ed to sit up, but still he could not see
beyond.

There was now some delay, and Girasole gave some orders to his men.
The ladies waited with fearful apprehensions. They listened eagerly to
hear if there might not be some sounds of approaching help. But no
such sounds came to gladden their hearts. Lady Dalrymple, also, still
lay senseless; and Ethel, full of the direst anxiety about Hawbury,
had to return to renew her efforts toward reviving her aunt.

Before long the brigands who had been in pursuit of the fugitives
returned to the road. They did not bring back either of them. A
dreadful question arose in the minds of the ladies as to the meaning
of this. Did it mean that the fugitives had escaped, or had been shot
down in the woods by their wrathful pursuers? It was impossible for
them to find out. Girasole went over to them and conversed with them
apart. The men all looked sullen; but whether that arose from
disappointed vengeance or gratified ferocity it was impossible for
them to discern.

[Illustration: THE MELEE.]

The brigands now turned their attention to their own men. Two of these
had received bad but not dangerous wounds from the dagger of Dacres,
and the scowls of pain and rage which they threw upon Hawbury and the
other captives boded nothing but the most cruel fate to all of them.
Another, however, still lay there. It was the one who had intercepted
Dacres in his rush upon Girasole. He lay motionless in a pool of
blood. They turned him over. His white, rigid face, as it became
exposed to view, exhibited the unmistakable mark of death, and a gash
on his breast showed how his fate had met him.

The brigands uttered loud cries, and advanced toward Hawbury. He sat
regarding them with perfect indifference. They raised their rifles,
some clubbing them, others taking aim, swearing and gesticulating all
the time like maniacs.

Hawbury, however, did not move a muscle of his face, nor did he show
the slightest feeling of any kind. He was covered with dust, and his
clothes were torn and splashed with mud, and his hands were bound, and
his mouth was gagged; but he preserved a coolness that astonished his
enemies. Had it not been for this coolness his brains might have been
blown out--in which case this narrative would never have been written;
but there was something in his look which made the Italians pause,
gave Girasole time to interfere, and thus preserved my story from
ruin.

Girasole then came up and ma