Thinking all this must be merely the creation of his brain, he raised himself on his elbow and made a careful survey of the room.  There was no doubt that he was in a good bed, covered by a thick new quilt, and the walls were cleanly white-washed.  The air held none of the foul and strangling odors which never had been, and never could be, forgotten.  That his brother had moved and had become a well-to-do peasant of the mountain slopes and vineyards was the only explanation possible.  He tried to get out of bed, but fell back dizzy, and his mind wandered off again to the semi-conscious vagaries of illness.

In this state of mind, he had become used to a new presence—­a very big, very kind personality that hauntingly resembled the Americano—­it was, of course, one of those phantoms that appear before fevered imaginations.  He realized that, and now he made an effort to detach the dream from the reality.

But even as he was trying to put his thoughts in order, the door opened—­and he vividly saw the figure of his vision followed by his sister-in-law.  Thinking that his mind was wandering, he lay quite still.  Then he heard a kindly voice saying, “I have brought soup for him with me—­in this jar.  You have only to heat it.”

Luigi felt a strong hand clasp his wrist and feel for his pulse.  Then came the full belief that this was no dream, but reality, and that it was the Tyrant, the Americano himself, who laid hands on him.  With a frantic effort he sprang up and tried to close his fingers around his enemy’s throat!  But firm, powerful hands gripped his shoulders and forced him quietly down in his bed.  Then he lost consciousness.

When he came to, he thought he had dreamed the whole occurrence.  His brother and Padre Filippo were sitting beside him, and they would not let him talk.  But gradually, as his strength returned, he took in the story.  From his brother, from the neighbors, from the priest most of all, he heard, bit by bit, of the work that the Americano had accomplished—­the Americano whom he, Luigi, had nearly slain.  Slowly, slowly, he understood that the “Little Devil” mine had been re-christened “The Paradise”—­not by the nobles who owned it, but by the people who worked in it.  And then little by little the resentment, the bitterness, the grievances of his long, hard life turned him against the Duke Scorpa just as his realization of what Derby was doing won him over to the American.

That Scorpa should have sent a man to stab him was, curiously enough, a fact that did not seem to trouble Derby in the least.  It was, after all, no more than he might have expected.  Before he had left Rome, Scorpa had warned him.  He rather admired him for that.

Derby was heart and soul interested in his settlement.  In the short space of time since he had arrived in Sicily, the incredible had already come to pass—­and to Derby, as he looked forward, there was every reason to feel assured that the settlement would develop as he had planned.  The output of the mines promised to be up to the most sanguine expectation.  The whole scheme was organized and started—­there was nothing to do now but to keep it going.