The Net E-Book

Rex Beach

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

American Norvin Blake travels to the island of Sicily to attend the wedding of his good friend, Count Martel Savigno. However, the mafia appears in the story, which leads to tragic events on the night before the wedding. The main character has to find out who ordered the killer.

Leseprobe

Contents

Chapter 1. The Train From Palermo

Chapter 2. A Confession And A Promise

Chapter 3. The Golden Girl

Chapter 4. The Feast At Terranova

Chapter 5. What Waited At The Roadside

Chapter 6. A New Resolve

Chapter 7. The Search Begins

Chapter 8. Old Trails

Chapter 9. “One Who Knows”

Chapter 10. Myra Nell Warren

Chapter 11. The Kidnapping

Chapter 12. La Mafia

Chapter 13. The Blood Of His Ancestors

Chapter 14. The Net Tightens

Chapter 15. The End Of The Quest

Chapter 16. Quarantine

Chapter 17. An Obligation Is Met

Chapter 18. Belisario Cardi

Chapter 19. Felicite

Chapter 20. The Man In The Shadows

Chapter 21. Under Fire

Chapter 22. A Misunderstanding

Chapter 23. The Trial And The Verdict

Chapter 24. At The Feet Of The Statue

Chapter 25. The Appeal

Chapter 26. At The Dusk

Chapter 1. The Train From Palermo

The train from Palermo was late. Already long, shadowy fingers were reaching down the valleys across which the railroad track meandered. Far to the left, out of an opalescent sea, rose the fairy-like Lipari Islands, and in the farthest distance Stromboli lifted its smoking cone above the horizon. On the landward side of the train, as it reeled and squealed along its tortuous course, were gray and gold Sicilian villages perched high against the hills or drowsing among fields of artichoke and sumac and prickly pear.

To one familiar with modern Sicilian railway trains the journey eastward from Palermo promises no considerable discomfort, but twenty-five years ago it was not to be lightly undertaken–not to be undertaken at all, in fact, without an unusual equipment of patience and a resignation entirely lacking in the average Anglo-Saxon. It was not surprising, therefore, that Norvin Blake, as the hours dragged along, should remark less and less upon the beauties of the island and more and more upon the medieval condition of the rickety railroad coach in which he was shaken and buffeted about. He shifted himself to an easier position upon the seat and lighted a cheroot; for although this was his first glimpse of Sicily, he had watched the same villages come and go all through a long, hot afternoon, had seen the same groves of orange and lemon and dust-green olive-trees, the same fields of Barbary figs, the same rose-grown garden spots, until he was heartily tired of them all. He felt at liberty to smoke, for the only other occupant of the compartment was a young priest in flowing mantle and silk beaver hat.

Finding that Blake spoke Italian remarkably well for a foreigner, the priest had shown an earnest desire for closer acquaintance and now plied him eagerly with questions, hanging upon his answers with a childlike intensity of gaze which at first had been amusing.

“And so the Signore has traveled all the way from Paris to attend the wedding at Terranova. Veramente! That is a great journey. Many wonderful adventures befell you, perhaps. Eh?” The priest’s little eyes gleamed from his full cheeks, and he edged forward until his knees crowded Blake’s. It was evident that he anticipated a thrilling tale and did not intend to be disappointed.

“It was very tiresome, that’s all, and the beggars at Naples nearly tore me asunder.”

“Incredible! You will tell me about it?”

“There’s nothing to tell. These European trains cannot compare with ours.”

Evidently discouraged at this lack of response, the questioner tried a new line of approach.

“The Signore is perhaps related to our young Conte?” he suggested. “And yet that can scarcely be, for you are Inglese–”

“Americano.”

“Indeed?”

“Martel and I are close friends, however. We met in Paris. We are almost like brothers.”

“Truly! I have heard that he spends much time studying to be a great painter. It is very strange, but many of our rich people leave Sicily to reside elsewhere. As for me, I cannot understand it.”

“Martel left when his father was killed. He says this country is behind the times, and he prefers to be out in the world where there is life and where things progress.”

But the priest showed by a blank stare that he did not begin to grasp the meaning of this statement. He shook his head. “He was always a wild lad. Now as to the Signorina Ginini, who is to be his beautiful Contessa, she loves Sicily. She has spent most of her life here among us.”

With a flash of interest Blake inquired: “What is she like? Martel has spoken of her a great many times, but one can’t place much dependence on a lover’s description.”

“Bellissima!” the priest sighed, and rolled his eyes eloquently. “You have never seen anything like her, I assure you. She is altogether too beautiful. If I had my way all the beautiful women would be placed in a convent where no man could see them. Then there would be no fighting and no flirting, and the plain women could secure husbands. Beautiful women are dangerous. She is rich, too.”

“Of course! That’s what Martel says, and that is exactly the way he says it. But describe her.”

“Oh, I have never seen her! I merely know that she is very rich and very beautiful.” He went off into a number of rapturous “issimas!” “Now as for the Conte, I know him like a book. I know his every thought.”

“But Martel has been abroad for ten years, and he has only returned within a month.”

“To be sure, but I come from the village this side of San Sebastiano, and my second cousin Ricardo is his uomo d’affare–his overseer. It is a very great position of trust which Ricardo occupies, for I must tell you that he attends to the leasing of the entire estate during the Conte’s absence in France, or wherever it is he draws those marvelous pictures. Ricardo collects the rents.” With true Sicilian naivete the priest added: “He is growing rich! Beato lui! He for one will not need to go to your golden America. Is it true, Signore, that in America any one who wishes may be rich?”

“Quite true,” smiled the young man. “Even our beggars are rich.”

