“Of course,” was the prompt reply.  “In one case I pay it for a service rendered, and do it gladly.  On the other hand, I am robbed, and that goes against the grain.  Il Duca has finally decided to demand fifty thousand dollars.  It shall be yours, instead, if you give me your assistance.”

“Signore,” said the other, calmly, “I would like this money, and I regret that it is impossible for me to earn it.  But there is no means of escape from this place except by the passage through the rocks, which passage only three people know the secret of opening—­Il Duca himself, the child Tato, and the old Duchessa.  Perhaps Tommaso also knows; I am not certain; but he will not admit he has such knowledge.  You see, signore, I am as much a prisoner as yourself.”

“There ought to be some way to climb these cliffs; some secret path or underground tunnel,” remarked Uncle John, musingly.

“It is more than a hundred years since this valley was made secure by a brigand ancestor of our Duchessa,” was the reply.  “It may be two or three centuries ago, for all I know.  And ever since it has been used for just this purpose:  to hold a prisoner until he was ransomed—­and no such man has ever left the place alive unless he paid the price.”

“Then you cannot help me?” asked Uncle John, who was weary of hearing these pessimistic declarations.

“I cannot even help myself; for I may not resign my position here unless the Duke is willing I should go.”

“Good morning, doctor.”

The prisoner returned slowly toward the dwelling, with its group of outhouses.  By chance he found a path leading to the rear of these which he had not traversed before, and followed it until he came to a hedge of thickly set trees of some variety of cactus, which seemed to have been planted to form an enclosure.  Cautiously pushing aside the branches bordering a small gap in this hedge, Uncle John discovered a charming garden lying beyond, so he quickly squeezed himself through the opening and entered.

The garden was rudely but not badly kept.  There was even some attempt at ornamentation, and many of the shrubs and flowers were rare and beautiful.  Narrow walks traversed the masses of foliage, and several leafy bowers invited one to escape the heat of the midday sun in their shelter.  It was not a large place, and struck one as being overcrowded because so many of the plants were taller than a man’s head.

Uncle John turned down one path which, after several curves and turns, came to an abrupt ending beneath the spreading branches of an acacia tree which had been converted into a bower by a thick, climbing vine, whose matted leaves and purple blossoms effectually screened off the garden beyond.

While he stood gazing around him to find a way out without retracing his steps, a clear voice within a few feet of him caused him to start.  The voice spoke in vehement Italian, and came from the other side of the screen of vines.  It was sharp and garrulous in tone, and although Uncle John did not understand the words he recognized their dominating accent.