nt kind to the grey, striped prowlers of the forest.
He would, in fact, have seen Pierrebon, who after vainly trying to get
at Piero unobserved had determined to warn me, and succeeded with much
difficulty in making his way thus far.

Through the screen of the ivy Pierrebon watched us in the room, and
when I was alone he was about to step in at once, when he saw my
actions, and guessed that I too was on the alert.

"Good!" he thought, "he knows too. I had better wait here till I am
wanted. Ah! that is just the place!" Rising slowly, he climbed over
the parapet, and, with his arquebus ready, leaned up against the wall,
so that by moving his head slightly forward he could see into the room.

The night was warm and clear. A light breeze stirred the ivy, and
shook the leaves of the old lime, by whose aid Pierrebon had made his
ascent. Within I sat at the table, my cloak unclasped, now sipping my
wine, now gently touching with my finger the dark patch on my sleeve
near my shoulder. Without, Pierrebon stood on guard in the black
shadow. Down below, Piero began to sing, as only men of his country
can, and the deep bass voice, with all its liquid Italian words, pealed
melodiously into the night.

I listened, murmuring to myself: "Strange! Here is one who can sing of
his Alban hills and his Margarita one moment and cut a throat the next.
But here they come!"

For Trotto's voice had stopped the singer, and then I heard them coming
upstairs. The heavy step of Piero halted, however, in the passage, and
Trotto entered alone, rubbing his hands together as usual, his white
teeth shining between their setting of red lip and short black
moustache and beard. Of a truth Messire Torquato was a handsome man if
an evil one. He came in with a set smile on his face. "The ladies are
safely at rest, and----"

"And we can while away the time with this wine, some more supper, and a
little talk."

"But your wounds, monsieur! They must be attended to. I have told
Piero to bring up some salve and bandages."

"Bah!" I laughed, "let them keep. My wound, not wounds, is but a
scratch, and hurts far less than the one that lost you that
forefinger." And I pointed to his left hand, which wanted a forefinger.

The captain's eyes flashed, and he dropped his hand to his side, though
he said, calmly enough:

"I got that at Volterra. I was there with the Caraffa."

"And I with Enghien. You see, we were comrades-in-arms without know