“So; first six, and next seven,” said Corte.

“Six, I meant, without the signorina,” Luigi explained.

“You saw six of us without the signorina!  You see we are six here, including the signorina.  Where is the seventh?”

Luigi tried to penetrate Vittoria’s eyes for a proper response; but she understood the grave necessity for getting the full extent of his observations out of him, and she looked as remorseless as the men.  He feigned stupidity and sullenness, rage and cunning, in quick succession.

“Who was the seventh?” said Carlo.

“Was it the king?” Luigi asked.

This was by just a little too clever; and its cleverness, being seen, magnified the intended evasion so as to make it appear to them that Luigi knew well the name of the seventh.

Marco thumped a hand on his shoulder, shouting—­

“Here; speak out!  You saw seven of us.  Where has the seventh one gone?”

Luigi’s wits made a dash at honesty.  “Down Orta, signore.”

“And down Orta, I think, you will go; deeper down than you may like.”

Corte now requested Vittoria to stand aside.  He motioned to her with his hand to stand farther, and still farther off; and finally told Carlo to escort her to Baveno.  She now began to think that the man Luigi was in some perceptible danger, nor did Ammiani disperse the idea.

“If he is a spy, and if he has seen the Chief, we shall have to detain him for at least four-and-twenty hours,” he said, “or do worse.”

“But, Signor Carlo,”—­Vittoria made appeal to his humanity,—­“do they mean, if they decide that he is guilty, to hurt him?”

“Tell me, signorina, what punishment do you imagine a spy deserves?”

“To be called one!”

Carlo smiled at her lofty method of dealing with the animal.

“Then you presume him to have a conscience?”

“I am sure, Signor Carlo, that I could make him loathe to be called a spy.”

They were slowly pacing from the group, and were on the edge of the descent, when the signorina’s name was shrieked by Luigi.  The man came running to her for protection, Beppo and the rest at his heels.  She allowed him to grasp her hand.

“After all, he is my spy; he does belong to me,” she said, still speaking on to Carlo.  “I must beg your permission, Colonel Corte and Signor Marco, to try an experiment.  The Signor Carlo will not believe that a spy can be ashamed of his name.—­Luigi!”

“Signorina!”—­he shook his body over her hand with a most plaintive utterance.

“You are my countryman, Luigi?”

“Yes, signorina.”

“You are an Italian?”

“Certainly, signorina!”

“A spy!”

Vittoria had not always to lift her voice in music for it to sway the hearts of men.  She spoke the word very simply in a mellow soft tone.  Luigi’s blood shot purple.  He thrust his fists against his ears.