Part 9 (2/2)
The pyrotechnics at Terranova were nearly over and the grounds echoed to the applause of the delighted spectators. The Donna Teresa was leaning upon the arm of Colonel Neri and saying:
”No one but that extravagant Martel would have entertained these poor people so magnificently, but there is no reasoning with him when he has an idea.”
”It is the finest display since the fair at San Felice two years ago,”
the Colonel acknowledged. They had come out upon the open piazza which overlooked the lawn, and the other guests who had been present at the supper had followed suit and were gathered there to admire the spectacle.
”The country people will never finish discussing it. Why, it has been the greatest event this village ever witnessed. And Margherita! Have you ever seen her so beautiful?” The old lady spoke with pride, for she was very happy.
”Never!” Colonel Neri fondled his mustache tenderly. ”She is ablaze with love. Oh, that Martel has broken all our hearts, lucky fellow! I could hate him if I did not like him so.”
”You men, without exception, pretend to adore her but it is flattery; you know that she loves it and that it pleases me. Now Martel--Madonna mia! What is this?” She broke off sharply and pointed toward the main gateway to the grounds.
By the light that gleamed from the trees on each side of the driveway men could be seen approaching at a run; others were hurrying toward them across the terrace, calling excitedly to one another. A woman screamed something unintelligible, but the tone of her voice brought a hush over the merrymakers.
In the midst of the group coming up the road was one who labored heavily. He was bareheaded, gray with dust, and he staggered as if wounded.
”Some one has been hurt,” exclaimed the Colonel. ”Maledetto! There has been a fight.” He dropped his companion's arm and hastened to the steps, then halfway down paused, staring. He whirled quickly and cried to the old lady: ”Wait! Do not come.”
But Madame Fazello had seen the white face of the runner, and screamed:
”Mother of G.o.d! The American!”
The other guests from the balcony pressed forward with alarmed inquiries. No one guessed as yet what had befallen, but the loud voices died away, a murmuring tide swept the merrymakers toward the castello.
”What has happened, Signore?” Colonel Neri was crying. ”Speak!”
”The Mafia!” Blake gasped. ”Martel--is--” His knees sagged and he would have pitched forward had not the soldier supported him. ”We met them--in the woods. Cardi--”
”Cardi!” echoed the Colonel in a harsh voice.
”Cardi!” came from a dozen frightened throats. The Donna Teresa uttered a second shrill cry, and then through the ranks of staring, chalk-faced peasants the Countess came running swiftly.
”Cardi!” she cried. ”What is this I hear?”
”Go away, Signorina, I beseech you,” exclaimed the Colonel of carbineers. ”Something dreadful has occurred.” But she disregarded him and faced Norvin Blake.
He raised his dripping, dust-smeared face and nodded, whereat she closed her eyes an instant and swayed. But she made no outcry.
”Take her--away,” he wheezed painfully. ”G.o.d in heaven! Don't you-- understand?”
Even yet there was no coherent speech and the people merely stared at one another or inquired, dully:
”What did he say? What is this about Cardi?”
”Take her away,” Blake repeated. But the Countess recovered herself and with a little gesture bade him go on. He told his story haltingly, clinging to the Colonel to prevent himself from falling, his matted head rolling weakly from side to side. When he had finished a furious clamor broke forth from the men, the women, and the children. Neri commanded them roughly to silence.
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