He ran wildly as if to leave it behind, but it trod in his tracks and kept step with him.

The pyrotechnics at Terranova were nearly over and the grounds echoed to the applause of the delighted spectators. The Donna Teresa was leaning upon the arm of Colonel Neri and saying:

"No one but that extravagant Martel would have entertained these poor people so magnificently, but there is no reasoning with him when he has an idea."

"It is the finest display since the fair at San Felice two years ago," the Colonel acknowledged. They had come out upon the open piazza which overlooked the lawn, and the other guests who had been present at the supper had followed suit and were gathered there to admire the spectacle.

"The country people will never finish discussing it. Why, it has been the greatest event this village ever witnessed. And Margherita! Have you ever seen her so beautiful?" The old lady spoke with pride, for she was very happy.

"Never!" Colonel Neri fondled his mustache tenderly. "She is ablaze with love. Oh, that Martel has broken all our hearts, lucky fellow! I could hate him if I did not like him so."

"You men, without exception, pretend to adore her but it is flattery; you know that she loves it and that it pleases me. Now Martel—Madonna mia! What is this?" She broke off sharply and pointed toward the main gateway to the grounds.

By the light that gleamed from the trees on each side of the driveway men could be seen approaching at a run; others were hurrying toward them across the terrace, calling excitedly to one another. A woman screamed something unintelligible, but the tone of her voice brought a hush over the merrymakers.

In the midst of the group coming up the road was one who labored heavily. He was bareheaded, gray with dust, and he staggered as if wounded.

"Some one has been hurt," exclaimed the Colonel. "Maledetto! There has been a fight." He dropped his companion's arm and hastened to the steps, then halfway down paused, staring. He whirled quickly and cried to the old lady: "Wait! Do not come."

But Madame Fazello had seen the white face of the runner, and screamed:

"Mother of God! The American!"

The other guests from the balcony pressed forward with alarmed inquiries. No one guessed as yet what had befallen, but the loud voices died away, a murmuring tide swept the merrymakers toward the castello.

"What has happened, Signore?" Colonel Neri was crying. "Speak!"

"The Mafia!" Blake gasped. "Martel—is—" His knees sagged and he would have pitched forward had not the soldier supported him. "We met them—in the woods. Cardi—"

"Cardi!" echoed the Colonel in a harsh voice.

"Cardi!" came from a dozen frightened throats. The Donna Teresa uttered a second shrill cry, and then through the ranks of staring, chalk-faced peasants the Countess came running swiftly.

"Cardi!" she cried. "What is this I hear?"

"Go away, Signorina, I beseech you," exclaimed the Colonel of carbineers. "Something dreadful has occurred." But she disregarded him and faced Norvin Blake.

He raised his dripping, dust-smeared face and nodded, whereat she closed her eyes an instant and swayed. But she made no outcry.

"Take her—away," he wheezed painfully. "God in heaven! Don't you— understand?"

Even yet there was no coherent speech and the people merely stared at one another or inquired, dully:

"What did he say? What is this about Cardi?"

"Take her away," Blake repeated. But the Countess recovered herself and with a little gesture bade him go on. He told his story haltingly, clinging to the Colonel to prevent himself from falling, his matted head rolling weakly from side to side. When he had finished a furious clamor broke forth from the men, the women, and the children. Neri commanded them roughly to silence.

"Run to the village, some one, and give the alarm," he ordered in the voice of a sick man. "Call Sandro and his men and bid them bring extra horses."

A half-dozen fleet-footed youths broke away and were off before he had finished speaking. Then Blake was helped into the hall of the castello, where the confusion was less.

Lucrezia Ferara, who had been in the rear of the house and was among the last to hear the evil tidings, came running to him with colorless lips and eyes distended, crying:

"The truth, Signore, for the love of Christ! They tell me he is murdered, but I know it is a lie."

The notary's wife attempted to calm her, but the girl began to scream, flinging herself upon her knees at the feet of the American, begging him to tell her it was all a mistake.

"My father would not die," she cried, loudly. "He was here but an hour ago and he kissed me."

She would not be calmed and became so violent that it required force to remove her. As soon as she was out of the way, Colonel Neri began questioning Norvin rapidly, at the same time striving by his own example to steady the young man, who was in a terrible condition of collapse. Bit by bit, the soldier learned all there was to learn of the shocking story, and through it all the Countess Margherita stood at his elbow, never speaking. Her eyes were glazed with horror, her lips were whispering something over and over, but when her cousin appealed to her to leave the scene she seemed not to hear him. She only stood and stared at the exhausted man until he could bear it no longer and, hiding his face in his hands, he began to shiver and cringe and sob.

It seemed to him that she must know; that all these people must know the truth, and see his shame as if it were blazoned in fire. Their horror was for him; their looks were changing even now to contempt and hatred. Why did they not accuse him openly instead of staring with wide, shocked eyes? Realization had come to him long before he had reached Terranova, and he was sick with loathing for himself. Now, therefore, in every blanched cheek, in every parted lip, he felt an accusation. He supposed all the world would have to know it, and it was a thing he could never live down. He wished he might have died as Martel had died, might die even now, and escape this torture; but with every breath life flowed back into him, his heart was no longer bursting, his lungs were no longer splitting.

"Why do you wait?" he queried at length, thinking of Martel out there on the lonely mountainside. "Why don't you go fetch him?"

Neri said, soothingly: "Help will be here in a few moments, Signore. You could not sit a horse yet a while."

"I?" Blake asked blankly, and shuddered. So they expected him to return through that darkness—to guide them to the horror from which he had just fled! He would not go! His mind recoiled at the thought and terror came upon him afresh. Nevertheless, he made an effort at self-control, lurched to his feet, and chattered through clicking teeth: "Come on! I'm ready."

"Presently! Presently! There will be men and horses here in a moment." In a lower tone the Colonel urged: "For the love of our Saviour, can you not send the Contessa away? I am afraid she is dying."

Blake went to the girl and laid a shaking hand upon her arm, stammering, wretchedly:

"Contessa, you—you—" He could not go on and turned appealingly to the others.

"You say he is dead?" she inquired dully. "How can that be when you told me there was no danger?"

"I did not know. Oh—" he lowered his working features. "If it had only been I, instead!"

She nodded. "That would have been better."

From somewhere to the rear of the house came the shrill screams of Lucrezia, and the Countess cried: "Poor child! They did not even spare Ricardo, but—after all, he was only a father."

Neri said, gently: "Let me help you, Signorina. The doctor is with your aunt, but I will call him."

"He cannot give me back Martel," she answered in the same dull, lifeless tone.

Voices, footsteps, sounded outside and a man in the cocked hat and uniform of a lieutenant of carbineers came briskly into the hall and saluted his superior.

"We are ready, sir."

The Countess roused herself, saying: "Then come! I too am ready."

"Heaven above us!" Neri faltered. "You are not going." He took her by the hand and led her away from the door. "No, my child, we will go alone. 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.



VI

A NEW RESOLVE



All Sicily blazed with the account of the assassination of the Count of Martinello and his overseer. All Italy took it up and called for vengeance. There went forth to the world by wire, by post, and through the public press a many-voiced and authoritative promise that the brigandage which had cursed the island for so many generations should be extirpated. The outrage was the one topic of conversation from Trapani to Genoa, from Brindisi to Venice, in clubs, in homes, upon the streets. Carbineers and soldiers came pouring into Terranova and San Sebastiano. They scoured the mountains and patrolled the roads; they searched the houses and farms, the valleys and thickets, and as the days dragged on, proving the futility of their efforts, still more carbineers arrived. But no trace of Cardi, of Narcone, or of the other outlaws was discovered. Rewards were offered, doubled, trebled; the north coast seethed with excitement.

The rank of the young Count and his fiancee enlisted the interest of the nobility, the lively-minded middle classes were romantically stirred by the picture of the lonely girl stricken on the eve of her wedding, and yet notwithstanding the fact that towns were searched, forests dragged as with a net, no quarry came to bay.

Colonel Neri explained it to Norvin, as he rode in to San Sebastiano after thirty-six hours in the saddle.

"It is this accursed Sicilian Mafia," he growled. "The common people are shocked, horrified, sympathetic, and yet they fear to show their true feelings. They dare not tell what they know. Mark you, those men are not hiding in the forests, they are here in San Sebastiano or the other villages under our very noses; perhaps they are strutting the streets of Palermo or Bagheria or Messina marked by a hundred eyes, discussed by a hundred tongues, and yet we cannot surprise a look or win the slightest hint. Fifty arrests have been made, but there will be fifty alibis proven. It is maddening, it is damnable, it is— Sicily!" He swore wearily beneath his breath, and twirled his mustache with listless fingers.

"Then you are losing hope?"

