“But what did you do?” I asked, greatly excited.

“Nothing,” answered the Count.  “I let my hands hang down very still.  I told him quietly I did not intend making a noise.  He snarled like a dog, then said in an ordinary voice: 

“‘Vostro portofolio.’”

“So I naturally,” continued the Count—­and from this point acted the whole thing in pantomime.  Holding me with his eyes, he went through all the motions of reaching into his inside breast pocket, taking out a pocket-book, and handing it over.  But that young man, still bearing steadily on the knife, refused to touch it.

He directed the Count to take the money out himself, received it into his left hand, motioned the pocketbook to be returned to the pocket, all this being done to the sweet thrilling of flutes and clarionets sustained by the emotional drone of the hautboys.  And the “young man,” as the Count called him, said:  “This seems very little.”

“It was, indeed, only 340 or 360 lire,” the Count pursued.  “I had left my money in the hotel, as you know.  I told him this was all I had on me.  He shook his head impatiently and said: 

“‘Vostro orologio.’”

The Count gave me the dumb show of pulling out his watch, detaching it.  But, as it happened, the valuable gold half-chronometer he possessed had been left at a watch-maker’s for cleaning.  He wore that evening (on a leather guard) the Waterbury fifty-franc thing he used to take with him on his fishing expeditions.  Perceiving the nature of this booty, the well-dressed robber made a contemptuous clicking sound with his tongue like this, “Tse-Ah!” and waved it away hastily.  Then, as the Count was returning the disdained object to his pocket, he demanded with a threateningly increased pressure of the knife on the epigastrium, by way of reminder: 

“‘Vostri anelli.’”

“One of the rings,” went on the Count, “was given me many years ago by my wife; the other is the signet ring of my father.  I said, ’No.  That you shall not have!’”

Here the Count reproduced the gesture corresponding to that declaration by clapping one hand upon the other, and pressing both thus against his chest.  It was touching in its resignation.  “That you shall not have,” he repeated, firmly, and closed his eyes, fully expecting—­I don’t know whether I am right in recording that such an unpleasant word had passed his lips—­fully expecting to feel himself being—­I really hesitate to say—­being disembowelled by the push of the long, sharp blade resting murderously against the pit of his stomach—­the very seat, in all human beings, of anguishing sensations.

Great waves of harmony went on flowing from the band.

Suddenly the Count felt the nightmarish pressure removed from the sensitive spot.  He opened his eyes.  He was alone.  He had heard nothing.  It is probable that “the young man” had departed, with light steps, some time before, but the sense of the horrid pressure had lingered even after the knife had gone.  A feeling of weakness came over him.  He had just time to stagger to the garden seat.  He felt as though he had held his breath for a long time.  He sat all in a heap, panting with the shock of the reaction.