The priest wagged his head knowingly. “My mother’s cousin, Alfio Amato, he is an American. You know him?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“But surely–he has been in America these five years. A tall, dark fellow with fine teeth. Think! He is such a liar any one would remember him. Ebbene! Hewrote that there were poor people in America as here, but we knew him too well to believe him.”

“I suppose every one knows about the marriage?”

“Oh, indeed! It will unite two old families–two rich families. You know the Savigni are rich also. Even before the children were left as orphans it was settled that they should be married. What a great fortune that will make for Ricardo to oversee! Then, perhaps, he will be more generous to his own people. He is a hard man in money matters, and a man of action also; he does not allow flies to sit upon his nose. He sent his own daughter Lucrezia to Terranova when the Contessa was still a child, and what is the result? Lucrezia is no longer a servant. Indeed no, she is more like a sister to the Signorina. At the marriage no doubt she will receive a fine present, and Ricardo as well. He is as silent as a Mafioso, but he thinks.”

Young Blake stretched his tired muscles, yawning.

“I’m sorry Martel couldn’t marry in France; this has been a tedious trip.”

“It was the Contessa’s wish, then, to be wed in Sicily?”

“I believe she insisted. And Martel agreed that it was the proper thing to do, since they are both Sicilians. He was determined also that I should be present to share his joy, and so here I am. Between you and me, I envy him his lot so much that it almost spoils for me the pleasure of this unique journey.”

“You are an original!” murmured the priest, admiringly, but it was evident that his thirst for knowledge of the outside world was not to be so easily quenched, for he began to question his traveling companion closely regarding America, Paris, the journey thence, the ship which bore him to Palermo, and a dozen other subjects upon which his active mind preyed. He was full of the gossip of the countryside, moreover, and Norvin learned much of interest about Sicily and the disposition of her people. One phenomenon to which the good man referred with the extremest wonder was Blake’s intimacy with a Sicilian nobleman. How an American signore had become such a close friend of the illustrious Conte, who was almost a stranger, even to his own people, seemed very puzzling indeed, until Norvin explained that they had been together almost constantly during the past three years.

“We met quite by chance, but we quickly became friends–what in my country we call chums–and we have been inseparable ever since.”

“And you, then, are also a great artist?”

Blake laughed at the indirect compliment to his friend.

“I am not an artist at all. I have been exiled to Europe for three years, upon my mother’s orders. She has her own ideas regarding a man’s education and wishes me to acquire a Continental polish. My ability to tell you all this shows that I have at least made progress with the languages, although I have doubts about the practical value of anything else I have learned. Martel has taught me Italian; I have taught him English. We use both, and sometimes we understand each other. My three years are up now, and once I have seen my good friend safely married I shall return to America and begin the serious business of life.”

“You are then in business? My mother’s cousin, Alfio Amato, is likewise a business man. He deals in fruit. Beware of him, for he would sell you rotten oranges and swear by the saints that they were excellent.”

“Like Martel, I have land which I lease. I am, or I will be, a cotton-planter.”

This opened a new field of inquiry for the priest, who was making the most of it when the train drew into a station and was stormed by a horde of chattering country folk. The platform swarmed with vividly dressed women, most of whom carried bundles wrapped up in variegated handkerchiefs, and all of whom were tremendously excited at the prospect of travel. Lean-visaged, swarthy men peered forth from the folds of shawls or from beneath shapeless caps of many colors; a pair of carabinieri idled past, a soldier in jaunty feathered hat posed before the contadini. Dogs, donkeys, fowls added their clamor to the high-pitched voices.

Twilight had settled and lights were kindling in the village, while the heights above were growing black against a rose-pink and mother-of-pearl sky. The air was cool and fragrant with the odor of growing things and the open sea glowed with a subdued, pulsating fire.

The capo stazione rushed madly back and forth striving by voice and gesture to hasten the movements of his passengers.

“Partenza! Pronto!” he cried, then blew furiously upon his bugle.

After a series of shudders and convulsions the train began to hiss and clank and finally crept on into the twilight, while the priest sat knee to knee with his companion and resumed his endless questioning.

It was considerably after dark when Norvin Blake alighted at San Sebastiano, to be greeted effusively by a young man of about his own age who came charging through the gloom and embraced him with a great hug.

“So! At last you come!” Savigno cried. “I have been here these three hours eating my heart out, and every time I inquired of that head of a cabbage in yonder he said, “Pazienza! The world was not made in a day!’

“"But when? When?’ I kept repeating, and he could only assure me that your train was approaching with the speed of the wind. The saints in heaven–even the superintendent of the railway himself–could not tell the exact hour of its arrival, which, it seems, is never twice the same. And now, yourself? You are well?”

“Never better. And you? But there is no need to ask. You look disgustingly contented. One would think you were already married.”

Martel Savigno showed a row of even, white teeth beneath his military mustache and clapped his friend affectionately on the back.

“It is good to be among my own people. I find, after all, that I am a Sicilian. But let me tell you, that train is not always late. Once, seven years ago, it arrived upon the moment. There were no passengers at the station to meet it, however, so it was forced to wait, and now, in order to keep our good-will it always arrives thus.”

The Count was a well-set-up youth of an alert and active type, tall, dark, and vivacious, with a skin as smooth as a girl’s. He had an impulsive, energetic nature that seldom left him in repose, and hence the contrast between the two men was marked, for Blake was of a more serious cast of features and possessed a decidedly Anglo-Saxon reserve. He was much the heavier in build, also, which detracted from his height and robbed him of that elegance which distinguished the young Sicilian. Yet the two made a fine-looking pair as they stood face to face in the yellow glare of the station lights.

“What the deuce made me agree to this trip, I don’t know,” the American declared. “It was vile. I’ve been carsick, seasick, homesick–”

“And all for poor, lovesick Martel!” The Count laughed. “Ah, but if you knew how glad I am to see you!”

