in English, reflecting
upon the Italian character, which she did not think fit to translate.

The carabineers were silent fellows with big moustaches--the one very
dark, the other as fair as a Swede--they were clean, strong, sober men,
with frank eyes, and they said very little. They asked the strangers'
names, and Johnstone, at Clare's request, wrote her name on his card,
and the address in Amalfi. One of them knew the carter for a bad
character.

"We will take care of him and his cart," said the dark man, who was the
superior. "The signori may go in quiet."

They untied the rope that bound the man. He rose trembling, and stood on
his feet, for he knew that he was in their power. But they showed no
intention of putting him in handcuffs.

"Turn the cart round!" said the dark man.

They helped the carter to do it, and blocked it with stones.

"Put in the mule!" was the next order, and the carabineers held up the
shafts while the man obeyed.

Then both saluted Johnstone and Clare, and shouldered their short
carbines, which had stood against the parapet.

"Forward!" said the dark man, quietly.

The carter took the mule by the head and started it gently enough. The
creature understood, and was glad to go down hill; the wheels creaked,
the cart moved, and the party went off, one of the carabineers marching
on either side.

Clare drew a long breath as she stood looking after them for a moment.

"Let us go home," she said at last, and turned up the road.

For some minutes they walked on in silence.

"I think you probably saved my life at the risk of yours, Miss Bowring,"
said Johnstone, at last, looking up. "Thank you very much."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the young girl, and she tried to laugh.

"But you were telling me that you were not combative--that you always
avoided a fight, you know, and that you were so mild, and all that. For
a very mild man, Mr. Johnstone, who hates fighting, you are a good 'man
of your hands,' as they say in the _Morte d'Arthur_."

"Oh, I don't call that a fight!" answered Johnstone, contemptuously.
"Why, my collar isn't even crumpled. As for my hands, if I could find a
spring I would wash them, after touching that fellow."

"That's the advantage of wearing gloves," observed Clare, looking at her
own.

They were both very young, and though they knew that they had been in
great danger they affected perfect indifference about it to each other,
after the manner of true Britons. But