The day had been long, and longer still did it seem to the captive as hour after hour passed slowly by. He could not look at his watch, which his captors had spared; but from the shadows as they fell through the windows, and from the general appearance of the sky, he knew that the close of the day was not far off. He began to wonder that he was left so long alone and in suspense, and to feel impatient to know the worst as to his fate. Why did not some of them come to tell him? Where was Girasole? Was he the chief? Were the brigands debating about his fate, or were they thus leaving him in suspense so as to make him despondent and submissive to their terms? From all that he had ever heard of brigands and their ways, the latter seemed not unlikely; and this thought made him see the necessity of guarding himself against being too impatient for freedom, and too compliant with any demands of theirs. From these thoughts he was at last roused by footsteps which ascended the stairs. He turned and looked toward the door. A man entered. It was Girasole. He entered slowly, with folded arms, and coming about half-way, he stood and surveyed the prisoner in silence. Hawbury, with a sudden effort, brought himself up to a sitting posture, and calmly surveyed the Italian. "Well," asked Hawbury, "I should like to know how long you intend to keep up this sort of thing? What are you going to do about it? Name your price, man, and we'll discuss it, and settle upon something reasonable." "My price?" repeated Girasole, with peculiar emphasis. "Yes. Of course I understand you fellows. It's your trade, you know. You've caught me, and, of course, you'll try to make the best of me, and all that sort of thing. So don't keep me waiting." "Inglis milor," said Girasole, with a sharp, quick accent, his face flushing up as he spoke--"Inglis milor, dere is no price as you mean, an' no ransom. De price is one dat you will not wis to pay." "Oh, come, now, my good fellow, really you must remember that I'm tied up, and not in a position to be chaffed. Bother your Italian humbug! Don't speak in these confounded figures of speech, you know, but say up and down--how much?" "De brigands haf talk you ovair, an' dey will haf no price." "What the devil is all that rot about?" "Dey will haf youair blood." "My blood?" "Yes." "And pray, my good fellow, what good is that going to do them?" "It is vengeance," said Girasole. "Vengeance? Pooh! Nonsense! What rot! What have I ever done?" "Dat--dere--his blood," said Girasole, pointing to the coffin. "What! that scoundrel? Why, man alive, are you crazy? That was a fair stand-up fight. That is, it was two English against twenty Italians, if you call that fair; but perhaps it is. His blood! By Jove! Cool, that! Come, I like it." "An' more," said Girasole, who now grew more excited. "It is not de brigand who condemn you; it is also me. I condemn you."