“The sooner the better,” declared Ferralti.

They sat for a time in silence, each busy with his thoughts.

“Go to your grandmother, Tato,” said the Duke, “and try to make your peace with her.  If she is too angry, do not remain.  To-morrow you must go into town with letters from these gentlemen to their friends.”

The child kissed him and went obediently to do his will.  Then the brigand spoke to Tommaso, who brought writing material from the house and placed it upon a small table.

Uncle John, without further demur, sat down to write.  The Duke dictated what he should say, although he was allowed to express the words in his own characteristic style, and he followed his instructions implicitly, secretly admiring the shrewdness of the brigand’s methods.

It was now Ferralti’s turn.  He had just seated himself at the table and taken the pen when they were startled by a shrill scream from the rear of the house.  It was followed by another, and another, in quick succession.

It was Tato’s voice, and the duke gave an answering cry and sprang from the veranda to dart quickly around the corner of the house.  Uncle John followed him, nearly as fearful as the child’s father.

Tommaso seized a short rifle that stood near and ran around the house in the other direction, when Ferralti, who for a moment had seemed dazed by the interruption, followed Tommaso rather than the others.

As they came to the rear they were amazed to see the old Duchessa, whom they had known to be feeble and dependent upon her women, rush through the garden hedge with the agility of a man, bearing in her arms the struggling form of little Tato.

The child screamed pitifully, but the woman glared upon Tommaso and Ferralti, as she passed them, with the ferocity of a tiger.

“She is mad!” cried Ferralti.  “Quick, Tommaso; let us follow her.”

The brigand bounded forward, with the young man scarce a pace behind him.  The woman, running with wonderful speed in spite of her burden, began to ascend a narrow path leading up the face of a rugged cliff.

A yell of anguish from behind for a moment arrested Ferralti’s rapid pursuit.  Glancing back he saw the Duke running frantically toward them, at the same time waving his arms high above his head.

“The pit!” he shouted.  “She is making for the pit.  Stop her, for the love of God!”

Ferralti understood, and dashed forward again at full speed.  Tommaso also understood, for his face was white and he muttered terrible oaths as he pressed on.  Yet run as they might, the mad duchessa was inspired with a strength so superhuman that she kept well in advance.

But the narrow path ended half way up the cliff.  It ended at a deep chasm in the rocks, the edge of which was protected by a large flat stone, like the curb of a well.

With a final leap the old woman gained this stone, and while the dreadful pit yawned at her feet she turned, and with a demoniacal laugh faced her pursuers, hugging the child close to her breast.