‘You and I will lock up to-night.’ He considered a moment. ‘We mustn’t let him out within sight of the grove. A window on the eastern side of the house would be best, where the shrubbery grows close to the walls.’ Marcia led the way into a little store-room opening from the kitchen, and Sybert gave Gervasio his last directions. ‘Keep well in the shadow of the trees across the driveway and down around the lower terrace. Creep on your hands and knees through the wheat field, and then strike straight for the cross-roads and run every step of the way. _Capisci?_’ Gervasio nodded, and Marcia bent and kissed him and whispered in his ear, ‘If you bring the soldiers, Gervasio, you may live with us always and be our little boy, just like Gerald.’ He nodded again, fairly trembling with anxiety to get started. Sybert carefully swung the window open, and the little fellow dropped to the ground and crept like a cat into the shadows. They stood by the open window for several minutes, straining their ears to listen, but no sound came back except the peaceful music of a summer night—the murmur of insects and the songs of nightingales. Gervasio had got off safely. ‘Now we’ll lock the house,’ Sybert added in an undertone, ‘so that when our friends come to call they will have to come the front way.’ He closed the window softly and examined with approval the inside shutters. They were made of solid wood with heavy iron bolts and hinges. The villa had been planned in the old days before the police force was as efficient as now, and it was quite prepared to stand a siege. ‘It will take considerable strength to open these, and some noise,’ he remarked as he swung the shutters to and shot the bolts. They groped their way out and went from room to room, closing and bolting the windows and doors with as little noise as possible. Sybert appeared, to Marcia’s astonished senses, to be in an unusually light-hearted frame of mind. Once or twice he laughed softly, and once, when her hand touched his in the dark, she felt that same warm thrill run through her as on that other moonlight night. They came last to the big vaulted dining-room which had served as chapel in the devotional days of the Vivalanti. The three glass doors at the end were open to the moonlight, which flooded the apartment, softening the crude outlines of the frescoes on the ceiling to the beauty of old masters. Sybert paused with his back to the doors to look up and down approvingly. ‘Do you know, it isn’t half bad in this light,’ he remarked casually to Marcia. ‘That old fellow up there,’ he nodded toward Bacchus reclining among the vines in the central panelling, ‘might be a Michelangelo in the moonlight, and in the sunlight he isn’t even a Carlo Dolci.’