"We will take care of him and his cart," said the dark man, who was the superior. "The signori may go in quiet." They untied the rope that bound the man. He rose trembling, and stood on his feet, for he knew that he was in their power. But they showed no intention of putting him in handcuffs. "Turn the cart round!" said the dark man. They helped the carter to do it, and blocked it with stones. "Put in the mule!" was the next order, and the carabineers held up the shafts while the man obeyed. Then both saluted Johnstone and Clare, and shouldered their short carbines, which had stood against the parapet. "Forward!" said the dark man, quietly. The carter took the mule by the head and started it gently enough. The creature understood, and was glad to go down hill; the wheels creaked, the cart moved, and the party went off, one of the carabineers marching on either side. Clare drew a long breath as she stood looking after them for a moment. "Let us go home," she said at last, and turned up the road. For some minutes they walked on in silence. "I think you probably saved my life at the risk of yours, Miss Bowring," said Johnstone, at last, looking up. "Thank you very much." "Nonsense!" exclaimed the young girl, and she tried to laugh. "But you were telling me that you were not combative--that you always avoided a fight, you know, and that you were so mild, and all that. For a very mild man, Mr. Johnstone, who hates fighting, you are a good 'man of your hands,' as they say in the _Morte d'Arthur_." "Oh, I don't call that a fight!" answered Johnstone, contemptuously. "Why, my collar isn't even crumpled. As for my hands, if I could find a spring I would wash them, after touching that fellow." "That's the advantage of wearing gloves," observed Clare, looking at her own. They were both very young, and though they knew that they had been in great danger they affected perfect indifference about it to each other, after the manner of true Britons. But each admired the other, and Brook was suddenly conscious that he had never known a woman whom, in some ways, he thought so admirable as Clare Bowring, but both felt a singular constraint as they walked homeward. "Do you know?" Clare began, when they were near Amalfi, "I think we had better say nothing about it to my mother--that is, if you don't mind." "By all means," answered Brook. "I'm sure I don't want to talk about it." "No, and my mother is very nervous--you know--about my going off to walk without her. Oh, not about you--with anybody. You see, I'd been very ill before I came here." CHAPTER VIII