Mariano [starting slightly, drops a spoon noisily upon a plate on the table].  Pardon, Milor’!

Madame de Champigny [setting down her coffee abruptly].  A Russian?

Hawcastle [translating with difficulty].  “An escaped Russian bandit has been traced to Castellamare—­”

[Pauses.]

Mariano [awe-struck].  Castellamare—­not twelve kilometres from here!

Hawcastle [continuing]. “—­and a confidential agent”—­[looking up]—­secret-service man, I dare say—­“has requested his arrest.  But the brigand tore himself”—­[repeating slowly]—­“tore himself”—­What the deuce does that mean?

Mariano [bowing].  Pardon, Milor’—­if I might—­

Hawcastle.  Quite right, Mariano!

[Handing him the paper.]

Translate for us.

Mariano [reading rapidly, but with growing agitation which he tries to conceal].  “The brigan’ tore himself from the hands of the carabiniere and without the doubts he conceal himself in some of those grotto near Sorrento and searchment is being execute’.  The agent of the Russian embassy have inform’ the bureau that this escaped one is a mos’ in-fay-mose robber and danger brigand.”

Madame de Champigny [quickly].  What name does the journal say he has?

Mariano [hurriedly].  It has not to say.  That is all.  Will Milor’ and Madame la Comtesse excuse me?  And may I take the journal?  There is one who should see it.

Hawcastle [indifferently].  Very well.

Mariano.  Thank you, Milor’!

[Bows hastily and hurries out up left.]

Madame de Champigny [gravely, drawing back from the table.] I should like much to know his name.

Hawcastle [smiling, and eating composedly].  You may be sure it isn’t
Ivanoff.

Madame de Champigny [not changing her attitude].  How can one know it is not [pauses and speaks the name very gravely] Ivanoff?

Hawcastle [laughing].  He wouldn’t be called an infamous brigand.

Madame de Champigny [very gravely].  That, my friend, may be only Italian journalism.

Hawcastle.  Pooh!  This means a highwayman—­[finishes his coffee coolly]—­not—­not an embezzler, Helene.

Madame de Champigny [taking a deep breath and sinking back in her chair with a fixed gaze].  I am glad to believe it, but I care for no more to eat.  I have some foolish feeling of unsafety.  It is now two nights that I dream of him—­of Ivanoff—­bad dreams for us both, my friend.

Hawcastle [laughing].  What rot!  It takes more than a dream to bring a man back from Siberia.

Madame de Champigny.  Then I pray there has been no more than dreams.

[Music of mandolins and guitars heard off to the right with song—­“The Fisherman’s Song.”]