"No. I had none to begin with, for I know these people. But we are doing everything possible. God in heaven! The country is wild. From Rome has come the order, definite, explicit, to stamp out the banditti, if it requires an army; enough soldiers are coming to defeat the Germans. But the more we have the less we shall accomplish. 'Sweep Sicily!' 'Stamp out the Mafia!' What does Rome know about the Mafia? Signore, did we arrest one half of those whom we know to be Mafiosi, Rome would need to send us, not an army of soldiers, but regiments of stone masons to enlarge our prisons. No! Send back the armed men, give me ten thousand of your American dollars, and ten of my carbineers, and I will catch Cardi, though it would require the cunning of the devil. However, we may find something; who can tell? At any rate we will try."

"Can't you work secretly?"

"It is being done, but we are too many. We make too much noise. The Sicilian distrusts the law and above all he distrusts his neighbor. He will perjure himself to acquit a Mafioso rather than betray him and become a victim of his vengeance. He who talks little is wise. Of that which does not concern him he says neither good nor evil; that is a part of the Sicilians' training. But—miracles have happened, and God may intervene for that saintly girl at Terranova. And now tell me, how is the poor child bearing up?"

"I haven't seen her since we brought in Martel's body. I couldn't, in fact, although I have sent word for her to call me when she is ready. It seems a long time since—since—"

Neri shook his head in sorrowful agreement.

"I have never seen such grief. My heart bleeds. She was so still! Not a tear! Not an outcry! It was terrible! Weak women do not act in that manner. But you have suffered also, and I judge you have rested no more than I."

"I can't rest," Blake said, dully. "I can do nothing but think." He did not reveal the nature of the thoughts which in the short space of thirty-six hours had put lines into his face. Instead, he scanned the officer's countenance with fearful eyes to see if by any chance he had guessed the truth. Blake had found himself looking thus at every one since the tragedy, and it was a source of constant wonder to him that his secret had remained his own. It seemed that they must know and loathe him as he loathed himself. But on the contrary he was treated with sympathy on all sides, and it was taken merely as an example of the outlaws' cunning that they had refrained from injuring a foreigner. 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. He could never escape the thought that if he had acted the part of a man, if he had resisted with the promptness and vigor of his companions, the result might have been different and Martel might at this moment be on his way to Rome with his bride, alive and well. On such occasions he felt like a murderer. But his mind was not always undivided in this self-condemnation; there were times when with some show of justice he told himself that the result would have been the same or even worse if he had fought; and he tried to ease his conscience by dwelling on the possibility that under other circumstances he might not have proved a coward. He had been physically tired, worn out; his nervous force had been spent. At the moment of ambush his mind had been far away and he had had no time in which to gather his wits. Moral courage, he knew, is quite different from physical courage, which may depend upon one's digestion, one's state of mind, or the amount of sleep one has had. It is sometimes present in physical weaklings, and men of great daring may entirely lack it. A man's behavior when suddenly attacked and overpowered is a test of his nerve rather than his true nature. Still, at the last, he was always faced by the stark, ugly fact that he had been tried and found wanting. Conversation with Neri he found rather a relief.

"I wonder what the Countess will do?" he said.

"What would any one do? She will grieve for a long while, but time will gradually rob her of her sorrow. She will remember Martel as a saint and marry some sinner like you or me."

"Marry? Never!"

"Never?" The Colonel raised his brows. "She is young, she is human, she is full of fire. It would be a great pity if she did not allow herself to love—a great pity indeed."

"I'm afraid she's thinking more of vengeance than of love."

"Perhaps, but hatred is short-lived, while love grows younger all the time. The world is full of great loves, but great hates usually consume themselves quickly. I hope she will leave all thoughts of such things to us who make a business of them."

"If you fail, as you fear, she might feel bound to take up the task where you leave it."

"And she might succeed. But—"

"But what?"

"Revenge is a cold bedfellow, and women are designed to cherish finer sentiments. As for Lucrezia, she will doubtless swear a vendetta, like those Sardinians."

"She has."

"Indeed! Well, she is the kind to nourish hatred, for she is like her father, silent, somber, unforgiving, whereas the Contessa is all sunshine. But hear me talk! I am dying of fatigue. The funeral is at twelve? It will be very sad and the poor girl will be under the greatest strain then, so we must be with her, you and I. And then I must be off again upon the trail of this infamous Cardi, who is, and who is not. Ah, well!" He yawned widely. "We may accomplish the impossible, or if not we may press him so closely that he will sail for your America, which would not be so bad, after all."

Of course the country people turned out for the funeral, but for the most part they came from curiosity. To Norvin the presence of such spectators at the last sacred rites for the dead seemed sacrilegious, indecent, and he knew that it must add to Margherita's pain. It was an endless, heart-rending ordeal, a great somber, impressive pageant, of which he remembered little save a tall, tawny girl crushed beneath a grief so great that his own seemed trivial in comparison.

She was in such a state of physical collapse after the service that she did not send for him until the second day following. He came timidly even then, for he was at a loss how to comfort her, vividly conscious as he was of his own guilt and shame. He found her crouched upon one of the old stone benches in the garden in the full hot glare of the sun. It relieved him to find that she had lost her unnatural self-control, having fallen, it seemed, into much the same mood he would have expected in any woman. It had been so hard to find what to say heretofore—for she was braver than those about her and her grief was so deep as to render words of comfort futile. Her eyes now were heavy and full of haunting shadows, her ivory cheeks were pale, her lips tremulous, and she seemed at last to crave sympathy.

"I do not know why I have summoned you," she said, leaving her hand in his, "unless it is because my loneliness has begun and I lack the courage to face it."

"I have been waiting. It will always be so, Contessa. I shall come from across the world whenever you need me."

She smiled listlessly. "You are very good. I knew you were waiting. It seems so strange to know that he is gone"—her voice caught, her eyes filled, then cleared without overflowing—"and that the world is moving on again in the same way and only I am left standing by the wayside. You cannot wait with me; you must move on with the rest of the world. You had planned to go home, and you must, for you have your work and it calls you."

"Please don't think of it. I sha'n't leave you for a long time. I promised Martel—"

"You promised? Then he had reason to suspect?"

"He would not acknowledge the possibility, and yet he must have had a premonition."

"Oh, why will men trust themselves when women know! If he had told me, if he had confided his fears to me, I could have told him what to do."

"I couldn't leave now, even if I wished, for I might be needed by the—the law. You understand? It isn't finished with me yet."

"The law will not need you," she told him bitterly. "The law will do nothing. The task is for other hands."

After a pause he said, "I had news from home to-day,—rather bad news." Then at her quick look of inquiry he went on: "Nothing serious, I hope, nothing to take me away. My mother is ill and has cabled me to come."

"Then you will go at once, of course?"

"No. I've tried to explain to her the situation here, and the necessity of my remaining for a time at least. Unless she grows worse I shall stay and try to help Neri in his search."

"It is a great comfort to have you near, for in you I see a part of— Martel. You were his other half. But there are other aching hearts, it seems. That mother calls to you, and you ought to go. Besides, I must begin my work."

"What work?"

She met his eyes squarely. "You know without asking. Neri will fail; no Italian could succeed; no one could succeed except a Sicilian. I am one."

"You mean to bring those men to justice?"

She nodded. "Certainly! Who else can do it?"

"But, my dear Signorina, think what that means. They are of a class with which you can have no contact. They are the dregs; there is the Mafia to reckon with. How will you go about it?"

"I will become one of them, if necessary."

He answered her in a shocked voice. "No, no! You are mad to think of it. If you were a man you might have some chance for success, but you—a girl, a gentlewoman!"

"I am a Sicilian. I am rich, too. I have resources." She took him by the arm as she had done that first time when the thought of Martel's danger had roused her. "I told you no power could save them; no hiding-place could be so secret, no lies so cunning that I would not know. Well! Those soldiers have failed and will continue to fail. But you see they did not love Martel. I shall live for this thing."

"I won't allow you to dwell on the subject; it isn't natural, and it isn't good for you. The desire to see justice done is commendable and proper, but the desire for revenge isn't. You must not sacrifice your life to it. There is a law of compensation; those men will be apprehended."

"Where is my compensation? What had Martel done to warrant this?"

He fell silent, and she shook her head as if to indicate the hopelessness of answering her. After a moment of meditation he began again, gravely:

"If you feel that way, I shall make you an offer. Give up your idea of taking an active personal part in this quest, and I will assume your place. We will work together, but you will direct while I face the risks."

"You are a stranger. We would be sure to fail. I thank you, but my mind is made up."

"If it becomes known, you will be in great danger. Think! Life is before you, and all its possibilities. Please let other hands do this."

"It is useless to argue," she said, firmly. "I am like rock. I have begun already and I have accomplished more than Colonel Neri and his carbineers. I see Aliandro coming now, and I think he has news. He knows many things of which the soldiers do not dream, for he is one of the people. You will excuse me?"

"Of course, but—I can't let you undertake so dangerous a task without a protest. I shall come back, if I may."

