“’Twas her head, mostly,” said Patsy, giving her cousin an admiring hug; “she kept her wits while the rest of us were scared to death.”

Uncle John had been observing the Count.  One of the young man’s hands hung limp and helpless.

“Are you hurt, sir?” he asked.

Ferralti smiled, and his eyes rested upon Louise.

“A little, perhaps, Mr. Merrick; but it is unimportant.  The horses were frantic at the time and wrenched my wrist viciously as I tried to hold them.  I felt something snap; a small bone, perhaps.  But I am sure it is nothing of moment.”

“We’d better get back to Sorrento,” said Uncle John, abruptly.

“Not on my account, I beg of you,” returned Ferralti, quickly.  “We are half way to Amalfi now, and you may as well go on.  For my part, if the wrist troubles me, I will see a surgeon at Amalfi—­that is, if you permit me to accompany you.”

He said this with a defferent bow and a glance of inquiry.

Uncle John could not well refuse.  The young fellow might be a sham count, but the manliness and courage he had displayed in their grave emergency surely entitled him to their grateful consideration.

“You are quite welcome to join us,” said Uncle John.

The driver had by now repaired a broken strap and found his equippage otherwise uninjured.

The horses stood meekly quiescent, as if they had never known a moment’s fear in their lives.  So the girls and their uncle climbed into the vehicle again and the driver mounted the box and cracked his whip with his usual vigor.

The wind had subsided as suddenly as it had arisen, and as they passed through Positano—­which is four hundred feet high, the houses all up and down the side of a cliff like swallows’ nests—­big flakes of snow were gently falling around them.

Count Ferralti rode at the side of the carriage but did not attempt much conversation.  His lips were tight set and the girls, slyly observing his face, were sure his wrist was hurting him much more than he cared to acknowledge.

Circling around the cliff beyond Positano the sun greeted them, shining from out a blue sky, and they wondered what had become of the bad weather they had so lately experienced.

From now on, past Prajano and into Amalfi, the day was brilliant and the temperature delightful.  It was full noon by the time they alighted at the little gate-house of the ancient Cappuccini-Convento, now a hotel much favored by the tourist.  Count Ferralti promised to join them later and rode on to the town to find a surgeon to look after his injured hand, while the others slowly mounted the long inclines leading in a zigzag fashion up to the old monastery, which was founded in the year 1212.

From the arbored veranda of this charming retreat is obtained one of the finest views in Europe, and while the girls sat enjoying it Uncle John arranged with a pleasant faced woman (who had once lived in America) for their luncheon.