e road. Frank Harrogate jumped up
and ran across to help him, revolver in hand, but was astounded to hear
himself imperatively recalled by the raucous voice of his father, who
seemed to be in great agitation.

"I won't have it," said the banker in a choking voice; "I command you
not to interfere."

"But, father," said Frank very warmly, "an Italian gentleman has led the
way. You wouldn't have it said that the English hung back."

"It is useless," said the older man, who was trembling violently, "it is
useless. We must submit to our lot."

Father Brown looked at the banker; then he put his hand instinctively as
if on his heart, but really on the little bottle of poison; and a great
light came into his face like the light of the revelation of death.

Muscari meanwhile, without waiting for support, had crested the bank
up to the road, and struck the brigand king heavily on the shoulder,
causing him to stagger and swing round. Montano also had his cutlass
unsheathed, and Muscari, without further speech, sent a slash at his
head which he was compelled to catch and parry. But even as the two
short blades crossed and clashed the King of Thieves deliberately
dropped his point and laughed.

"What's the good, old man?" he said in spirited Italian slang; "this
damned farce will soon be over."

"What do you mean, you shuffler?" panted the fire-eating poet. "Is your
courage a sham as well as your honesty?"

"Everything about me is a sham," responded the ex-courier in complete
good humour. "I am an actor; and if I ever had a private character, I
have forgotten it. I am no more a genuine brigand than I am a genuine
courier. I am only a bundle of masks, and you can't fight a duel
with that." And he laughed with boyish pleasure and fell into his old
straddling attitude, with his back to the skirmish up the road.

Darkness was deepening under the mountain walls, and it was not easy to
discern much of the progress of the struggle, save that tall men were
pushing their horses' muzzles through a clinging crowd of brigands,
who seemed more inclined to harass and hustle the invaders than to kill
them. It was more like a town crowd preventing the passage of the police
than anything the poet had ever pictured as the last stand of doomed and
outlawed men of blood. Just as he was rolling his eyes in bewilderment
he felt a touch on his elbow, and found the odd little priest standing
there like a small Noah with a large hat, and requestin