He rose as the old man shuffled down the path, and went in search of the Donna Teresa, for he was determined to offer every discouragement in his power to what struck him as an extremely rash and perilous course. Men like Belisario Cardi, or Narcone the Butcher, would hesitate no more in attacking a woman than a man. He knew the whole Sicilian country to be a web of intrigue and secret understandings, sensitive to the slightest touch and possessed of many means of communication. It was a great ear which heard the slightest stir, and its unfailing efficiency was shown by the ease with which the bandits had forestalled every effort of the authorities.

In the hall of the manor house he encountered Lucrezia and stopped to speak to her.

"You would do a great deal to protect the Countess, would you not?" he asked.

"Yes, Signore. She has been both a sister and a mother to me. But what do you mean?"

Ferara's daughter was a robust girl of considerable physical charm, but although her training at Terranova had done much for her, it was still evident that she was a country woman. She had nursed her grief with all the sullen fierceness of a peasant, and even now her face and eyes were swollen from weeping.

Blake explained briefly his concern, but when he had finished, the girl surprised him by breaking forth into a furious denunciation of the assassins. She surrendered to her passion with complete abandon, and began to curse the names of Cardi and Gian Narcone horribly.

"We demand blood to wash our blood," she cried. "I curse them and their souls, living and dead, in the name of God who made my father, in the name of Christ who died for him, in the name of the holy saints who could not save him. In the name of the whole world I curse them. May they pray and not be heard. May they repent unforgiven and lie unburied. May every living thing that bears their names die in agony before their eyes. May their women and unborn children be afflicted with every unclean thing until they pray for death at my hands—"

"Lucrezia!" He seized her roughly and clapped his hand over her mouth, for her voice was rising steadily and threatened to rouse the whole household. Her cheeks were white, she was shaking with long, tearless sobs. She would have broken out again when he released her had he not commanded her to be silent. He tried to explain that this work of vengeance was not for her or for the Countess, and to point out the ruin that was sure to follow any attempt on their part to take up the work of the carabinieri, but she shook her head, declaring stubbornly:

"We have sworn it."

The more he argued the more obstinate she became, until, seeing the ineffectiveness of his pleas, he gave up any further effort to move her, sorry that he had raised such a storm. He went on in search of Madam Fazello, with Lucrezia's parting words ringing ominously in his ears:

"If we die, we shall be buried; if we live, we shall give them to the hangman."

From Margherita's aunt he got but little comfort or hope of assistance.

"Oh, my dear boy, I agree with your every word," the old lady said. "But what can I do? I know better than you what it will lead to, but Margherita is like iron—there is no reasoning with her. She would sacrifice herself, Lucrezia, even me, to see Martel avenged, and if she does not have her way she will burn herself to ashes. As for Lucrezia, she is demented, and they do nothing all day but scheme and plan with Aliandro, who is himself as bad as any bandit. I have no voice with them; they do with me as they will." She hid her face in her trembling fingers and wept softly. "And to think—we were all so happy with Martel!"

"Nevertheless, somebody must dissuade them from this enterprise. It is no matter for two girls and an old man to undertake."

"I pray hourly for guidance, but I am frightened, so frightened! When Margherita talks to me, when I see her high resolve, I am ready to follow; then when I am alone I become like water again."

"What are her plans?"

"I do not know. I have begged her to take her sorrow to God. The bishop who came from Messina to marry Martel and remained to bury him has joined me. There is a convent at Palermo—"

"No, no!" Blake cried, vehemently. "Not that! That life is not for her. She must do nothing at all until her grief has had time to moderate."

"It will never be less. You do not know her. But you are the one to reason with her."

Realizing that the old lady was powerless, he returned to the garden and tried once more to weaken the girl's resolution, but without success. It was with a very troubled mind that he took the train back to San Sebastiano that afternoon.

The more he thought it over, the more certain he became that it was his duty to remain in Sicily until Margherita had reached her right senses. Martel had put a trust in him, and what could be more important than to prevent her from carrying out this fantastic enterprise? He would take up the search for the assassins in her place, allowing her to work through him and in that way satisfying her determination. What she needed above all things was distraction, occupation. If she remained persistent they would work side by side until justice had been done, and meanwhile he would become a part of her life. He might make himself necessary to her. At least he would prevent her from doing anything rash and perhaps fatal. In time he would prevail upon her to travel, to seek recreation, and then her youth would be bound to tell. That would be the work of a friend indeed, that would remove at least a part of the obligation which rested upon him. Some day, he reasoned, the Countess might even marry and be happy in spite of what had occurred. As he contemplated the idea, it began to seem less improbable. What if she should come to care for him? He would still be true to Martel, for how could he protect her better than by making her his wife? His heart leaped at the thought, but then his old self-disgust returned, reminding him that he had yet to prove himself a man.

As he stepped down from the train at San Sebastiano the station master met him with a telegram. Even before he opened it he guessed its contents, and his spirits sank. Was he never to escape these maddening questions of duty—never to be free to pursue his heart's desire?

It was a cablegram, and read:

"Come quickly.

"KENEAR."

He regarded it gravely for a moment, striving to balance his duty to Martel and the girl against his duty to his mother, but his hesitation was brief. He stepped into the little telegraph office with the mandarin-tree peering in at the open window and wrote his answer. He did not try to deceive himself; the mere fact that Dr. Kenear had been summoned from New Orleans showed as plainly as the message itself that his mother's condition was more serious than he had supposed. She was alone with many responsibilities upon her frail shoulders, and she was calling for her son. There was but one thing to do.

He stopped at the barracks to explain the necessity for his immediate departure to Colonel Neri, who was most sympathetic. "You are not needed here," the soldier assured him, "and you would have to go, even though you were. You made your statement at the inquest; there is nothing further for you to do until we accomplish the capture of somebody. Even then I doubt if you could identify any one of those bandits."

"I think I should know Narcone anywhere."

The Colonel shrugged. "Narcone has been swallowed by the earth. As for Cardi and the rest, they have become thin smoke and the wind has carried them away. We are precisely where we were at the start. Perhaps it is fortunate for you that you have not been called upon to testify against any of the band, for even the fact that you are a foreigner might not save you from—unpleasant results."

Norvin reasoned silently that if this were indeed true it more than confirmed his fears for the Countess, and after a brief hesitation he told the soldier what he had learned at his visit to Terranova. Neri rose and paced the room in agitation.

"Oh! She is mad indeed!" he exclaimed. "What can she do that we have not already done? Aliandro? Bah! He is a doddering old reprobate who will spread news instead of gather it. He has a bad record, and although he loved Martel and doubtless loves Margherita, I have no confidence in him whatever. She will accomplish nothing but her own undoing."

"I am afraid so, too. That is why I shall return to Sicily as soon as possible."

"Indeed? Then you plan to come back? Martel was fortunate to have so good a friend as you, Signore. We must both do all we can to prevent this folly on the part of his sweetheart. You may rest assured that I shall make every effort in your absence." The Colonel extended his hand, and Norvin took it, feeling some relief in the knowledge that there was at least one man close to the girl upon whose caution he could rely and upon whose good offices he could count. He had grown to like the soldier during their brief acquaintance, and the fact that Neri knew and appreciated the situation helped to reconcile him to the thought of going away.

He was not ready to leave Sicily, however, without one final appeal, and accordingly he stopped at Terranova on the following morning on his way to Messina, where a boat was sailing for Naples that night. But he found no change in the Countess; on the contrary, she told him gently but firmly that she had made up her mind once for all and that she would resent any further efforts at dissuasion.

"Won't you even wait until I return?" he inquired.

She shook her head and smiled sadly.

"Do not let us deceive ourselves, amico mio; you will not return."

"On the contrary, I shall. You make it necessary for me to return whether I wish to or not."

"The ocean is wide, the world moves. You are a foreigner and you will forget. It is only in Sicily that people remember."

"Will you give me time to prove you wrong?"

"I could not allow it. You have your own life to live; you have a multitude of duties. Martel, you see, was only your friend. But with me it is different. He was my lover; my life was a part of his and my duty will not let me sleep."

"You have no reason to say I will forget."

"It is the way of the world. Then, too, there is the other woman. You will see her. You will find a way, perhaps."

But he replied, doggedly, "I shall return to Sicily."

"When?"

"I can't tell. A month from now—two months at the longest."

"It would be very sweet to have you near," she said musingly, "for I am lonely, very lonely, and with you I feel at rest, at peace in a way. But something drives me, Signore, and I cannot promise. If you should not forget, if you should wish to join hands with me, then I should thank God and be very glad. But I sha'n't wish for it; that would be unfair."

His voice shook as he said, "I am going to prove to you that your life is not hopelessly wrecked, and to show you that there is something worth living for."

She laid her two cool hands in his and looked deeply into his eyes, but if she saw what lay in them she showed no altered feeling in her words or tone.

"Martel would be glad to have you near me, I am sure," she said, "but I shall only pray for your safety and your happiness in that far-off America. Good-by."

He kissed her fingers, vowing silently to devote his whole life to her, and finding it very hard to leave.