“Really? Then that squares it.” Blake spoke with that indefinable undernote which creeps into men’s voices when friend meets friend. “I’ve been lost without you, too. I was quite ashamed of myself.”

The Count turned to a middle-aged man who had remained in the shadows, saying: “This is Ricardo Ferara, my good right hand, of whom you have heard me speak.” The overseer raised his hat, and Blake took his hand, catching a glimpse of a grizzled face and a stiff mop of iron-gray hair. “You will see to Signore Blake’s baggage, Ricardo. Michele! Ippolito!” the Count called. “The carretta, quickly! And now, caro Norvin, for the last leg of your journey. Will you ride in the cart or on horseback? It is not far, but the roads are steep.”

“Horseback, by all means. My muscles need exercise.”

The young men mounted a pair of compact Sicilian horses, which were held by still another man in the street behind the depot, and set off up the winding road which climbed to the village above. Blake regretted the lateness of the hour, which prevented him from gaining an adequate idea of his surroundings. He could see, however, that they were picturesque, for San Sebastiano lay in a tiny step hewed out of the mountain-side and was crowded into one street overlooking the railway far below and commanding a view of the sea toward the Calabrian coast. As the riders clattered through the poorly lighted village, Blake saw the customary low-roofed houses, the usual squalid side-streets, more like steep lanes than thoroughfares, and heard the townspeople pronouncing the name of the Count of Martinello, while the ever-present horde of urchins fled from their path. A beggar appeared beside his stirrup, crying, “I die of hunger, your worship.” But the fellow ran with surprising vigor and manifested a degree of endurance quite unexampled in a starving man. A glimpse of these, and then the lights were left behind and they were moving swiftly upward and into the mountains, skirting walls of stone over which was wafted the perfume of many flowers, passing fragrant groves of orange and lemon trees, and less fragrant cottages, the contents of which were bared to their eyes with utter lack of modesty. They disturbed herds of drowsy cattle and goats lying at the roadside, and all the time they continued to climb, until their horses heaved and panted.

The American’s impressions of this entire journey, from the time of his leaving Paris up to the present moment, had been hurried and unreal, for he had made close connections at Rome, at Naples, and at Palermo. Having the leisurely deliberateness of the American Southerner, he disliked haste and confusion above all things. He had an intense desire, therefore, to come to anchor and to adjust himself to his surroundings.

As Martel chattered along, telling of his many doings, Blake noted that Ricardo and the man who had held the horses were following closely. Then, as the cavalcade paused at length to breathe their mounts, he saw that both men carried rifles.

“Why! We look like an American sheriff’s posse, Martel,” said he. “Do all Sicilian bridegrooms travel with an armed escort?”

Savigno showed a trace of hesitation. “The nights are dark; the country is wild.”

“But, my dear boy, this country is surely old enough to be safe. Why, Sicily was civilized long before my country was even heard of. All sorts of ancient gods and heroes used to live here, I am told, and I supposed Diana had killed all the game long ago.”

He laughed, but Savigno did not join him, and a moment later they were under way again.

After a brief gallop they drew up at a big, dark house, hidden among the deeper shadows of many trees, and in answer to Martel’s shout a wide door was flung back; then by the light which streamed forth from it they dismounted and made their way up a flight of stone steps. Once inside, Savigno exclaimed:

“Welcome to my birthplace! A thousand welcomes!” Seizing Norvin by the shoulders, he whirled him about. “Let me see you once. Ah! I am glad you made this sacrifice for me, for I need you above all men.” His eyes, though bright with affection, were grave–something unusual in him–and the other inquired, quickly:

“There’s nothing wrong, I hope?”

Savigno tossed his head and smiled.

“Wrong! What could be wrong with me now that you are here? No! All is quite right, but I have been accursed with lonesomeness. Something was lacking, It was you, caro mio. Now, however, I am the most contented of mortals. But you must be famished, so I will show you to your room at once. Francesca has provided a feast for us, I assure you.”

“Give me a moment to look around. So this is the castello? Jove! It’s ripping!”

Blake found himself in a great hall similar to many he had seen in his European wanderings, but ruder and older by far. He judged the castello to be of Norman build, but remodeled to suit the taste of the Savigni. To the right, through an open door, he saw a large room where a fat Sicilian woman was laying the table; to the left was a drawing-room lighted only by a fire of fagots in a huge, black fireplace, the furniture showing curiously distorted in the long shadows. Other rooms opened towards the rear, and he realized that the old place was very large. It was unkempt also, and showed the lack of a woman’s hand.

“You exaggerate!” said Savigno. “After Paris the castello will seem very mean. We Siciliani do not live in grand style, and, besides, I have spent practically no time here, since my father (may the saints receive him) left me free to wander. The place has been closed; the old servants have gone; it is dilapidated.”

“On the contrary, it’s just the sort of place it should be–venerable and overflowing with romance. You must rule like a medieval baron. Why, you could sell this woodwork to some millionaire countryman of mine for enough to realize a fortune.”

“Per Dio! If taxes are not reduced I shall be forced to some such expedient,” the Count laughed. “It was my mother’s home, it is my birthplace, so I love it–even though I neglect it. As you perceive, it is high time I took a wife. But enough! If you are lacking in appetite, I am not, and Francesca is an unbearable tyrant when her meals grow cold.”

He led his friend up the wide stairs and left him to prepare for supper.

*     *

*

“And so this ends it all,” said Blake, as the two young men lounged in the big, empty drawing-room later that evening. They had dined and gossiped as only friends of their age can gossip, had relived their adventures of the past three years, and still were loath to part, even for sleep.

“How so?” queried Savigno. “You speak of marriage as if it were dissolution.”

