In a second Porter dashed up, in a frenzy of terror.  When he found Derby safe, his fright turned to rage, and he was impatient to put the prisoner into the hands of the carabinieri.  “Our friend Basso will make short work of him, I’m thinking!” he said grimly.

But Derby had no intention of making such a disposition of his prisoner.  “Not at all,” he said deliberately; “we will hand him over to Padre Filippo.  Priests are better for such creatures than police.  Come, help me tie up his head—­my shirt will do!” Suiting the action to his words, he pulled off his coat.  His shirt was scarlet!

“Great Heavens, man, why didn’t you say you were hit?” Porter gasped.

Derby looked down at his shirt and then quizzically at Porter.  “Funny,” he remarked indifferently; “I thought the bullet had only grazed my coat.  It can’t be much, as I didn’t even feel it; however, you might tie me up, too.”  He pulled off his shirt.  Porter tore it up and bound Derby’s shoulder.  Then together they made a bandage for the bandit’s head.

“He’s got an ugly mug!” said Porter, as he wiped the man’s face.  “By Jove—­it’s the brigand I noticed coming down on the boat!  I told you he looked like a cutthroat.”

“Your natural intuition for character?” Derby smiled, but the next minute added soberly enough:  “If he came from the mainland we must be up against a good deal more than the poor devils here!  Who the deuce can he be?  He’s no miner, that’s certain!”

They had dragged their prisoner out to the side of the road and laid him down.  And as Derby insisted, Porter rode off for the priest.  Derby sat near his charge, who showed no signs of returning consciousness.  His own shoulder ached now, and he gradually became aware of slight weakness.  He felt in his pockets for a flask, but found he had forgotten to carry one, so he lit his pipe instead, and fell to scrutinizing the man before him.  He was of small stature, but there was great endurance in the long, pointed nose, the strong, lantern jaw; and the face, sinister though it was, retained, even in unconsciousness, an expression of grim fortitude.  The more Derby studied the man, the more certain he became that he was no mere skulking coward.

At last Porter and the padre appeared over the hill.  No sooner had the priest caught sight of the prisoner than he exclaimed, “Per l’amor di Dio! It is Luigi Calluci!” There was added horror in his tone as he whispered, “Signore, Signore, he is the body servant of the Duca di Scorpa!”

At this even Derby started, but he said quite calmly, “Poor devil!  The question is, what will you do with him?”

“He must be put under the arrest——­”

“Well, naturally,” chimed in Porter.

But Derby interposed:  “He shall be put under nothing of the kind until he can give an account of himself.  There is no knowing what fancied grievance he may have against me.  Wait until he has been heard.  The question of punishment can be considered then.  But in the meantime he must be nursed!”