As for this one"--with a gesture of
the hand towards Nat--"he was foolish. He tried to run away and warn
you."
"Then, signorina, let me promise, who know my father, that you will
not take him alive."
"I have sent three men."
"You had done better to send thirty; but even so you will not
succeed."
"I have heard tell," she said, again with a little movement of her
shoulders, "that all Englishmen are mad."
I laughed; and this laugh of mine had a singular effect on her.
She drew back and looked at me for an instant with startled eyes, as
though she had never heard laughter in her life before, or else had
heard too much.
"Tell me what you propose," she said.
"I propose to send down a message to my father, and one of your men
shall carry it with a white flag (for that he shall have the loan of
my handkerchief). I will write in Italian, that you may read and
know what I say."
"It is unnecessary."
"I thank you." I found in my pockets the stump of a pencil and a
scrap of paper--an old Oxford bill--and wrote--
"DEAR FATHER,
"We are prisoners, and Nat is wounded, but whether past help or
not I cannot say.
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