“It might as well be, so far as the other fellow is concerned.”

“Nonsense! I shall not change.”

“Oh, yes, you will! Besides, I am returning to America.”

“Even so, we are rich; we shall travel; we shall meet frequently. You will come to Sicily. Perhaps the Contessa and I may even go to America. Friendship such as ours laughs at the leagues.”

But Blake was pessimistic. “Perhaps she won’t like me.”

Martel laughed at this.

“Impossible! She is a woman, she has eyes, she will see you as I see you. More than that, I have told her that she must love you.”

“Then that does settle it! You have hung the crepe on our future intimacy, for good and all. She will instruct your cook to put a spider in my dumpling or to do away with me by some characteristic Sicilian method.”

Martel seemed puzzled by the Americanism of this speech, but Norvin merely smiled and changed to Italian.

“Do you really love her?” he asked.

“Of course! Since I was a boy so high I have known we would marry. She adores me, she is young, she is beautiful, she is–rich!”

“In Heaven’s name don’t use that tone in speaking of her wealth. You make me doubt you.”

“No, no!” The Count smiled. “It would be the same if she were a peasant girl. We shall be so happy–oh, there is no expressing how happy we intend being.”

“I’ve no doubt. And that makes it quite certain to end our comradeship.”

“You croak like a raven!” declared the Sicilian. “What has soured you?”

“Nothing. I am a wise young man, that’s all. You see, happiness is all-sufficient; it needs nothing to complete itself. It is a wall beyond which the owner does not care to wander, so, when you are quite happy with the new Countess, you will forget your friends of unmarried days.”

“Would you then have me unhappily married?”

“By no means. I am full of regrets at losing you, nothing more.”

“It is plain, then, that you also must marry. Is there no admirable American lady?”

“Any quantity of them, but I don’t care much for women except in an impersonal sort of way, or perhaps I don’t attract them. I might enjoy falling in love if it were not such a tedious process.”

“It is not necessarily tedious. One may love with the suddenness of an explosion. I have done so, many times.”

“I know you have, but you are a Sicilian; we go about such things in a dignified and respectable manner. Love is a serious matter with us. We don’t explode.”

“Yes. When you love, you marry; and you marry in the same way you buy a farm. But we have blood in our veins and lime in our bones. I have loved many women to distraction; there is only one whom I would marry.”

Ricardo entered at the moment, and the Count arose with a word of apology to his guest. He spoke earnestly with his overseer, but, as they were separated from him by the full width of the great room, Blake overheard no more than a word now and then. They were speaking in the Sicilian dialect, moreover, which was unfamiliar to him, yet he caught the mention of Ippolito, one of the men who had met him at the station, also of an orange-grove, and the word “Mafioso.” Then he heard Martel say:

“The shells for the new rifle–Ippolito is a bad shot–take plenty.”

When Ricardo had gone and the Count had returned to his seat, Norvin fancied he detected once more that grave look he had surprised in his friend’s countenance upon their arrival at the castello.

“What were you telling Ricardo about rifles and cartridges?” he inquired.

“Eh? It was nothing. We are forced to guard our oranges; there are thieves about. I have been too long away from Martinello.”

Later, as Norvin Blake composed himself to sleep he wondered idly if Martel had told him the whole truth. He recalled again the faint, grave lines that had gathered about the Count’s eyes, where there had never been aught but wrinkles of merriment, and he recalled also that word “Mafioso.” It conjured memories of certain tales he had heard of Sicilian outlawry and brigandage, and of that evil, shadowy society of “Friends” which he understood dominated this island. There was a story about the old Count’s death also, but Martel had never told him much. Norvin tried to remember what it was, but sleep was heavy upon him and he soon gave up.

Chapter 2. A Confession And A Promise

Norvin Blake slept soundly, as befitted a healthy young man with less than the usual number of cares upon his mind, and, notwithstanding the fact that he had retired at a late hour, somewhat worn by his journey, he awoke earlier than usual. Still lacking an adequate idea of his surroundings, he arose and, flinging back the blinds of his window, looked out upon a scene which set him to dressing eagerly.

The big front door of the hall below was barred when he came down, and only yielded to his efforts with a clanging which would have awakened any one except Martel, letting him out upon a well-kept terrace beneath which the hills fell away in majestic sweeps and curves to the coast-line far beneath.

It was a true Sicilian morning, filled with a dazzling glory of color, and although it was not early, from a countryman’s point of view, the dewy freshness had not entirely faded, and rosy tints still lingered in the valleys and against the Calabrian coast in the distance. An odor of myrtle and jessamine came from a garden beneath the outer terrace wall, and on either side of the manor rose wooded hills the lower slopes of which were laid out in vineyards and groves of citrus fruits.

Having in full measure the normal man’s unaffected appreciation of nature, Blake found himself wondering how Martel could ever leave this spot for the artificialities of Paris. The Count was amply able to live where he chose, and it was no love for art which had kept him in France these many years. On the contrary, they had both recognized the mediocrity of his talent and had often joked about it. It was perhaps no more than a youthful restlessness and craving for excitement, he concluded.

Knowing that his luxurious host would not be stirring for another hour, he set out to explore the place at his leisure, and in time came around to the stables and outhouses. It is not the front of any residence which shows its real character, any more than a woman’s true nature is displayed by her Sunday attire. Norvin made friends with a surly, stiff-haired dog, then with a patriarchal old goat which he found grazing atop a wall, and at last he encountered Francesca bearing a bundle of fagots upon her head.

She was in a bad temper, it appeared, for in answer to his cheerful greeting she began to revile the names of Ippolito and Michele.

