mysterious, Blake tried to sound the fellow.
"You are abroad early," he suggested.
But Ippolito seemed in no mood for conversation, and merely replied:
"Si, Signore, quite early."
He was a lean, swarthy youth, square-jawed and well put up. Although his clothes were poor, he wore them with a certain grace and moved like a man who is sure of himself.
"Did you see any robbers?"
"Robbers?" Ippolito's look was one of quick suspicion. "Who has ever seen a robber?"
"Come, come! I heard the Count and Ricardo talking. You have been away, among the orange-groves, all night. Am I right?"
"You are right."
"Tell me, is it common thieves or outlaws whom you watch? I have heard about your brigands."
"Ippolito!" came the harsh voice of Ricardo, who at that moment appeared around the corner of the stable. "In the kitchen you will find food."
Ippolito bowed to the American and departed, his rifle beneath his arm.
Blake turned his attention to the overseer, for his mind, once filled with an idea, was not easily satisfied. But Ricardo would give him no information. He raised his bushy, gray eyebrows at the American's question.
"Brigands? Ippolito is a great liar."
Seeing the angry sparkle in the old fellow's eyes, Norvin hastened to say:
"He told me nothing, I assure you."
"Thieves, yes! We have ladri here, as elsewhere. Sometimes it is well to take precautions."
"But Francesca was quite excited, and I heard you and Martel mention La Mafia last night," Blake persisted. "I see you all go armed. I am naturally curious. I thought you might be in trouble with the society."
"Children's tales!" said Ricardo, gruffly. "There is no society of La
Mafia."
"Oh, see here! We have it even in my own country. The New Orleans papers have been full of stories about the Mala Vita, the Mafia, or whatever you choose to call it. There is a big Italian population there, you know, and they are causing our police a great deal of worry. I live in Louisiana, so I ought to know. We understand it's an offshoot of the Sicilian Mafia."
"In Naples I hear there is a Camorra. But this is Sicily. We have no societies."
"Nevertheless, I heard you say something about 'Mafioso' last night,"
Blake insisted.
"Perhaps," grudgingly admitted the overseer. "But La Mafia is not a man, not a society, as you say. It is—" He made a wide gesture. "It is all Sicily. You do not understand."
"No, I do not."
"Very well. One does not speak of it. Would the Signore care to see the horses?"
"Thank you, yes."
The two went into the stables together, and Blake for the time gave up the hope of learning anything further about Sicilian brigandage. Nor did Martel show any willingness to enlighten him when he tentatively introduced the subject at breakfast, but laughingly turned the conversation into another channel.
"To-day you shall see the star of my life," he declared. "Be prepared to worship as all men do."
"Assuredly."
"And promise you will not fall in love."
"Is that why you discouraged my coming until a week before your wedding? Really, if she is all you claim, we might have been such delightful enemies."
"Enemies are never that," said the Count, gravely.
"I know men in my country who cherish their enemies like friends. They seem to enjoy them tremendously, until one or the other has passed on to glory. Even then they are highly spoken of."
"I am impatient for you to see her. She, of course, has many preparations to make, for the wedding-day is almost here; but it is arranged that we are to dine there to-night with her and her aunt, the Donna Teresa. Ah, Norvin mine, seven days separate me from Paradise. You can judge of my ecstasy. The hours creep, the moments are leaden. Each night when I retire, I feel faithless in allowing sleep to rob my thoughts of her. When I awake it is with the consolation that more of those miserable hours have crept away. I am like a man insane."
"I am beginning to think you really are so."
"Diamine! Wait! You have not seen her. We are to be married by a bishop."
"No doubt that will insure your happiness."
"A marriage like this does not occur every day. It will be an event, I tell you."
"And you're sure I won't be in the way this evening?"
"No, no! It is arranged. She is waiting—expecting you. She knows you already. This morning, however, you will amuse yourself—will you not?—for I must ride down to San Sebastiano and meet the colonel of carabinieri from Messina."
"Certainly. Don't mind me."
Martel hesitated an instant, then explained:
"It is a matter of business. One of my farm-hands is in prison."
"Indeed! What for?"
"Oh, it is nothing. He killed a fellow last week."
"Jove! What a peaceful, pastoral place you have here! I arrive to be met by an armed guard, I hear talk of Mafiosi, men ride out at night with rifles, and old women predict unspeakable evil. What is all the mystery?"
"Nonsense! There is no mystery. Do you think I would drag you, my best friend, into danger?" Savigno's lips were smiling, but he awaited an answer with some restraint. "That would not be quite the—quite a nice thing to do, would it?"
"So, that's it! Now I know you have something on your mind. And it must be of considerable importance or you would have told me before this."
"You are right," the Count suddenly declared, "although I hoped you would not discover it. I might have known. But I suppose it is better to make a clean breast of it now. I have enemies, my friend, and I assure you I do not cherish them."
"The Countess Margherita is a famous beauty, eh? Well! It is not remarkable that you should have rivals."
"No, no. This has nothing to do with her, unless our approaching marriage has roused them to make a demonstration. Have you ever heard of—Belisario Cardi?"
"Not until this morning. Who is he?"
"I would give much to know. If you had asked me a month ago, I would have said he is an imaginary character, used to frighten people—a modern Fra Diavolo, a mere name with which to inspire terror—for nobody has ever seen him. Now, however, he seems real enough, and I learn that the carabinieri believe in his existence." Martel pushed back the breakfast dishes and, leaning his elbows upon the table, continued, after a pause: "To you Sicily is all beauty and peace and fragrance; she is old and therefore civilized, so you think. Everything you have seen so far is reasonably modern, eh?" He showed his white teeth as Blake assured him:
"It's the most peaceful, restful spot I ever saw."
"You see nothing but the surface. Sicily is much what she was in my grandfather's time. You have inquired about La Mafia. Well, there is such a thing. It killed my father. It forced me to give up my home and be an exile." At Norvin's exclamation of astonishment, he nodded. "There's a long story behind it which you could not appreciate without knowing my father and the character of our Sicilian people, for, after all, Sicilian character constitutes La Mafia. It is no sect, no cult, no secret body of assassins, highwaymen, and robbers, as you foreigners imagine; it is a national hatred of authority, an individual expression of superiority to the law."
"In our own New Orleans we are beginning to talk of the Mafia, but with us it is a mysterious