In the midst of these reflections another noise arose below.  It was a steady tramp of two or three men walking.  The noise ascended the stairway, and drew nearer and nearer.  Hawbury turned once more, and saw two men entering the room, carrying between them a box about six feet long and eighteen inches or two feet wide.  It was coarsely but strongly made, and was undoubtedly intended as a coffin for the corpse of the brigand.  The men put the coffin down against the wall and retired.  After a few minutes they returned again with the coffin lid.  They then lifted the dead body into the coffin, and one of them put the lid in its place and secured it with half a dozen screws.  After this Hawbury was once more left alone.  He found this far more tolerable, for now he had no longer before his very eyes the abhorrent sight of the dead body.  Hidden in its coffin, it no longer gave offense to his sensibilities.  Once more, therefore, Hawbury turned his thoughts toward projects of escape, and discussed in his mind the probabilities for and against.

The day had been long, and longer still did it seem to the captive as hour after hour passed slowly by.  He could not look at his watch, which his captors had spared; but from the shadows as they fell through the windows, and from the general appearance of the sky, he knew that the close of the day was not far off.  He began to wonder that he was left so long alone and in suspense, and to feel impatient to know the worst as to his fate.  Why did not some of them come to tell him?  Where was Girasole?  Was he the chief?  Were the brigands debating about his fate, or were they thus leaving him in suspense so as to make him despondent and submissive to their terms?  From all that he had ever heard of brigands and their ways, the latter seemed not unlikely; and this thought made him see the necessity of guarding himself against being too impatient for freedom, and too compliant with any demands of theirs.

From these thoughts he was at last roused by footsteps which ascended the stairs.  He turned and looked toward the door.  A man entered.

It was Girasole.

He entered slowly, with folded arms, and coming about half-way, he stood and surveyed the prisoner in silence.  Hawbury, with a sudden effort, brought himself up to a sitting posture, and calmly surveyed the Italian.

“Well,” asked Hawbury, “I should like to know how long you intend to keep up this sort of thing?  What are you going to do about it?  Name your price, man, and we’ll discuss it, and settle upon something reasonable.”

“My price?” repeated Girasole, with peculiar emphasis.

“Yes.  Of course I understand you fellows.  It’s your trade, you know.  You’ve caught me, and, of course, you’ll try to make the best of me, and all that sort of thing.  So don’t keep me waiting.”

“Inglis milor,” said Girasple, with a sharp, quick accent, his face flushing up as he spoke—­“Inglis milor, dere is no price as you mean, an’ no ransom.  De price is one dat you will not wis to pay.”