sping his hands in a gesture of vain
entreaty.

"Listen, Lugui!" his mother called to him, in a dear, high voice. "This
is the child that has come between us and turned you from a man into a
coward. Here alone is the cause of our troubles. Behold! I will remove
it forever from our path."

With the words she lifted Tato high above her head and turned toward the
pit--that terrible cleft in the rocks which was believed to have no
bottom.

At her first movement Tommaso had raised his gun, and the Duke,
perceiving this, called to him in an agonized voice to fire. But either
the brigand wavered between his loyalty to the Duke or the Duchessa, or
he feared to injure Tato, for he hesitated to obey and the moments were
precious.

The child's fate hung in the balance when Ferralti snatched the weapon
from the brigand's hands and fired it so hastily that he scarcely seemed
to take aim.

A wild cry echoed the shot. The woman collapsed and fell, dropping Tato
at her feet, where they both tottered at the edge of the pit. The child,
however, clung desperately to the outer edge of the flat stone, while
the Duchessa's inert form seemed to hesitate for an instant and then
disappeared from view.

Tommaso ran forward and caught up the child, returning slowly along the
path to place it in the father's arms. Ferralti was looking vaguely from
the weapon he held to the pit, and then back again, as if not fully
understanding what he had done.

"Thank you, signore," said the Duke, brokenly, "for saving my precious
child."

"But I have slain your mother!" cried the young man, horrified.

"The obligation is even," replied the duke. "She was also your
grandmother."

Ferralti stood motionless, his face working convulsively, his tongue
refusing to utter a sound.

"But he did not shoot my grandmother at all," said Tato, who was sobbing
against her father's breast; "for I heard the bullet strike the rock
beside us. My grandmother's strength gave way, and she fainted. It was
that that saved me, padre mia."

CHAPTER XXII

NEWS AT LAST

Kenneth Forbes had always been an unusual boy. He had grown up in an
unfriendly atmosphere, unloved and uncared for, and resented this
neglect with all the force of his impetuous nature. He had hated Aunt
Jane, and regarded her as cruel and selfish--a fair estimate of her
character--until Aunt Jane's nieces taught him to be more considerate
and forgiving. Patricia, especially, had exercised a g