VII

THE SEARCH BEGINS



It was ten months later when Norvin Blake landed at Messina and took the morning train westward to Terranova. As he disposed his travelling-bags in a corner of the compartment, and settled himself for the short journey, he felt a kind of irrational surprise at the fact that there had been no changes during his absence. The city was just as dirty and uninteresting as when he had left, the beggars were just as ragged and importunate, the street coaches were just as rickety. It required an effort to realize that ten months is, after all, a very short time, for it seemed ten years since he had sailed away. It had been a difficult period for him, one crowded with many changes, readjustments, and responsibilities. He had gone far, he had done much, he had been pressed by cares and anxieties on every side, and even at the last he had willfully abandoned urgent duties, to his own great loss and to the intense disgust of his friends, in order to come back according to his promise. His return had been delayed from week to week, from month to month, in spite of all he could do, and meanwhile his thoughts had not been in America at all, but in Sicily, causing him to fret and chafe at the necessities which bound him to his post. Now, however, the day upon which he had counted had arrived; he had taken his liberty regardless of consequences, and no dusty pilgrim ever longed more fiercely for a journey's end. He was glad of the impression of sameness he had received, for it made him feel that there would be no great changes in Terranova.

He had learned little from the Countess during the interim, for she had been slow in answering his frequent letters, while her own had been brief and non-commital. They contained hardly a suggestion of that warmth and intimacy which he had known in her presence. Her last letter, now quite old, had added to this impression of aloofness and rendered him somewhat timid as the time for meeting her approached. He re-read it for the hundredth time as the train crawled out of the city—

"MY DEAR FRIEND,—Your good letter was very welcome indeed, and I thank you for your sympathetic interest in our affairs at Terranova, but since fate has shown in so many ways that your life lies in Louisiana, and not in Sicily, I beg of you to let things take their course and give up any idea of returning here. There is nothing that you can do, particularly since time has proved your fears for our safety to be groundless. It is kind and chivalrous of you to persist in offering to take that long journey from America, but nothing would be gained by it, absolutely nothing, I assure you, and it would entail a sacrifice on your part which I cannot permit.

"Very little of interest or of encouragement had occurred here, but I am working. I shall always work. Some day I shall succeed. Meanwhile we talk of you and are heartened by your friendship, which seems very close and real, despite the miles that separate us. We shall cherish it and the memory of your loyalty to Martel. Meanwhile, you must not feel bound by your promise to come back, which was not a promise, after all, but merely an unselfish offer. Once again I repeat, it would do no good, and might only disappoint you. Besides, I am hoping that you have seen the woman of whom you told me and that she will need you.

"We are all well. We have made no plans.

"Yours gratefully, MARGHERITA GININI"

It was certainly unsatisfying, but her letters had all been of this somewhat formal nature. She persisted, too, in referring to that imaginary woman, and Blake regretted ever having mentioned her. If Margherita suspected the truth, she could not help feeling his lack of delicacy, his disloyalty to Martel, in confessing his love while the Count was still alive; if she really believed him to be in love with some other woman, it would necessitate sooner or later an explanation which he dreaded. At all events, he hoped that the surprise of seeing him unexpectedly, the knowledge that he had really crossed the world to help her, would tend to dissipate her melancholy and restore her old responsiveness.

During the months of his absence the girl had never been out of his mind, and he had striven hard to reconcile his unconquerable love for her with the sense of his own unworthiness. His unforgivable cowardice was a haunting shame, and the more he dwelt upon it the more unspeakably vile he appeared in his own sight; for the Blakes were honorable people. The family was old and cherished traditions common to fine Southern houses; the men of his name prided themselves upon an especially nice sense of honor, which had been conspicuous even in a country where bravery and chivalrous regard for women are basic ideals. Having been reared in such an atmosphere, the young man looked upon his own behavior with almost as much surprise as chagrin. He had always taken it for granted that if he should be confronted with peril he would behave himself like a man. It was inexplicable that he had failed so miserably, for he had no reason to suspect a heritage of cowardice, and he was sound in mind and body. He loved Margherita Ginini with all his heart and his resolution to win her was stronger than ever, but he felt that sooner or later he would have to prove himself as manly as Martel had been, and, having lost faith in himself, the prospect frightened him. If she ever discovered the truth—and such things are very hard to conceal—she would spurn him: any self-respecting woman would do the same.

He had forced himself to an unflinching analysis of his case, with the result that a fresh determination came to him. He resolved to reconstruct his whole being. If he were indeed a physical coward he would deliberately uproot the weakness and make himself into a man. Others had accomplished more difficult tasks, he reasoned; thieves had made themselves into honest men, criminals had become decent. Why, then, could not a coward school himself to become brave? It was merely a question of will power, not so hard, perhaps, as the cure of some drug habit. He made up his mind to attack the problem coldly, systematically, and he swore solemnly by all his love for Margherita that he would make himself over into a person who could not only win but hold her. As yet there had been no opportunity of putting the plan into operation, but he had mapped out a course.

Terranova drowsed among the hills just as he had left it, and high up to the right, among the trees, he saw the white walls of the castello. As he mounted the road briskly a goat-herd, flat upon his back in the sun, was piping some haunting air; a tinkle of bells came from the hillside, the vines were purple with fruit. Women were busy in the vineyards gathering their burdens and bearing them to the tubs for the white feet of the girls who trod the vintage.

Nearing his goal, he saw that the house had an unoccupied air, and he found the big gates closed. Since no one appeared in answer to his summons, he made his way around to the rear, where he discovered Aliandro sunning himself.

"Well, Aliandro!" he cried. "This is good weather for rheumatism."

The old man peered up at him uncertainly, muttering:

"The saints in heaven are smiling to-day."

"Where are the Contessa Margherita and her aunt?"

"They are where their business takes them, I dare say. Ma che?"

"Gone to Messina, perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

"Visiting friends?"

"Exactly." Aliandro nodded. "They are visiting friends in Messina."

"I wish I had known; I just came from there. Will they return soon?" Blake's hopes had been so high, his disappointment was so keen, that he failed to notice the old man's lack of greeting and his crafty leer as he answered:

"Si, veramente! Soon, very soon. Within a year—five years, at the outside."

"What?"

"Oh, they will return so soon as it pleases them." He chuckled as if delighted at his own secrecy.

Norvin said sharply: "Come, come! Don't jest with me. I have traveled a long way to see them. I wish to know their whereabouts."

"Then ask some one who knows. If ever I was told, I have forgotten, Si'or. My memory goes jumping about like a kid. It is the rheumatism." 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? Look at me and tell me where your mistress has gone."

Aliandro arose and peered into his visitor's face, wagging his loose jaws excitedly.

"As God is my judge," he declared, finally, "I believe it is, Che Dio! Who would have expected to see you? Yes, yes! I remember as if it were yesterday when you came riding up with that most illustrious gentleman who now sits in Paradise. It is a miracle that you have crossed the seas so many times in safety."

"So! Now tell me what I want to know."

"They have gone."

"Where?"

"How do I know? Find Belisario Cardi—may he live a million years in hell! Find him, and you will find them also."

"You mean—"

"Find Belisario Cardi, that most infamous of assassins. My padrona has set out to say good morning to him. He may even now be on his way to purgatory."

Blake stared at the speaker, for he could not credit the words. Once more he asked:

"But where? Where?"

"Where, indeed? If I had known in time where this Cardi lived I would have knocked at his door some evening with the hilt of a knife. But he was never twice in the same place. He has the ears of a fox. So long as the soldiers went tramping back and forth he laughed. Then he must have heard something—perhaps it was Aliandro whetting his blade—at any rate he was gone in an hour, in a moment, in a second. Now I know nothing more."

"She took the Donna Teresa with her?"

"Yes, squealing like a cat. She is too old to be of use, but the Contessa could not leave her behind, I suppose."

Norvin felt some relief at this intelligence, reflecting that Margherita would hardly draw her aunt into an enterprise which promised to be dangerous. As he considered the matter further he began to doubt the truth of Aliandro's story, for the old fellow seemed half daft. Perhaps the Countess and her aunt were merely traveling and Aliandro had construed their trip into a journey of vengeance. He had doubtless spent all his time meditating upon the murder of his friend and benefactor, and that was a subject which might easily unbalance a stronger mind. Ten months had worked a change in Blake's viewpoint. When he left Sicily the idea of a girl's devoting her life to the pursuit of her lover's assassins had seemed to him extravagant, yet not wholly unnatural. Now it struck him as beyond belief that Margherita should really do this. Aliandro was continuing:

"It is work for young hands, Excellency. Old people grow weary and forget, especially women. Now that Lucrezia, she is a fine child; she can hate like the devil himself and she is as silent as a Mafioso. It was two months ago that they went away, and that angel of gold, that sweetest of ladies whom the saints are quarreling over, she left me sufficient money for the balance of my days. But I will tell you something, Excellency—a scandal to make your blood boil. She left that money with the notary. And now, what do you think? He gives me scarcely enough for tobacco! Once a week, sometimes oftener, I go down to the village and whine like a beggar for what is mine. A fine man to trust, eh? May he lie unburied! Sometimes I think I shall have to kill him, he is so hard-hearted, but—I cannot see well enough. If you should find him kicking in the road, however, you will know that he brought it upon himself. You are shocked? No wonder. He is a greater scoundrel than that Judas. Perhaps you—you are a great friend of the family—perhaps you might force the wolf to disgorge. Eh? What do you say? A word would do it. You will save his life in all probability."

