--he moved away through the
curious open-eyed by-standers with the mechanical air of one who knows
not whether he be alive or dead. He had evidently received an
unexpected shock--a wound that pierced deeply and would be a long time
healing.

I approached the nearest gendarme and slipped a five-franc piece into
his hand.

"May one speak?" I asked, carelessly. The man hesitated.

"For one instant, signor. But be brief."

I addressed the brigand in a low clear-tone.

"Have you any message for one Andrea Luziani? I am a friend of his."

He looked at me and a dark smile crossed his features.

"Andrea is a good soul. Tell him if you will that Teresa is dead. I am
worse than dead. He will know that I did not kill Teresa. I could not!
She had the knife in her breast before I could prevent her. It is
better so."

"She did that rather than become the property of another man?" I
queried.

Carmelo Neri nodded in acquiescence. Either my sight deceived me, or
else this abandoned villain had tears glittering in the depth of his
wicked eyes.

The gendarme made me a sign, and I withdrew. Almost at the same moment
the officer in command of the little detachment appeared, his spurs
clinking with measured metallic music on the hard stones of the
pavement--he sprung into his saddle and gave the word--the crowd
dispersed to the right and left--the horses were put to a quick trot,
and in a few moments the whole party with the bulky frowning form of
the brigand in their midst had disappeared. The people broke up into
little groups talking excitedly of what had occurred, and scattered
here and there, returning to their homes and occupations--and more
swiftly than one could have imagined possible, the great square was
left almost empty. I paced up and down for awhile thinking deeply; I
had before my mind's eye the picture of the slight fair Teresa as
described by the Sicilian captain, lying dead in the solitudes of the
Montemaggiore with that self-inflicted wound in her breast which had
set her free of all men's love and persecution. There WERE some women
then who preferred death to infidelity? Strange! very strange! common
women of course they must be--such as this brigand's mistress; your
daintily fed, silk-robed duchess would find a dagger somewhat a vulgar
consoler--she would rather choose a lover, or better still a score of
lovers. It is only brute ignorance that selects a grave instead of
dishonor--modern education instructs