He was by no means certain what they had with them, but his venture sped home. They had crapes over their faces. They had charcoal and game in their carts. They huddled together in fear, and did not speak lest he should recognise their voices. There were three carts, yoked severally to four buffaloes and two cows; the men were but three. They had no firearms, only their knives. They eyed him evilly, but they were afraid to strike him. His revolver, they knew, would be quicker than their steel; and they thought that he had armed force behind him hidden in the brake. They muttered under their breath dreadful curses against him, but they did not rebel. “Take your carts to the Fattoria,” he said. “Go on before me. If you stir out of the road a bullet will find you.” Sullenly but timidly they pulled their cattle across out of the high-road, and into the avenue which led to the house. He walked behind them, his revolver covering them, as they knew and felt in every nerve of their spines. Cattle move slowly on the best of roads, and this road was thick with half-frozen mud, and crossed by runlets of water, and the beasts splashed heavily through the slush on their leaden-footed way. But at last the half-mile of distance was traversed, and the lamp burning before a shrine on the balustrade before the house shone across the sward like a beacon. To his infinite surprise, no one of the men had attempted any rebellion. He fired a shot in the air, and all the members of the household tumbled up from their slumbers and came out, as he had bade them do when they should hear the signal, with arms and torches. He caused the cattle to be stabled, the carts with their loads locked up in an outhouse, and consigned the prisoners to one of the strong-rooms made for such use in earlier ages. When he saw their faces he recognised in one the peasant Alcide. He was amazed at the extreme ease of his own victory; what to do with it was more perplexing. “Take them bread and water, Caterina,” he said to her. “Not I, sir. Let the rogues fast.” “If you will not, I must.” She obeyed, with great reluctance. “Think of yourself, sir,” she said when she returned. “Get to rest.” “No, I shall remain up; I do not altogether trust our household. There is a great deal of tribal feeling in your woods.” “Is that why you went alone, sir?” “Yes.” Caterina groaned aloud. “’Tis sheer madness. I wonder they did not knife you like a sheep. You trust too much to that little steel honeycomb of yours.” “One can only die once,” said Cyrille, and thought: “I died when I left my love and my country.” He remained the rest of the night awake and armed; seated by the kitchen fire, where he could hear the slightest movement which might take place in any of the long stone passages and basement chambers.