"Very well, I'll speak to him, and meanwhile here is something to please you." Norvin handed the old ruffian a gold coin, greatly to his delight. "They have been gone two months and you have had no word?"

"Not a whisper. Once a week the notary comes up from the village to see that all is well with the house. Many people have asked me the same questions you asked. Some of them know me, and I know some who think I do not. They would like to trick me into betraying the whereabouts of the Contessa, but I lie like a lawyer and tell them first one thing, then another. Body of Christ! I am no fool."

When Norvin had put himself in possession of all that Aliandro knew he retraced his steps to the village, where the notary confirmed practically all the old man had said, but declared positively that the Countess and her admirable aunt were traveling for pleasure.

"What else would take them abroad?" he inquired. "Nothing! I have the honor to look after the castello during their absence and the rents from the land are placed in the bank at Messina."

"When do you expect them to return?"

"Privately, Signore, I do not expect them to return at all. That shocking tragedy preyed upon the poor child's mind until she could no longer endure Terranova. She is highly sensitive, you know; everything spoke of Martel Savigno. What more natural than for her to wish never to see it again? She consulted me once regarding a sale of all the lands, and only last week some men came with a letter from the bank at Messina. They were Englishmen, I believe, or perhaps Germans—I can never tell the difference, if indeed there is any. I showed them through the house. It would be a great loss to the village, however, yes, and to the whole countryside, if they purchased Terranova, for the Countess was like a ray of sunshine, like an angel's smile. And so generous!"

"Tell me—Cardi was never found?"

The notary shrugged his shoulders. "As for me, I have never believed there was such a person. Gian Narcone, yes. We all knew him, but he has not been heard from since that terrible night which we both remember. Now this Cardi, well, he is imaginary. If he were flesh and blood the carabinieri would certainly have caught him—there were enough of them. Per Baccho! You never saw the like of it. They were thicker than flies."

"And yet they didn't catch Narcone, and he's real enough."

"True," acknowledged the notary, thoughtfully. "I never thought of it in that light. Perhaps there is such a person, after all. But why has no one ever seen him?"

"Where is Colonel Neri?"

"He is stationed at Messina. Perhaps he could tell you more than I."

Dismayed, yet not entirely discouraged, by what he had learned, Blake caught the first train back to Messina and that evening found him at Neri's rooms. The Colonel was delighted to see him, but could tell him little more than Aliandro or the notary.

"Do you really believe the Countess left Sicily to travel?" Blake asked him.

"To you I will confess that I do not. We know better than that, you and I. She was working constantly from the time you left for America until her own departure, but I never knew what she discovered. That she learned more than we did I am certain, and it is my opinion that she found the trail of Cardi."

"Then you're not like the others. You still believe there is such a person?"

"Whether he calls himself Cardi or something else makes no difference; there has been an intelligence of a high order at work among the Mafiosi and the banditti of this neighborhood for many years. We learned things after you left; we were many times upon the verge of important discoveries; but invariably we were thwarted at the last moment by that Sicilian trait of secrecy and by some very potent terror. We tried our best to get to the bottom of this fear I mention, but we could not. It was more than the customary distrust and dislike of the law; It was a lively personal dread of some man or body of men, The fact that we have been working nearly a year now without result would indicate that the person at the head of the organization is no common fellow. No one dares betray him, even at the price of a fortune. I believe him to be some man of affairs, some well-fed and respected merchant, or banker, perhaps, the knowledge of whose identity would cause a commotion such as Etna causes when she turns over in her sleep."

"That was Ricardo's belief, you remember."

"Yes. I have many reasons for thinking he was right, but I have no proof. Cardi may still be in Sicily, although I doubt it. Gian Narcone has fled; that much I know."

"Indeed?"

"Yes! The pursuit became hot; we did not rest! I do not see, even yet, how we failed to capture him. We apprehended a number whom we know were in the band, although we have no evidence connecting them with that particular outrage. I think we will convict them for something or other, however; at any rate, we have broken up this gang, even though we have lost the two men we most desired. Narcone went to Naples. He may be there now, he may be in any part of Italy, or he may even be in your own America, for all I know. And this mysterious Cardi is probably with him. It is my hope that we have frightened them off the island for all time."

"And sent them to my country! Thanks! We're having trouble enough with our own Italians, as it is."

"You at least have more room than we. But now, before we go further, you must tell me about yourself, about your mother—"

Norvin shook his head gravely. "I arrived in time to see her, to be with her at the last, that is all."

"I am indeed full of sympathy," said Neri. "It is no wonder you could not return to Sicily as soon as you had planned."

"Everything conspired to hold me back. There were many things that needed attention, for her affairs had become badly mixed and required a strong hand to straighten them out. Yet all the time I knew I was needed here; I knew the Countess was in want of some one to lean upon. I came at the first opportunity, but—it seems I am too late. I am afraid, Neri—afraid for her. God knows what she may do."

"God knows!" agreed the soldier. "I pleaded with her; I tried to argue."

"But surely she can't absolutely disappear in this fashion. She will have to make herself known sooner or later."

"I'm not so certain. Her affairs are in good shape and Terranova is for sale."

"Doesn't the bank know her whereabouts?"

"If so, she has instructed them to conceal it."

"Nevertheless I shall go there in the morning and also to her cousins. Will you help me?"

"Of course!" Neri regarded the young man curiously for an instant, then said, "You will pardon this question, I hope, but since she has taken such pains to conceal herself, do you think it wise to—to—"

"To force myself upon her? I don't know whether it is wise or foolish; all I know is that I must find her. I must!" Blake met the older man's eyes and his own were filled with a great trouble. "You told me once that revenge and hatred are bad companions for a woman and that it would be a great pity if Margherita Ginini did not allow herself to love and be loved. I think you were right. I'm afraid to let her follow this quest of hers; it may lead her into something—very bad, for she has unlimited capabilities for good or evil. I had hoped to— to show her that God had willed her to be happy. You see, Neri, I loved her even when Martel was alive."

The Colonel nodded. "I guessed as much. All men love her, and there lies her danger. I love her, also, Signore. I have always loved her, even though I am old enough to be her father, and I would give my life to see her—well, to see her your wife. You understand me? I would help you find her if I could, but I am a soldier. I am chained to my post. I am poor."

"Jove! You're mighty decent," said the American with an odd breathlessness. "But do you think she could ever forget Martel?"

"She is not yet twenty."

"Do you think there is any possibility of my winning her? I thought so once, but lately I have been terribly doubtful."

"I should say it will depend largely upon your finding her. We are not the only good men who will love her. They sailed from here to Naples on the trail of Narcone; that much I believe is reasonably certain. I will give you a letter to the police there, and they will help you. It is possible that we excite ourselves unduly; perhaps you will have no difficulty whatever in locating her, but in the mean time we will do well to talk with her relatives and with the officials of the bank. I look for little help from those quarters, however."

Colonel Neri's misgivings were well founded, as the following day proved. At the bank nothing definite was known as to the whereabouts of the Countess. She had left instructions for the rents to be collected until Terranova was sold and then for all moneys to be held until she advised further. Her cousins were under the impression that she had taken her aunt to northern Italy for a change of climate and believed that she could be found in the mountains somewhere. Blake was not long in discovering that while the relations between the two branches of the family were maintained with an outward show of cordiality they were really not of the closest. Neri told him, as a matter of fact, that Margherita had always considered these people covetous and untrustworthy.

Having exhausted the clues at Messina, Norvin hastened to Naples and there took up his inquiry. He presented his letter, but the police could find no trace of the women and finally told him that they must have passed through the city without stopping, perhaps on their way to Rome. So to Rome he went, and there met a similar discouragement. By now he was growing alarmed, for it seemed incredible that a woman so conspicuous and so well known as the Countess of Terranova should be so hard to find unless she had taken unusual pains to hide her identity. If such were the case the search promised many difficulties. Nevertheless, he set about it energetically, sparing no expense and yet preserving a certain caution in order not to embarrass the Countess. He reasoned that if Cardi and Narcone had fled their own island they would be unlikely to seek an utterly foreign land, but would probably go where their own tongue was spoken; hence the Countess was doubtless in one of the Italian cities. When several weeks had been spent without result the young man widened the scope of his efforts and appealed to the police of all the principal cities of southern Europe.