“Lazy pigs!” she cried, fiercely. “Is it not sufficient that old Francesca should bare her bones and become a shadow with the cares of the household? Is it not sufficient that she performs the labor of twenty in caring for the padrone? No! Is it not the devil’s task to prepare the many outlandish delicacies he learned to eat in his travels? Yes! Ha! What of that! She must also perform the duties of an ass and bear wood for the fires! And what, think you, those two young giants are doing all the day? Sleeping, Si’or! Up all night, asleep all day! A fine business. And Francesca with a broken back!”

“I’ll carry your wood,” he offered, at which the mountainous old woman stared at him as if she did not in the least comprehend his words. Although her burden was enough to tax a man’s strength, she balanced it easily upon her head and made no move to go.

“And the others! May they all be blinded–Attilio, Gaspare, Roberto! The hangman will get them, surely. Briganti, indeed!” She snorted like a horse. “May Belisario Cardi roast them over these very fagots.” Slowly she moved her head from side to side while the bundle swayed precariously. “It is a bad business, Si’or. The padrone is mad to resist. You may tell him he is quite mad. Mark me, Ricardo knows that no good will come of it, but he is like a bull when he is angry. He lowers his head and sees blood. Veramente, it is a bad business and we shall all lose our ears.” She moved off majestically, her eyes rolling in her fat cheeks, her lips moving; leaving the American to speculate as to what her evil prediction had to do with Ippolito and the firewood.

He was still smiling at her anger when Ippolito himself, astride a horse, came clattering into the courtyard and dismounted stiffly, giving him a good morning with a wide yawn.

“Corpo di Baccho!” exclaimed the rider. “I shall sleep for a century.” He stretched luxuriously and, unslinging a gun from his shoulder, leaned it against the wall. Blake was surprised to find it a late model of an American repeating rifle. “Francesca!” he called loudly. “Madonna mia, I am famished!”

“Francesca was here a moment ago,” Norvin volunteered. “In a frightful temper, too.”

“Just so! It was the wood, I presume.” He scowled. “One cannot be in ten places unless he is in ten pieces. I am glad to be here, and not here and there.”

“Well, she wants you roasted by some fellow named Cardi–”

“Eh? What?” Ippolito started, jerking the horse’s head by the bridle rein, through which he had thrust his arm. “What is this?”

“Belisario Cardi, I believe she said. I don’t know him.”

The Sicilian muttered an oath and disappeared into the stable; he was still scowling when he emerged.

Prompted by a feeling that he was close to something mysterious, Blake tried to sound the fellow.

“You are abroad early,” he suggested.

But Ippolito seemed in no mood for conversation, and merely replied:

“Si, Signore, quite early.”

He was a lean, swarthy youth, square-jawed and well put up. Although his clothes were poor, he wore them with a certain grace and moved like a man who is sure of himself.

“Did you see any robbers?”

“Robbers?” Ippolito’s look was one of quick suspicion. “Who has ever seen a robber?”

“Come, come! I heard the Count and Ricardo talking. You have been away, among the orange-groves, all night. Am I right?”

“You are right.”

“Tell me, is it common thieves or outlaws whom you watch? I have heard about your brigands.”

“Ippolito!” came the harsh voice of Ricardo, who at that moment appeared around the corner of the stable. “In the kitchen you will find food.”

Ippolito bowed to the American and departed, his rifle beneath his arm.

Blake turned his attention to the overseer, for his mind, once filled with an idea, was not easily satisfied. But Ricardo would give him no information. He raised his bushy, gray eyebrows at the American’s question.

“Brigands? Ippolito is a great liar.”

Seeing the angry sparkle in the old fellow’s eyes, Norvin hastened to say:

“He told me nothing, I assure you.”

“Thieves, yes! We have ladri here, as elsewhere. Sometimes it is well to take precautions.”

“But Francesca was quite excited, and I heard you and Martel mention La Mafia last night,” Blake persisted. “I see you all go armed. I am naturally curious. I thought you might be in trouble with the society.”

“Children’s tales!” said Ricardo, gruffly. “There is no society of La Mafia.”

“Oh, see here! We have it even in my own country. The New Orleans papers have been full of stories about the Mala Vita, the Mafia, or whatever you choose to call it. There is a big Italian population there, you know, and they are causing our police a great deal of worry. I live in Louisiana, so I ought to know. We understand it’s an offshoot of the Sicilian Mafia.”

“In Naples I hear there is a Camorra. But this is Sicily. We have no societies.”

“Nevertheless, I heard you say something about “Mafioso’ last night,” Blake insisted.

“Perhaps,” grudgingly admitted the overseer. “But La Mafia is not a man, not a society, as you say. It is–” He made a wide gesture. “It is all Sicily. You do not understand.”

“No, I do not.”

“Very well. One does not speak of it. Would the Signore care to see the horses?”

“Thank you, yes.”

The two went into the stables together, and Blake for the time gave up the hope of learning anything further about Sicilian brigandage. Nor did Martel show any willingness to enlighten him when he tentatively introduced the subject at breakfast, but laughingly turned the conversation into another channel.

“To-day you shall see the star of my life,” he declared. “Be prepared to worship as all men do.”

“Assuredly.”

“And promise you will not fall in love.”

“Is that why you discouraged my coming until a week before your wedding? Really, if she is all you claim, we might have been such delightful enemies.”

“Enemies are never that,” said the Count, gravely.

“I know men in my country who cherish their enemies like friends. They seem to enjoy them tremendously, until one or the other has passed on to glory. Even then they are highly spoken of.”

“I am impatient for you to see her. She, of course, has many preparations to make, for the wedding-day is almost here; but it is arranged that we are to dine there to-night with her and her aunt, the Donna Teresa. Ah, Norvin mine, seven days separate me from Paradise. You can judge of my ecstasy. The hours creep, the moments are leaden. Each night when I retire, I feel faithless in allowing sleep to rob my thoughts of her. When I awake it is with the consolation that more of those miserable hours have crept away. I am like a man insane.”

