Part 11 (1/2)

Late that night when all had gone to rest I walked on the ramparts of Lorgnac, and leaning against the parapet, looked out into the moonlight. So lost was I in thought that it was not until his hand was on my shoulder that I knew my husband had joined me.

”Denise,” he said, ”the King goes to-morrow, and--I--do I go or stay?”

And Monsieur le Chevalier--he is Monsieur le Marechal Duc now--got the answer he wanted.

THE END.

THE CAPTAIN MORATTI'S LAST AFFAIR

CHAPTER I.

”ARCADES AMBO.”

”Halt!” The word, which seemed to come from nowhere, rang out into the crisp winter moonlight so sharply, so suddenly, so absolutely without warning, that the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo, who was ambling comfortably along, reined in his horse with a jerk; and with a start, looked into the night. He had not to fret his curiosity above a moment, for a figure gliding out from the black shadows of the pines, fencing in each side of the lonely road, stepped full into the white band of light, stretching between the darkness on either hand and stood in front of the horse. As the two faced each other, it was not the fact that there was a man in his path that made the rider keep a restraining hand on his bridle. It was the persuasive force, the voiceless command, in the round muzzle of an arquebuse pointed at his heart, and along the barrel of which di Lippo could see the glint of the moonlight, a thin bright streak ending in the wicked blinking star of the lighted fuse. The cavaliere took in the position at a glance, and being a man of resolution, hurriedly cast up his chances of escape by spurring his horse, and suddenly riding down the thief. In a flash the thought came and was dismissed. It was impossible; for the night-hawk had taken his stand at a distance of about six feet off, s.p.a.ce enough to enable him to blow his quarry's heart out, well before the end of any sudden rush to disarm him. The mind moves like lightning in matters of this kind, and di Lippo surrendered without condition. Though his heart was burning within him, he was outwardly cool and collected. He had yielded to force he could not resist. Could he have seen ever so small a chance, the positions might have been reversed. As it was, Messer the bandit might still have to look to himself, and his voice was icy as the night as he said: ”Well! I have halted. What more? It is chill, and I care not to be kept waiting.”

The robber was not without humour, and a line of teeth showed, for an instant, behind the burning match of the weapon he held steadily before him. He did not, however, waste words. ”Throw down your purse.”

The cavaliere hesitated. Ducats were scarce with him, but the bandit had a short patience. ”_Diavolo!_ Don't you hear, signore?”

It was useless to resist. The fingers of the cavaliere fumbled under his cloak, and a fat purse fell squab into the snow, where it lay, a dark spot in the whiteness around, for all the world like a sleeping toad. The bandit chuckled as he heard the plump thud of the purse, and di Lippo's muttered curse was lost in the sharp order: ”Get off the horse.”

”But----”

”I am in a hurry, signore.” The robber blew on the match of his arquebuse, and the match in its glow cast a momentary light on his face, showing the outlines of high aquiline features, and the black curve of a pair of long moustaches.

”_Maledetto!_” and the disgusted cavaliere dismounted, the scabbard of his useless sword striking with a clink against the stirrup iron, and he unwillingly swung from the saddle and stood in the snow--a tall figure, lean and gaunt.

As he did this, the bandit stepped back a pace, so as to give him the road. ”Your excellency,” he said mockingly, ”is now free to pa.s.s--on foot. A walk will doubtless remove the chill your excellency finds so unpleasant.”

But di Lippo made no advance. In fact, as his feet touched the snow, he recovered the composure he had so nearly lost, and saw his way to gain some advantage from defeat. It struck him that here was the very man he wanted for an affair of the utmost importance. Indeed, it was for just such an instrument that he had been racking his brains, as he rode on that winter night through the Gonfolina defile, which separates the middle and the lower valleys of the Arno. And now--a hand turn--and he had found his man. True, an expensive find; but cheap if all turned out well--that is, well from di Lippo's point of view. This thing the cavaliere wanted done he could not take into his own hands. Not from fear--it was no question of that; but because it was not convenient; and Michele di Lippo never gave himself any inconvenience, although it was sometimes thrust upon him in an unpleasant manner by others. If he could but induce the man before him to undertake the task, what might not be? But the knight of the road was evidently very impatient.

”Blood of a king!” he swore, ”are you going, signore? Think you I am to stand here all night?”

”Certainly not,” answered di Lippo in his even voice, ”nor am I. But to come to the point. I want a little business managed, and will pay for it. You appear to be a man of courage--will you undertake the matter?”

”_Cospetto!_ But you are a cool hand! Who are you?”

”Is it necessary to know? I offer a hundred crowns, fifty to be paid to you if you agree, and fifty on the completion of the affair.”

”A matter of the dagger?”

”That is for you to decide.”

The bandit almost saw the snarl on di Lippo's lips as he dropped out slowly: ”You are too cautious, my friend--you think to the skin. The rack will come whether you do my business or not.” The words were not exactly calculated to soothe, and called up an unpleasant vision before the robber's eyes. A sudden access of wrath shook him. ”Begone, signore!” he burst out, ”lest my patience exhausts itself, and I give you a bed in the snow. Why I have spared your life, I know not.

Begone; warm yourself with a walk----”