Two months had crept by before word came from Colonel Neri which put an end to his futile campaign. The bank, it seemed, had received a letter from the Countess written in New York. It was merely a request to perform certain duties and contained no return address, but it sent Norvin Blake homeward on the first ship. Now that he knew that the girl was in his own country he felt his hopes revive. It seemed very natural, after all, that she should be there instead of in Europe, for Cardi and his lieutenant, having found Sicily too hot to hold them, had doubtless joined the tide of Italian emigration to America, that land of freedom and riches whither all the scum of Europe was floating. Why should they turn to Italy, the mother country, when the criminals of Europe were flocking across the westward ocean to a richer field which offered little chance of identification? It seemed certain now that Margherita had taken up the work in earnest; nothing less would have drawn her to the United States. Blake gave up his last lingering doubt regarding her intentions, but he vowed that if her resolve were firm, his should be firmer; if her life held nothing but thoughts of Martel, his held nothing but thoughts of her; if she were determined to hide herself, he was equally determined to find her, and he would keep searching until he had done so. The hunt began to obsess him; he obeyed but one idea, beheld but one image; and he cherished the illusion that once he had overtaken her his task would be completed. Only upon rare occasions did he realize that the girl was still unwon—perhaps beyond his power to win. He chose to trust his heart rather than his reason, and in truth something deep within him gave assurance that she was waiting, that she needed him and would welcome his coming.



VIII

OLD TRAILS



Mr. Bernard Dreux was regarded by his friends rather as an institution than as an individual. He was a small man, but he wore the dignity of a senator, and he possessed a pride of that intense and fastidious sort which is rarely encountered outside the oldest Southern families. He was thin, with the delicate, bird-like mannerisms of a dyspeptic, and although he was nearing fifty he cultivated all the airs and graces of beardless youth. His feet were small and highly arched, his hands were sensitive and colorless. He was an authority on art, he dabbled in music, and he had once been a lavish entertainer—that was in the early days when he had been a social leader. Now, although harassed by a lack of money which he considered degrading, he still mingled in good society, he still dressed elegantly, his hands were still white and sensitive, contrasting a little with his conscience, which had become slightly discolored and calloused. He no longer entertained, however, except by his wit; he exercised a watchful solicitude over his slender wardrobe, and his revenues were derived from sources so uncertain that he seemed to maintain his outwardly placid existence only through a series of lucky chances. But adversity had not soured Mr. Dreux; it had not dimmed his pride nor coarsened his appreciation of beauty; he remained the gentle, suave, and agreeably cynical beau. Young girls had been known to rave over him, despite their mother's frowns; fathers and brothers called him Bernie and greeted him warmly—at their clubs.

But aside from Mr. Dreux's inherited right to social recognition he was marked by another and peculiar distinction in that he was the half-brother and guardian of Myra Nell Warren. This fact alone would have assured him a wide acquaintance and a degree of popularity without regard to his personal characteristics.

While it was generally known that old Captain Warren, during a short and riotous life, had dashed through the Dreux fortune at a tremendous rate, very few people realized what an utter financial wreck he had left for the two children. There had been barely enough for them to live upon after his death, and inasmuch as Myra Nell's extravagance steadily increased as the income diminished, her half-brother was always hard pressed to keep up appearances. She was a great responsibility upon the little man's shoulders, particularly since she managed in all innocence and thoughtlessness to spend not only her own share of the income, but his also. He was many times upon the point of remonstrating with her, but invariably his courage failed him and he ended by planning some additional self-sacrifice to offset her expanding necessities.

The situation would have been far simpler had Bernie lacked that particular inborn pride which forbade him to seek employment. Not that he felt himself above work, but he recoiled from any occupation which did not carry with it a dignity matching that of his name. Since the name he bore was as highly honored as any in the State, and since his capabilities for earning a living were not greater than those of an eighteen-year-old boy, he was obliged to rely upon his wits. And his wits had become uncommonly keen.

The winter climate of New Orleans drew thither a stream of Northern tourists, and upon these strangers Mr. Dreux, in a gentlemanly manner, exercised his versatile talents. He made friends easily, he knew everybody and everything, and, being a man of leisure, his time was at the command of those travelers who were fortunate enough to meet him. He understood the good points of each and every little cafe in the foreign quarters; he could order a dinner with the rarest taste; it was due largely to him that the fame of the Ramos gin-fizz and the Sazerac cocktail became national. His grandfather, General Dreux, had drunk at the old Absinthe House with no less a person that Lafitte, the pirate, and had frequented the house on Royal Street when Lafayette and Marechal Ney were there. It was in this house, indeed, that he had met Louis Philippe. His grandson had such a wealth of intimate detail at his finger tips that it was a great pleasure and privilege to go through the French quarter with him. He exhaled the atmosphere of Southern aristocracy which is so agreeable to Northern sensibilities, he told inimitable stories, and, as for antiques, he knew every shop and bargain in the city. He was liberal, moreover, nay, ingenuous in sharing this knowledge with his new-found friends, even while admitting that he coveted certain of these bargains for his own slender collection. As a result of Mr. Dreux's knack of making friends and his intimate knowledge of art he did a very good business in antiques. Many of his acquaintances wrote him from time to time, asking him to execute commissions, which he was ever willing to do, gratuitously, of course. In this way he was able to bridge over the dull summer season and live without any unpleasant sacrifice of dignity. But it was at best a precarious means of livelihood and one which he privately detested. However, on the particular day in the summer of 1890 on which we first encounter him Mr. Dreux was well contented, for a lumber-man from Minneapolis, who had come South with no appreciation whatever of Colonial antiques, had just departed with enough worm-eaten furniture to stock a museum, and Bernie had collected his regular commission from the dealer.

Now that his own pressing necessities were taken care of for the moment, he began, as usual, to plan for Myra Nell's future. This would have required little thought or worry had she been an ordinary girl, but that was precisely what Miss Warren was not. The beaux of New Orleans were enthusiastically united in declaring that she was quite the contrary, quite the most extraordinary and dazzling of creatures. Bernie had led them to the slaughter methodically, one after another, with hope flaming in his breast, only to be disappointed time after time. They had merely served to increase the unhappy number which vainly swarmed about her, and to make Bernie himself the target of her satire. Popularity had not spoiled the girl, however; her attitude toward marriage was very sensible beneath the surface, and Bernie's anxious efforts at matchmaking, instead of relieving their financial distress, merely served to keep him in the antique business. Miss Warren loved admiration; she might be said to live on it; and she greeted every new admirer with a bubbling gladness which was intoxicating. But she had no appreciation of the sanctity of a promise. She looked upon an engagement to marry in the same light as an engagement to walk or dine, namely, as being subject to the weather or to a prior obligation of the same sort. Bernie was too much a gentleman to urge her into any step for which she was not ready, so he merely sighed when he saw his plans go astray, albeit confessing to moments of dismay as he foresaw himself growing old in the second-hand business. But a change had occurred lately, and although no word had passed between brother and sister, the melancholy little bachelor had been highly gratified at certain indications he had marked. It seemed to him that her choice, provided she really had chosen, was excellent; for Norvin Blake was certainly very young to be the president of the Cotton Exchange, he was free from any social entanglements, and he was rich. Moreover, his name had as many honorable associations as even Bernie's own. All in all, therefore, the little man was in an agreeable frame of mind to-day as he strolled up Canal Street, nodding here and there to his acquaintances, and turned into Blake's office.

He entered without announcing himself, and Norvin greeted him cordially. Bernie seldom announced himself, being one of those rare persons who come and go unobtrusively and who interrupt important conversations without offense.

"Do I find you busy?" he inquired, dropping into one of Blake's easy-chairs and lighting a perfumed cigarette.

"No. Business is over for the day. But I am glad to see you at any time; you're so refreshingly restful."

"How are the new duties and responsibilities coming on?"

"Oh, very well," said Blake, "Although I'm absurdly self-conscious."

"The Exchange needed new blood, I'm told. I think you are a happy choice. Opportunity has singled you out and evidently intends to bear you forward on her shoulders whether you wish or not. Jove! you have made strides! Let me see, you are thirty—"

"Two! This makes me look older than I am." Norvin touched his hair, which was gray, and Bernie nodded.

"Funny how your hair changed so suddenly. I remember seeing you four years ago at the Lexington races just after you returned from Europe the second time. You were dark then. I saw you a year later and you were gray. Did the wing of sorrow brush your brow?"

Blake shrugged. "They say fear will turn men gray."

Dreux laughed lightly. "Fancy! You afraid!"

"And why not? Have you never been afraid?"

"I? To be sure. I rather like it, too! It's invigorating—unusual. You know there's a kind of fascination about certain emotions which are in themselves unpleasant. But—my dear boy, you can't understand. We were talking about you the other night at the Boston Club after your election, and Thompson told about that affair you had with those niggers up the State, when you were sheriff. It was quite thrilling to hear him tell it."

"Indeed?"

"Oh, yes! He made you out a great hero. I never knew why you went in for politics, or at least why, if you went in at all, you didn't try for something worth while. You could have gone to the legislature just as easily. But for a Blake to be sheriff! Well, it knocked us all silly when we heard of it, and I don't understand it yet. We pictured you locking up drunken men, serving subpoenas, and selling widows' farms over their heads."

"There's really more to a sheriff's duties than that."