“I am beginning to think you really are so.”

“Diamine! Wait! You have not seen her. We are to be married by a bishop.”

“No doubt that will insure your happiness.”

“A marriage like this does not occur every day. It will be an event, I tell you.”

“And you’re sure I won’t be in the way this evening?”

“No, no! It is arranged. She is waiting–expecting you. She knows you already. This morning, however, you will amuse yourself–will you not?–for I must ride down to San Sebastiano and meet the colonel of carabinieri from Messina.”

“Certainly. Don’t mind me.”

Martel hesitated an instant, then explained:

“It is a matter of business. One of my farm-hands is in prison.”

“Indeed! What for?”

“Oh, it is nothing. He killed a fellow last week.”

“Jove! What a peaceful, pastoral place you have here! I arrive to be met by an armed guard, I hear talk of Mafiosi, men ride out at night with rifles, and old women predict unspeakable evil. What is all the mystery?”

“Nonsense! There is no mystery. Do you think I would drag you, my best friend, into danger?” Savigno’s lips were smiling, but he awaited an answer with some restraint. “That would not be quite the–quite a nice thing to do, would it?”

“So, that’s it! Now I know you have something on your mind. And it must be of considerable importance or you would have told me before this.”

“You are right,” the Count suddenly declared, “although I hoped you would not discover it. I might have known. But I suppose it is better to make a clean breast of it now. I have enemies, my friend, and I assure you I do not cherish them.”

“The Countess Margherita is a famous beauty, eh? Well! It is not remarkable that you should have rivals.”

“No, no. This has nothing to do with her, unless our approaching marriage has roused them to make a demonstration. Have you ever heard of–Belisario Cardi?”

“Not until this morning. Who is he?”

“I would give much to know. If you had asked me a month ago, I would have said he is an imaginary character, used to frighten people–a modern Fra Diavolo, a mere name with which to inspire terror–for nobody has ever seen him. Now, however, he seems real enough, and I learn that the carabinieri believe in his existence.” Martel pushed back the breakfast dishes and, leaning his elbows upon the table, continued, after a pause: “To you Sicily is all beauty and peace and fragrance; she is old and therefore civilized, so you think. Everything you have seen so far is reasonably modern, eh?” He showed his white teeth as Blake assured him:

“It’s the most peaceful, restful spot I ever saw.”

“You see nothing but the surface. Sicily is much what she was in my grandfather’s time. You have inquired about La Mafia. Well, there is such a thing. It killed my father. It forced me to give up my home and be an exile.” At Norvin’s exclamation of astonishment, he nodded. “There’s a long story behind it which you could not appreciate without knowing my father and the character of our Sicilian people, for, after all, Sicilian character constitutes La Mafia. It is no sect, no cult, no secret body of assassins, highwaymen, and robbers, as you foreigners imagine; it is a national hatred of authority, an individual expression of superiority to the law.”

“In our own New Orleans we are beginning to talk of the Mafia, but with us it is a mysterious organization of Italian criminals. We treat it as somewhat of a joke.”

“Be not so sure. Some day it may dominate your American cities as it does all Sicily.”

“Still I don’t understand. You say it is an organization and yet it is not; it terrorizes a whole island and yet you say it is no more than your national character. It must have a head, it must have arms.”

“It has no head, or, rather, it has many heads. It is not a band. It is the Sicilian intolerance of restraint, the individual’s sense of superiority to moral, social, and political law. It is the freemasonry that results from this common resistance to authority. It is an idea, not an institution; it is Sicily’s curse and that which makes her impossible of government. I do not mean to deny that we have outlawry and brigandage; they are merely the most violent demonstrations of La Mafia. It afflicts the cities; it is a tyranny in the country districts. La Mafia taxes us with blackmail, it saddles us with a great force of carabinieri, it gives food and drink and life to men like Belisario Cardi. Every landholder, every man of property, contributes to its support. You still do not understand, but you will as I go along. As an instance of its workings, all fruit-growers hereabouts are obliged to maintain watchmen, in addition to their regular employees. Otherwise their groves will be robbed. These guards are Mafiosi. Let us say that one of us opposes this monopoly. What happens? He loses his crop in a night; his trees are cut down. Should he appeal to the law for protection, he is regarded as a weakling, a man of no spirit. This is but one small example of the workings of La Mafia; as a matter of fact, it permeates the political, the business, and the social life of the whole island. Knowing the impotence of the law to protect any one, peaceable citizens shield the criminals. They perjure themselves to acquit a Mafioso rather than testify against him and thus incur the certainty of some fearful vengeance. Should the farmer persist in his independence, something ends his life, as in my father’s case. The whole country is terrorized by a conspiracy of a few bold and masterful men. It is unbearable. There are, of course, Capi-Mafia–leaders–whose commands are enforced, but there is no single well-organized society. It is a great interlocking system built upon patronage, friendship, and the peculiar Sicilian character.”

“Now I think I begin to understand.”

“My father was not strong enough to throw off the yoke and it meant his death. I was too young to take his place, but now that I am a man I intend to play a man’s part, and I have served notice. It means a battle, but I shall win.”

To Martel’s hasty and very incomplete sketch of the hidden influences of Sicilian life Blake listened with the greatest interest, noting the grave determination that had settled upon his friend; yet he could scarcely bring himself to accept an explanation that seemed so far-fetched. The whole theory of the Mafia struck him as grotesque and theatrical.

“And one man has already been killed, you say?” he asked.

