“Well, yes; I suppose it won’t do any harm to have a look at the beggar.”

The driver alluded to was summoned, and soon made his appearance.  He was a square-headed fellow, with a grizzled beard, and one of those non-committal faces which may be worn by either an honest man or a knave.  Lady Dalrymple thought him the former; the Baron the latter.  The result will show which of these was in the right.

The driver spoke very fair English.  He had been two or three times over the road.  He had not been over it later than two years before.  He didn’t know it was dangerous.  He had never heard of brigands being here.  He didn’t know.  There was a signore at the hotel who might know.  He was traveling to Florence alone.  He was on horseback.

As soon as Lady Dalrymple heard this she suspected that it was Count Girasole.  She determined to have his advice about it.  So she sent a private request to that effect.

It was Count Girasole.  He entered, and threw his usual smile around.  He was charmed, in his broken English, to be of any service to miladi.

To Lady Dalrymple’s statement and question Girasole listened attentively.  As she concluded a faint smile passed over his face.  The Baron watched him attentively.

“I know no brigand on dissa road,” said he.

Lady Dalrymple looked triumphantly at the others.

“I have travail dissa road many time.  No dangaire—­alla safe.”

Another smile from Lady Dalrymple.

The Count Girasole looked at Hawbury and then at the Baron, with a slight dash of mockery in his face.

“As for dangaire,” he said—­“pouf! dere is none.  See, I go alone—­no arms, not a knife—­an’ yet gold in my porte-monnaie.”

And he drew forth his porte-monnaie, and opened it so as to exhibit its contents.

A little further conversation followed.  Girasole evidently was perfectly familiar with the road.  The idea of brigands appeared to strike him as some exquisite piece of pleasantry.  He looked as though it was only his respect for the company which prevented him from laughing outright.  They had taken the trouble to summon him for that!  And, besides, as the Count suggested, even if a brigand did appear, there would be always travelers within hearing.

Both Hawbury and the Baron felt humiliated, especially the latter; and Girasole certainly had the best of it on that occasion, whatever his lot had been at other times.

The Count withdrew.  The Baron followed, in company with Hawbury.  He was deeply dejected.  First of all, he had hoped to see Minnie.  Then he hoped to frighten the party back.  As to the brigands, he was in most serious earnest.  All that he said he believed.  He could not understand the driver and Count Girasole.  The former he might consider a scoundrel; but why should Girasole mislead?  And yet he believed that he was right.  As for Hawbury, he didn’t believe much in the brigands, but he did believe in his friend, and he didn’t think much of Girasole.  He was sorry for his friend, yet didn’t know whether he wanted the party to turn back or not.  His one trouble was Dacres, who now was watching the Italian like a blood-hound, who had seen him, no doubt, go up to the ladies, and, of course, would suppose that Mrs. Willoughby had sent for him.