I approached the nearest gendarme and slipped a five-franc piece into his hand.
"May one speak?" I asked, carelessly. The man hesitated.
"For one instant, signor. But be brief."
I addressed the brigand in a low clear-tone.
"Have you any message for one Andrea Luziani? I am a friend of his."
He looked at me and a dark smile crossed his features.
"Andrea is a good soul. Tell him if you will that Teresa is dead. I am worse than dead. He will know that I did not kill Teresa. I could not! She had the knife in her breast before I could prevent her. It is better so."
"She did that rather than become the property of another man?" I queried.
Carmelo Neri nodded in acquiescence. Either my sight deceived me, or else this abandoned villain had tears glittering in the depth of his wicked eyes.
The gendarme made me a sign, and I withdrew. Almost at the same moment the officer in command of the little detachment appeared, his spurs clinking with measured metallic music on the hard stones of the pavement--he sprung into his saddle and gave the word--the crowd dispersed to the right and left--the horses were put to a quick trot, and in a few moments the whole party with the bulky frowning form of the brigand in their midst had disappeared. The people broke up into little groups talking excitedly of what had occurred, and scattered here and there, returning to their homes and occupations--and more swiftly than one could have imagined possible, the great square was left almost empty. I paced up and down for awhile thinking deeply; I had before my mind's eye the picture of the slight fair Teresa as described by the Sicilian captain, lying dead in the solitudes of the Montemaggiore with that self-inflicted wound in her breast which had set her free of all men's love and persecution. There WERE some women then who preferred death to infidelity? Strange! very strange! common women of course they must be--such as this brigand's mistress; your daintily fed, silk-robed duchess would find a dagger somewhat a vulgar consoler--she would rather choose a lover, or better still a score of lovers. It is only brute ignorance that selects a grave instead of dishonor--modern education instructs us more wisely, and teaches us not to be over-squeamish about such a trifle as breaking a given word or promise. Blessed age of progress! Age of steady advancement when the apple of vice is so cunningly disguised and so prettily painted that we can actually set it on a porcelain dish and hand it about among our friends as a valuable and choice fruit of virtue--and no one finds out the fraud we are practicing, nay, we scarcely perceive it ourselves, it is such an excellent counterfeit!