“Yes, I discharged all the watchmen whom I knew to be Mafiosi. It caused a commotion, I can tell you, and no little uneasiness among the country people, who love me even if, to them, I have been a more or less imaginary person since my father’s death. Naturally they warned me to desist in this mad policy of independence. A week ago one of my campieri, Paolo–he who is now in prison–surprised a fellow hacking down my orange-trees and shot him. The miscreant proved to be a certain Galli, whom I had discharged. He left a family, I regret to say, but his reputation was bad. Notwithstanding all this, Paolo is still in prison despite my utmost efforts. The machinery of the Mafia is in motion, they will perjure witnesses, they will spend money in any quantity to convict my poor Paolo. Heaven knows what the result will be.”

“And where does this bogey-man enter–this Belisario Cardi?”

“I have had a letter from him.”

“Really?”

“It is in the hands of the carabinieri, hence this journey of my friend, Colonel Neri, from Messina.”

“What did the letter say?”

“It demanded a great sum of money, with my life as the penalty for refusal. It was signed by Cardi; there was no mistaking the name. If it had been from Narcone, for instance, I would have paid no attention to it, for he is no more than a cattle-thief. But Belisario Cardi! My boy, you don’t appreciate the significance of that name. I should not care to fall into his hands, I assure you, and have my feet roasted over a slow fire–”

“Good heavens!” Norvin cried, rising abruptly from his chair. “You don’t really mean he’s that sort?”

“As a matter of fact,” the Count reassured his guest, “I don’t believe in his existence at all. It is merely a name to be used upon occasion. But as for the punishment, that is perhaps the least I might expect if I were so unfortunate as to be captured.”

“Why, this can’t be! Do you realize that this is the year 1886? Such things are not possible any longer. In your father’s time–yes.”

“All things are possible in Sicily,” smiled Savigno. “We are a century behind the times. But, caro mio, I did wrong to tell you–”

“No, no.”

“I shall come to no harm, believe me. I am known to be young, rich, and my marriage is but a few days off. What more natural, therefore, than for some Mafioso to try to frighten me and profit by the dreaded name of Cardi? I am a stranger here in my own birthplace. When I become better known, there will be no more feeble attempts at blackmail. Other landholders have maintained their independence, and I shall do the same, for an enemy who fears to fight openly is a coward, and I am in the right.”

“I am glad I came. I shall be glad, too, when you are married and safely off on your wedding journey.”

“I feared to tell you all this lest you should think I had no right to bring you here at such a time–”

“Don’t be an utter idiot, Martel.”

“You are an American; you have your own way of looking at things. Of course, if anything should happen–if ill-fortune should overtake me before the marriage–”

“See here! If there is the slightest danger, the faintest possibility, you ought to go away, as you did before,” Norvin declared, positively.

“I am no longer a child. I am to be married a week hence. Wild horses could not drag me away.”

“You could postpone it–explain it to the Countess–”

“There is no necessity; there is no cause for alarm, even. All the same, I feel much easier with you here. Margherita has relatives, to be sure, but they are–well, I have no confidence in them. In the remote possibility that the worst should come, you could look out for her, and I am sure you would. Am I right?”

“Of course you are.”

“And now let us think of something pleasanter. We won’t talk of it any more, eh?”

“I’m perfectly willing to let it drop. You know I would do anything for you or yours, so we needn’t discuss that point any further.”

“Good!” Martel rose and with his customary display of affection flung an arm about his friend’s shoulders. “And now Ricardo is waiting to go to San Sebastiano, so you must amuse yourself for an hour or two. I have had the billiard-table recovered, and the cushions are fairly good. You will find books in the library, perhaps a portfolio of my earlier drawings–”

“Billiards!” exclaimed the American, fervently, whereupon the Count laughed.

“Till I return, then, arrivederci!” He seized his hat and strode out of the room.

Chapter 3. The Golden Girl

Shortly after the heat of the day had begun to subside the two friends set out for Terranova. Ricardo accompanied them–it seemed he went everywhere with Martel–following at a distance which allowed the young men freedom to talk, his watchful eyes scanning the roadside as if even in the light of day he feared some lurking danger.

The prospect of seeing his fiancee acted like wine upon Savigno, and from his exuberant spirits it was evident that he had completely forgotten his serious talk at the breakfast table. His disposition was mercurial, and if he had ever known real forebodings they were forgotten now.

It was a splendid ride along a road which wound in serpentine twinings high above the sea, now breasting ridges bare of all save rock and spurge, and now dipping into valleys shaded by flowering trees and cloyed with the scent of blooms. It meandered past farms, in haphazard fashion, past vineyards and gardens and groves of mandarin, lime, and lemon, finally toiling up over a bold chestnut-studded shoulder of the range, where Blake drew in to enjoy the scene. A faint haze, impalpable as the memory of dreams, lay over the land, the sea was azure, the mountains faintly purple. A gleam of white far below showed Terranova, and when the American had voiced his appreciation the three horsemen plunged downward, leaving a rolling cloud of yellow dust behind them.

The road from here on led through a wild and somewhat forbidding country, broken by ravines and watercourses and quite densely wooded with thickets which swept upward into the interior as far as the eye could reach; but in the neighborhood of Terranova the land blossomed and flowered again as on the other side of the mountains.

Leaving the main road by a driveway, the three horsemen swung through spacious grounds and into a courtyard behind the house, where an old man came shuffling slowly forward, his wrinkled face puckered into a smile of welcome.

“Ha! Aliandro!” cried the Count. “What do I see? The rheumatism is gone at last, grazie Dio!”

Aliandro’s loose lips parted over his toothless gums and he mumbled:

“Illustrissimo, the accursed affliction is worse.”

“Impossible! Then why these capers? My dear Aliandro, you are shamming. Why, you came leaping like a goat.”

