“Sacr-r-r-r-r-r-remento!” growled Girasole.

“I’m sure I don’t know what he means by telling me that,” said Minnie.  “How can I wait if this horrid Italian won’t let me?  I’m sure he might be more considerate.”

Poor Mrs. Willoughby, who had for a moment been roused to hope by the escape of the Baron, now fell again into despair, and wept and moaned and clung to Minnie.  Lady Dalrymple still lay senseless, in spite of the efforts of Ethel and the maids.  The occurrence had been more to her than a mere encounter with brigands.  It was the thought of her own carelessness that overwhelmed her.  In an instant the thought of the Baron’s warning and his solemn entreaties flashed across her memory.  She recollected how Hawbury had commended his friend, and how she had turned from these to put her trust in the driver and Girasole, the very men who had betrayed her.  These were the thoughts that overwhelmed her.

But now there arose once more the noise of rolling wheels, advancing more swiftly than the last, accompanied by the lash of a whip and shouts of a human voice.  Girasole spoke to his men, and they moved up nearer to the bend, and stood in readiness there.

What Hawbury’s motive was it is not difficult to tell.  He was not armed, and therefore could not hope to do much:  but he had in an instant resolved to rush thus into the midst of the danger.  First of all he thought that a struggle might be going on between the drivers, the other travelers, and the brigands; in which event his assistance would be of great value.  Though unarmed, he thought he might snatch or wrest a weapon from some one of the enemy.  In addition to this, he wished to strike a blow to save the ladies from captivity, even if his blow should be unavailing.  Even if he had known how matters were, he would probably have acted in precisely the same way.  As for Dacres, he had but one idea.  He was sure it was some trick concocted by his wife and the Italian, though why they should do so he did not stop, in his mad mood, to inquire.  A vague idea that a communication had passed between them on the preceding evening with reference to this was now in his mind, and his vengeful feeling was stimulated by this thought to the utmost pitch of intensity.

Hawbury thus lashed his horses, and they flew along the road.  After the first cry and the shot that they had heard there was no further noise.  The stillness was mysterious.  It showed Hawbury that the struggle, if there had been any, was over.  But the first idea still remained both in his own mind and in that of Dacres.  On they went, and now they came to the turn in the road.  Round this they whirled, and in an instant the scene revealed itself.

Three carriages stopped; some drivers standing and staring indifferently; a group of women crowding around a prostrate form that lay in the road; a pale, beautiful girl, to whom a beautiful woman was clinging passionately; a crowd of armed brigands with leveled pieces; and immediately before them a horseman—­the Italian, Girasole.