"So I judged from Thompson's blood-curdling tales. I felt very anaemic and insignificant as I listened to him."

"It doesn't hurt a gentleman to hold a minor political office, even in a tough parish. I think men ought to try themselves out and find what they are made of."

"It isn't your lack of exclusiveness that strikes one; it's your nerve."

"Oh, that's mostly imaginary. I haven't much, really. But the truth is I'm interested in courage. They say a man always admires the quality in which he is naturally lacking, and wants to acquire it. I'm interested in brave men, too; they fascinate me. I've studied them; I've tried to analyze courage and find out what it is, where it lies, how it is developed, and all about it, because I have, perhaps, a rather foolish craving to be able to call myself fairly brave."

"If you hadn't made a reputation for yourself, this sort of modesty would convict you of cowardice," Dreux exclaimed. "It sounds very funny, coming from you, and I think you are posing. Now with me it is wholly different. I couldn't stand what you have; why, the sight of a dead man would unsettle me for months and, as for risking my life or attempting the life of a fellow creature—well, it would be a physical impossibility. I—I'd just turn tail. You are exceptional, though you may not know it; you're not normal. The majority of us, away back in the woodsheds of our minds, recognize ourselves as cowards, and I differ from the rest in that I'm brave enough to admit it."

"How do you know you are a coward?"

"Oh, any little thing upsets me."

"Your people were brave enough."

"Of course, but conditions were different in those days; we're more advanced now. There's nothing refined about swinging sabers around your head like a windmill and chopping off Yankee arms and legs; nor is there anything especially artistic in two gentlemen meeting at dawn under the oaks with shotguns loaded with scrap iron." Mr. Dreux shuddered. "I'm tremendously glad the war is over and duels are out of fashion."

"Well, be thankful that antiques are not out of fashion. There is still a profit in them, I suppose?"

Dreux shook his head mournfully. "Not in the good stuff. I just sold the original sword of Jean Lafitte to a man who makes preserved tomatoes. It is the eighth in three weeks. The business in Lafitte sabers is very fair lately. General Jackson belt-buckles are moving well, too, not to mention plug hats worn by Jefferson Davis at his inauguration. There was a fabulous hardwood king at the St. Charles whom I inflamed with the beauties of marquetrie du bois. It was all modern, of course, made in Baltimore, but I found him a genuine Sinurette four-poster which was very fine. I also discovered a royal Sevres vase for him, worth a small fortune, but he preferred a bath sponge used by Louis XIV. I assured him the sponge was genuine, so he bought a Buhl cabinet to put it in. I took the vase for Myra Nell."

"Do you think Myra Nell would care to be Queen of the Carnival?" Norvin inquired.

"Care?" Bernie started forward in his chair, his eyes opened wide. "You're—joking! Is—is there any—" He relaxed suddenly, and after an instant's hesitation inquired, "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I say. She can be Queen if she wishes."

Dreux shook his head reluctantly. "She'd be delighted, of course; she'd go mad at the prospect, but—frankly, she can't afford it." He flushed under Blake's gaze.

"I'm sorry, Bernie. I've been told to ask her."

"I am very much obliged to you for the honor, and it's worth any sacrifice, but—Lord! It is disgusting to be poor." He prodded viciously with his cane.

"It is a great thing for any girl to be Queen. The chance may not come again."

Dreux made a creditable effort to conceal his disappointment, but he was really beside himself with chagrin. "You needn't tell me," he said, "but there is no use of my even dreaming of it; I've figured over the expense too often. She was Queen of Momus last year—that's why I've had to vouch for so many Lafitte swords and Davis high hats. If those tourists ever compare notes they'll think that old pirate must have been a centipede or a devilfish to wield all those weapons."

"I would like to have her accept," Blake persisted.

Bernie Dreux glanced at the speaker quickly, feeling a warm glow suffuse his withered body at the hint of encouragement for his private hopes. What more natural, he reasoned, than for Blake to wish his future wife to accept the highest social honor that New Orleans can confer? Norvin's next words offered further encouragement, yet awoke a very conflicting emotion.

"In view of the circumstances, and in view of all it means to Myra Nell, I would consider it a privilege to lend you whatever you require. She need never know."

Involuntarily the little bachelor flushed and drew himself up.

"Thanks! It's very considerate of you, but—I can't accept, really."

"Even for her sake?"

"If I didn't know you so well, or perhaps if you didn't know us so well, I'd resent such a proposal."

"Nonsense! Don't be foolish." Realizing thoroughly what this sacrifice meant to Miss Warren's half-brother, Norvin continued: "Suppose we say nothing further about it for the time being. Perhaps you will feel differently later."

After a pause Dreux said: "Heaven knows where these carnivals will end if we continue giving bigger pageants every year. It's a frightful drain on the antique business, and I'm afraid I will have to drop out next season. I scarcely know what to do."

"Why don't you marry?" Blake inquired.

"Marry?" Dreux smiled whimsically. "That lumber king had a daughter, but she was freckled."

"Felicite Delord isn't freckled."

Bernie said nothing for a moment, and then inquired quietly:

"What do you know about Felicite?"

"All there is to know, I believe. Enough, at any rate, to realize that you ought to marry her."

As Dreux made no answer, he inquired, "She is willing, of course?"

"Of course."

"Then why don't you do it?"

"The very fact that people—well, that I know I ought to, perhaps. Then, too, my situation. I have certain obligations which I must live up to."

"Don't be forever thinking of yourself. There are others to be considered."

"Exactly. Myra Nell, for instance."

"It seems to me you owe something to Felicite."

"My dear boy, you don't talk like a—like a—"

"Southern gentleman?" Blake smiled. "Nevertheless, Miss Delord is a delightful little person and you can make her happy. If Myra Nell should be Queen of the Mardi Gras it would round out her social career. She will marry before long, no doubt, and then you will be left with no obligations beyond those you choose to assume. Nobody knows of your relations with Felicite."

"You know," said the bachelor stiffly, "and therefore others must know, hence it is quite impossible. I'd prefer not to discuss it if you don't mind."

"Certainly. I want you to keep that loan in mind, however. I think you owe it to your sister to accept. At any rate, I am glad we had this opportunity of speaking frankly."

"Ah," said Bernie, suddenly, as if seizing with relief upon a chance to end the discussion, "I think I heard some one in the outer office."

"To be sure," exclaimed Blake. "That must be Donnelly. I had an appointment with him here which I'd forgotten all about."

"The Chief of Police? He's quite a friend of yours."

"Yes, we met while I was sheriff. He's a remarkably able officer—one of those men I like to study."

"Well, then, I'll be going," said Bernie, rising.

"No, stay and meet him." Blake rose to greet a tall, angular man of about Dreux's age, who came in without knocking. Chief Donnelly had an impassive face, into which was set a pair of those peculiar smoky-blue eyes which have become familiar upon our frontiers. He acknowledged his introduction to Bernie quietly, and measured the little man curiously.

"Mr. Dreux is a friend of mine, and he was anxious to meet you, so I asked him to stay," Norvin explained.

"If I'm not intruding," Bernie said.

"Oh, there's nothing much on my mind," the Chief declared. "I've come in for some information which I don't believe Blake can give me." To Norvin he said, "I remembered hearing that you'd been to Italy, so I thought you might help me out."

Mr. Dreux sat back, eliminated himself from the conversation in his own effective manner, and regarded the officer as a mouse might gaze upon a lion.

"Yes, but that was four years ago," Norvin replied.

"All the better. Were you ever in Sicily?"

Blake started. The sudden mention of Sicily was like a touch upon an exposed nerve.

"I was in Sicily twice," he said, slowly.

"Then perhaps you can help me, after all. I recalled some sort of experience you had over there with the Mafia, and took a chance."

The Chief drew from his pocket a note-book which he consulted. "Did you ever hear of a Sicilian named—Narcone? Gian Narcone?" 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."

Blake rose and began to pace his office while the others watched him curiously, amazed at his agitated manner and his evident effort to control his features. Neither of his two friends had deemed him capable of such an exhibition of feeling.

As a matter of fact, Norvin had grown to pride himself upon his physical self-command and above all upon his impassivity of countenance. He had cultivated it purposely, for it formed a part of his later training—what he chose to call his course in courage. But this sudden probing of an old wound, this unexpected reference to the most painful part of his life, had found him off his guard and with his nerves loose.

After his return from Europe he had set himself vigorously to the task of uprooting his cowardice. Realizing that his parish had always been lawless, it occurred to him that the office of sheriff would compel an exercise of whatever courage he had in him. It had been absurdly easy to win the election, but afterward—the memory of the bitter fight which followed often made him cringe. Strangely enough, his theory had not worked out. He found that his cowardice was not a sick spot which could be cauterized or cut out, but rather that it was like some humor of the blood, or something ingrained in the very structure of his nervous tissue. But although his lack of physical courage seemed constitutional and incurable, he had a great and splendid pride which enabled him to conceal his weakness from the world. Time and again he had balked, had shied like a frightened horse; time and again he had roweled himself with cruel spurs and ridden down his unruly terrors by force of will. But the struggle had burned him out, had calcined his youth, had grayed his hair, and left him old and tired. 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.