“As God is my judge, carino, I can sleep only in the sun. It is like the tortures of the devil, and my bones creak like a gate.”

“And yet each day I declare to myself: “Aliandro, that rascal, is growing younger as the hours go by. It is well we are not rivals in love or I should be forced to hate him!’ “ The old man chuckled and beamed upon Savigno, who proceeded to make Norvin known.

Aliandro’s face had once been long and pointed, but with the loss of teeth and the other mysterious shrinkages of time it had shortened until in repose the chin and the nose seemed to meet like the points of calipers. When he moved his jaws his whole countenance lengthened magically, as if made of some substance more elastic than flesh. It stretched and shortened rapidly now, in the most extraordinary fashion, for the Count had a knack of pleasing people.

“And where are the ladies?” Savigno inquired.

Aliandro cocked a watery eye at the heavens and replied:

“They will be upon the loggiato at this hour, Illustrissimo. The Donna Teresa will have a book.” He squinted respectfully at a small note which Martel handed him, then inquired, “Do you wish change?”

“Not at all. It is yours for your courtesy.”

“Grazie! Grazie! A million thanks.” The old fellow made off with surprising agility.

“What a sham he is!” the Count laughed, as he and Norvin walked on around the house. “He will do no labor, and yet the Contessa supports him in idleness. There is a Mafioso for you! He has been a brigand, a robber. He is, to this day, as you see. Margherita has an army of such people who impose upon her. Every time I am here I tip him. Every time he receives it with the same words.”

Although the country-seat of the Ginini was known as a castello, it was more in the nature of a comfortable and pretentious villa. It had dignity, however, and drowsed upon a commanding eminence fronted by a splendid terraced lawn which one beheld through clumps of flowering shrubs and well-tended trees. Here and there among the foliage gleamed statuary, and the musical purl of a fountain fell upon the ear.

As the young men mounted to the loggiato, or covered gallery, a delicate, white-haired Italian lady arose and came to meet them.

“Ah, Martel, my dear boy! We have been expecting you,” she cried.

It was the Donna Teresa Fazello, and she turned a sweet face upon Mattel’s friend, bidding him welcome to Terranova with charming courtesy. She was still exchanging with him the pleasantries customary upon first meetings when he heard the Count exclaim softly, and, looking up, saw him bowing low over a girl’s hands. Her back was half turned toward Norvin, but although he had not seen her features clearly, he felt a great surprise. His preconceived notion of her had been all wrong; It seemed, for she was not dark–on the contrary, she was as tawny as a lioness. Her hair, of which there was an abundance, was not the ordinary Saxon yellow, but iridescent, as if burned by the fierce heat of a tropical sun. The neck and cheeks were likewise golden, or was it the light from her splendid crown?

He was still staring at her when she turned and came forward to give him her hand, thus allowing her full glory to flash upon him.

“Welcome!” she said, in a voice as low-pitched as a cello string, and her lover, watching eagerly for some sign from his friend, smiled delightedly at the emotion he saw leap up in Norvin’s face. That young man was quite unconscious of Martel’s espionage–unconscious of everything, in fact, save the splendid creature who stood smiling at him as if she had known him all her days. His first impression, that she was all golden, all gleaming, like a flame, did not leave him; for the same warm tints that were in her hair were likewise present in her cheeks, her neck, her hands. It was like the hue which underlies old ivory. Her skin was clear and of unusual pallor, yet it seemed to radiate warmth. Something rich and vivid in her voice also lent strength to the odd impression she had given him, as if her very speech were gold made liquid. Except for the faintest tinge of olive, her cheeks were colorless, yet they spoke of perfect health, and shone with that same pale, effulgent glow, like the reflection of a late sun. Her lips were richly red and as fresh as a half-opened flower, affording the only contrast to that puzzling radiance. Her unusual effect was due as much perhaps to the color of her eyes as to her hair and skin, for while they were really of a greenish hazel they held the fires of an opal in their depths. They were Oriental, slumbrous, meditative, and the black pupils were of an exaggerated size. Her brows were dark and met above a finely chiseled nose.

All in all, Blake was quite taken aback, for he had not been prepared for such a vision, and a sort of panic robbed him of speech. But when his halting tongue had done its duty and his eyes had turned once more to the aunt, some irresistible power swept them back to the young woman’s face. The more he observed her the more he was puzzled by that peculiar effect, that glow which seemed to envelop her. Even her gown, of some shimmering material, lent its part to the illusion. Yellow was undeniably her color; she seemed steeped in it.

He had to make a determined effort to recover his composure.

Savigno fell quickly into a lover’s rhapsody, devouring the girl with ardent glances under which she thrilled, and soon they began to chatter of the wedding preparations.

“It was very good of you to come so long a way,” said the Countess at last, turning to the American for a second time. “Martel has told us all about you and about your adventures together.”

“Not all!” cried Savigno, lightly. “We have pasts, I assure you.”

“Martel tries so hard to impress us with his wickedness,” the aunt explained. “But we know him to be jesting. Perhaps you will confound him here before us.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” Blake laughed. “Who am I to rob him of a delightfully wicked past upon which he can pretend to look back in horror? It is the only past he will ever have, so why spoil it for him? On the contrary, I am prepared to lend a hand and to start him off with a list of damning disclosures which it will require years to live down.”

“Pray begin,” urged the Count with an air of intense satisfaction. “Eh? He hesitates. Then I shall begin for him. In the first place, Margherita, he openly declares that I covet your riches.”

The Countess joined in the laughter at this, and Norvin could only say:

“I had not met you then, Signorina.”

“He was quite serious, nevertheless, and predicted that marriage would end our friendship, arguing that supreme happiness is but another term for supreme selfishness.”