Cyrille said no more; but he resolved to make an example of the first convoy which he could surprise. He saw that Fausto, for some gain of his own, or out of personal fear, closed his eyes to the practice. He determined to lie in waiting himself to hear the wagon wheels passing over the road on the first moonless night after this conversation. He understood why he had so often heard afar off in the still hours after midnight the faint grinding of wheels on rutty paths, and the far-off voices of swearing men. He took up his stand where three woodland paths met, on the edge of the only road which led across the woods of the Gandolfo to Montefiascone northwards, and south-westwards to Rome. He had reason to believe that it was a frequent route with the forest thieves. He was alone, for he trusted no one enough to ask their company. It was pitch dark; the moving of night birds and beasts was audible as they stirred in branch or brake; a deep runlet of water fell down through the undergrowth, rippling and splashing. He had a seven-chambered revolver in his belt; he hoped not to be forced to use it. It was extremely cold, as nights in February are even in the south; but he had known what it was to pace up and down on guard on the terraces of Gatschina when snow was six feet deep around, and the cold of the Patrimony of St Peter had small terrors for him. He stood immovable, his back against the trunk of an ilex tree; his repeating watch told him that five quarters had passed since he came there. He was not sure that the smugglers were out this night, though he had reason to believe so. It might well be that he had come there for nothing; but he was resolved to wait until the dawn. At last, in the darkness and stillness, he heard the distant sound of cleft hoofs moving through muddy earth, and springless carts groaning as the rough wooden spokeless discs of the wheels alone can groan on their rusty axles. All the soldier in him was roused; he had not felt so much alive since the day that he had passed the frontier of his country. They were distant perhaps half a mile. By one of these three paths fronting him they were forced to enter on the high-road; there was no other. Nearer and nearer came the creaking of the carts, the crushing of the soil, the low voices of men: he waited until he could hear the heavy breathing of the cattle, then he flashed a lantern on them, and levelled his revolver. “It is I--halt!” he said in a clear voice. They instinctively pulled the buffaloes backward, and fell back themselves one against another. They thought he had guards with him. The cattle paused willingly, the gasping of their breath, the blowing of their nostrils, sounding painfully on the stillness. “Stir not a step, or you are dead men,” he said to them. “You are carrying contraband.”