Gerald caught his breath and told his story in a mixture of English and Italian and sobs. It had been so hot, and the nightingales had made such a noise, that he couldn’t go to sleep; and he had got up very softly so as not to disturb mamma, and had crept out the back way just to get some cherries. (A group of scrub trees, cherry, almond, and pomegranate, grew close to the villa walls in the rear.) While he was sitting under the tree eating cherries, some men came up and stopped in the bushes close by, and he could hear what they said, and one of them was Pietro. Here he began to cry again, and the soothing had to be done over. ‘Well, what did they say? Tell us what they said, Gerald,’ Sybert broke in, in his low, insistent tones. ‘Vey said my papa was a bad man, an’ vey was going to kill him ‘cause he had veir money in his pocket—an’ I don’t want my papa killed!’ he wailed. Marcia’s eyes met Sybert’s in silence, and he emitted a low breath that was half a whistle. ‘What else did they say, Gerald? You needn’t be afraid. We won’t let them hurt your papa, but you must remember everything they said, so that we can catch them.’ ‘Pietro said he was going to kill you, too, ‘cause you was here an’ was bad like papa,’ Gerald sobbed. ‘Go on,’ Sybert urged. ‘What else did they say?’ ‘Vey didn’t say nuffin more, but went away in ve grove. An’ I was scared an’ kept still, an’ it was all _nero_ under ve trees; an’ ven I cwept in _pianissimo_ an’ I found you—an’ I don’t want you killed, an’ I don’t want papa killed.’ ‘Don’t be afraid. We won’t let them hurt us. And now try to remember how many men there were.’ ‘Pietro an’—some uvers, an’ vey went away in ve trees.’ They questioned him some more, but got merely a variation of the same story; it was evidently all he knew. Marcia called Granton to sit with him and tremulously explained the situation. Granton received the information calmly; it was all she had ever expected in Italy, she said. Out in the hall again, Marcia looked at Sybert questioningly; she was quite composed. Gerald was safe at least, and they knew what was coming. She felt that her uncle and Sybert would bring things right. ‘What shall we do?’ she asked. Sybert, with folded arms, was considering the question. ‘It’s evidently a mixture of robbery and revenge and mistaken patriotism all rolled into one. It would be convenient if we knew how many there were; Pietro and Gervasio’s stepfather and your man with the crucifix we may safely count upon, but just how many more we have no means of knowing. However, there’s no danger of their beginning operations till they think we’re asleep.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It is a quarter to ten. We have a good two hours still, and we’ll prepare to surprise them. We won’t tell the people downstairs just yet, for it won’t do any good, and their talk and laughter are the best protection we could have. You don’t know where your uncle keeps his revolver, do you?’