Fortunato smiled an incredulous smile; and, fastening his black eyes on the adjutant’s, he strove to read therein how far he should put faith in his words. “May I lose my epaulets,” cried the adjutant, “if I don’t give you the watch on that condition! My comrades are witnesses; and I can’t go back on my word.” As he spoke, he held the watch nearer and nearer, so that it almost touched the child’s pale cheek. His face betrayed the battle that was taking place in his mind between covetousness and respect for the duties of hospitality. His bare breast rose and fell violently, and he seemed on the point of suffocation. Meanwhile the watch swung to and fro, turned, and sometimes touched the end of his nose. At last, by slow degrees, his right hand rose toward the watch; the ends of his fingers touched it; and he felt the full weight of it on his hand, but still the adjutant did not let go the end of the chain. The face was sky-blue, the case newly polished--in the sun it shone like fire. The temptation was too great. Fortunato raised his left hand, too, and pointed with his thumb, over his left shoulder, to the haystack against which he was leaning. The adjutant understood him instantly. He let go the end of the chain; Fortunato realised that he was the sole possessor of the watch. He sprang up with the agility of a stag, and ran some yards away from the haystack, which the voltigeurs began at once to demolish. They soon saw the hay begin to move; and a man covered with blood came forth, dagger in hand; but when he tried to raise himself, his stiffened wound prevented him from standing erect. He fell. The adjutant threw himself upon him and tore his stiletto from his hand. In a trice he was securely bound, despite his resistance. Gianetto, lying on the ground and corded like a bundle of sticks, turned his head toward Fortunato, who had drawn near. “Son of----!” he said, with more scorn than anger. The child tossed him the piece of silver which he had received from him, feeling that he no longer deserved it; but the outlaw seemed to pay no heed to that movement. He said to the adjutant, as coolly as possible: “I can’t walk, my dear Gamba; you will have to carry me to the town.” “You ran faster than a kid just now,” retorted the cruel victor; “but never fear; I am so pleased to have caught you, that I would carry you on my back a whole league without getting tired. However, my boy, we’ll make a litter for you with some branches and your cloak; and we shall find horses at Crespoli’s farm.” “Good,” said the prisoner; “just put a little straw on your litter, too, so that I can be more comfortable.”