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. I had no idea you were familiar with the case. It's remarkable how these old trails recross."

"I—I know everything about the murder of Martel Savigno, for I saw it. I was there. He was my best friend. That is the story of which you read. That is why the mention of his name upset me, even after nearly five years."

Bernie Dreux uttered an exclamation and hitched forward in his chair. This new side of Blake's character fascinated him.

"If you will tell me the circumstances it will help me piece out my record," said the Chief, so Blake began reluctantly, hesitatingly, giving the facts clearly, but with a constraint that bore witness to his pain in the recital.

When he had finished, it was Donnelly's turn to show surprise.

"That is remarkable!" he exclaimed. "To think that you have seen Gian Narcone! D'you suppose you would know him again after four years?" He shot a keen glance at his friend.

"I am quite sure I would. But come, you haven't told me anything yet."

"Well, Narcone is in New Orleans."

"What?" Blake leaned forward in his chair, his eyes blazing.

"At least I'm informed that he is. I received a letter some time ago containing most of the information you've just given me, and stating that there are extradition papers for him in New York. The letter says that some of his old gang have confessed to their part in the murder and have implicated Narcone so strongly that he will hang if they can get him back to Sicily."

"I believe that. But who is your informant?"

"I don't know. The letter is anonymous."

A sudden wild hope sprang up in Blake's mind. He dared not trust it, yet it clamored for credence.

"Was it written by a—woman?" he queried, tensely.

"No; at least I don't think so. It was written on one of these new-fangled typewriting machines. I left it at the office, or you could judge for yourself."

"If it is typewritten, how do you know whether—"

"I tell you I don't know. But I can guess pretty closely. It was one of the Pallozzo gang. This Narcone—he calls himself Vito Sabella, by the way—is a leader of the Quatrones. The two factions have been at war lately and some member of the Pallozzo outfit has turned him up."

The light died out of Norvin's face, his body relaxed. He had followed so many clues, his quest had been so long and fruitless, that he met disappointment half-way.

Up to this moment Bernie Dreux had listened without a word or movement, but now he stirred and inquired, hesitatingly:

"Pardon me, but what is this Pallozzo gang and who are the Quatrones? I'm tremendously interested in this affair."

"The Pallozzos and the Quatrones," Donnelly explained, "are two Italian gangs which have come into rivalry over the fruit business. They unload the ships, you know, and they have clashed several times. You probably heard about their last mix-up—one man killed and four wounded."

"I never read about such things," Dreux acknowledged, at which the Chief's eyes twinkled and once more wandered over the little man's immaculate figure.

"You are familiar with our Italian problem, aren't you?"

"I—I'm afraid not. I know we have a large foreign population in the city—in fact, I spend much of my time on the other side of Canal Street—but I didn't know there was any particular problem."

"Well, there is, and a very serious one, too," Blake assured him. "It's giving our friend Donnelly and the rest of the city officials trouble enough and to spare. There have been some eighty killings in the Italian quarter."

"Eighty-four," said Donnelly. "And about two hundred outrages of one sort or another."

"And almost no convictions. Am I right?"

"You are. We can't do a thing with them. They are a law to themselves, and they ignore us and ours absolutely. It's getting worse, too. Fine situation to exist in the midst of a law-abiding American community, isn't it?" Donnelly appealed to Dreux.

"Now that will show you how little a person may know of his own home," reflected Bernie. "Has it anything to do with this Mafia we hear so much about?"

"It has. But the Mafia is going to end," Donnelly announced positively. "I've gone on record to that effect. If those dagos can't obey our laws, they'll have to pull their freight. It's up to me to put a finish to this state of affairs or acknowledge I'm a poor official and don't know my business. The reform crowd has seized upon it as a weapon to put me out of office, claiming that I've sold out to the Italians and don't want to run 'em down, so I've got to do something to show I'm not asleep on my beat. I've never had a chance before, but now I'm going after this Vito Sabella and land him. Will you look him over, Norvin, and see if he's the right party?"

"Of course. I owe Narcone a visit and I'm glad of this chance. But granting that he is Narcone, how can you get him out of New Orleans? He'll fight extradition and the Quatrones will support him."

"I'm blamed if I know. I'll have to figure that out," said the Chief as he rose to go. "I'm mighty glad I had that hunch to come and see you, and I wish you were a plain-clothes man instead of the president of the Cotton Exchange. I think you and I could clean out this Mafia and make the town fit for a white man to live in. If you'll drop in on me at eight o'clock to-night we'll walk over toward St. Phillip Street and perhaps get a look at your old friend Narcone. If you care to come along, Mr. Dreux, I'd be glad to have you."

Bernie Dreux threw up his shapely hands in hasty refusal. "Oh dear, no!" he protested. "I haven't lost any Italian murderers. This expedition, which you're planning so lightly, may lead to—Heaven knows what. At any rate, I should only be in the way, so if it's quite the same to you I'll send regrets."

"Quite the same," Donnelly laughed, then to Norvin: "If you think this dago may recognize you, you'd better tote a gun. At eight, then."

"At eight," agreed Blake and escorted him to the door.



IX

"ONE WHO KNOWS"



Norvin Blake dined at his club that evening, returning to his office at about half-past seven. He was relieved to find the place deserted, for he desired an opportunity to think undisturbed. Although this unforeseen twist of events had seemed remarkable, at first, he began to feel that he had been unconsciously waiting for this very hour. Something had always forewarned him that a time would come when he would be forced to take a hand once more in that old affair. Nor was he so much disturbed by the knowledge that Narcone, the butcher, was here in New Orleans as by the memories and regrets which the news aroused.

Entering his private office, he lit the gas, and flinging himself into an easy-chair, gave himself over to recollections of all that the last four years had brought forth. It seemed only yesterday that he had returned from Italy, hot upon the scent which Colonel Neri had uncovered for him. He had been confident, eager, hopeful, yet he had failed, signally, unaccountably. He had combed New York City for a trace of Margherita Ginini with a thoroughness that left no possible means untried. As he looked back upon it now, he wondered if he could ever summon sufficient enthusiasm to attack any other project with a similar determination. He doubted it. Later experience had bred in him a peculiar caution, a shrinking hesitancy at exposing his true feelings, due, no doubt, to that ever-present necessity of watching himself.

Margherita had never written him after her first disappearance; his own letters had been returned from Sicily; the police of New York had failed as those of Rome and Naples and other cities had failed. He had wasted a small fortune in the hire of private detectives. At last, when it was too late to profit him, he had learned that the three women had been in New York at the time of his arrival, but evidently they had become alarmed at his pursuit and fled. It was this which had forced him to give up—the certainty that Margherita knew the motive of his search and resented it. He had never quite recovered from the sting of that discovery, for he was proud, but he had grown too wise to cherish unjust resentment. It merely struck him as a great pity that their lives had fallen out in such unhappy fashion. He never tried to deceive himself into believing that he could forget her, become a new man, and banish the joy and the pain of his past, impartially. There were other women, it is true, who attracted him strongly, aroused his tenderness and appealed to his manhood—and among them Myra Nell Warren. His power of feeling had not been atrophied, rather it had become deeper. Yet his loyalty was never really impaired. In the bottom of his heart he knew that that tawny, slumbrous yet passionate Sicilian girl was his first and his most sacred love.

As he sat alone now, with the evidences of his accomplishment about him, he realized that in spite of his material success, life, so far, at least, had been just as stale and flat as it had promised to be on that night when he and Martel had ridden away from the feast at Terranova. He had made good, to his own satisfaction, in all respects save one, and even in that he had gained the form if not the substance, for the world regarded him as a man of proven courage. It seemed to him a grim and hideous joke, and he wondered what his friends would think if they knew that the very commonplace adventure planned for this evening filled him with a cringing horror. The prospect of this trip into the Italian quarter with the probability of encountering Narcone turned him cold and sick. His hands were like ice and the muscles of his back were twitching nervously; he could feel his heart pound as he let his thoughts have free play. But these symptoms were only too familiar; he had conquered them too many times to think of weakening.

After five years of intimate self-study he was still at a loss to account for his phenomenal cowardice. He wondered again to-night if it might not be the result of a too powerful imagination. Donnelly had no imagination whatever, and the same seemed true of others whom he had studied. As for himself, his fancies took alarm at the slightest hint and went careering off into all the dark byways of supposition, encountering impossible shapes and improbable dangers. Whatever the cause, he had long since given up hope of ever winning a permanent victory over himself and had learned that each trial meant a fresh battle.

When he saw by the clock that the hour of his appointment had come, he arose, although his body seemed to belong to some one else and his spirit was crying out a mad, panicky warning. He opened the drawer of his desk and, extracting a revolver, raised it at arm's-length. He drew it down before his eye until the sights crept into alignment, and held it there for a throbbing second. Then he smiled mirthlessly, for his hand had not shown the slightest tremor.