On the following morning they started at an early hour.  Girasole left about half an hour after them, and passed them a few miles along the road.  The Baron and the Reverend Saul left next; and last of all came Hawbury and Dacres.  The latter was, if possible, more gloomy and vengeful than ever.  The visit of the Italian on the preceding evening was fully believed by him to be a scheme of his wife’s.  Nor could any amount of persuasion or vehement statement on Hawbury’s part in any way shake his belief.

“No,” he would say, “you don’t understand.  Depend upon it, she got him up there to feast her eyes on him.  Depend upon it, she managed to get some note from him, and pass one to him in return.  He had only to run it under the leaf of a table, or stick it inside of some book:  no doubt they have it all arranged, and pass their infernal love-letters backward and forward.  But I’ll soon have a chance.  My time is coming.  It’s near, too.  I’ll have my vengeance; and then for all the wrongs of all my life that demon of a woman shall pay me dear!”

To all of which Hawbury had nothing to say.  He could say nothing; he could do nothing.  He could only stand by his friend, go with him, and watch over him, hoping to avert the crisis which he dreaded, or, if it did come, to lessen the danger of his friend.

The morning was clear and beautiful.  The road wound among the hills.  The party went in the order above mentioned.

First, Girasole, on horseback.

Next, and two miles at least behind, came the two carriages with the ladies and their maids.

Third, and half a mile behind these, came the Baron and the Reverend Saul.

Last of all, and half a mile behind the Baron, came Hawbury and Scone Dacres.

These last drove along at about this distance.  The scenery around grew grander, and the mountains higher.  The road was smooth and well constructed, and the carriage rolled along with an easy, comfortable rumble.

They were driving up a slope which wound along the side of a hill.  At the top of the hill trees appeared on each side, and the road made a sharp turn here.

Suddenly the report of a shot sounded ahead.

Then a scream.

“Good Lord!  Dacres, did you hear that?” cried Hawbury.  “The Baron was right, after all.”

The driver here tried to stop his horses, but Hawbury would not let him.

“Have you a pistol, Dacres?”

“No.”

“Get out!” he shouted to the driver; and, kicking him out of the seat, he seized the reins himself, and drove the horses straight forward to where the noise arose.

“It’s the brigands, Dacres.  The ladies are there.”

“My wife!  O God! my wife!” groaned Dacres.  But a minute before he had been cursing her.

“Get a knife!  Get something, man!  Have a fight for it!”

Dacres murmured something.

Hawbury lashed the horses, and drove them straight toward the wood.