The
young horseman who had come to their assistance so opportunely was none
other than Count Ferralti, whom they had such good reason to distrust.
He was sitting upon his horse and staring with amazement at Beth, at
whose feet the driver was grovelling while tears flowed down his bronzed
cheeks and he protested in an absurd mixture of English and Italian, by
every saint in the calendar, that the girl had saved him from a
frightful death and he would devote his future life to her service.
"It is wonderful!" murmured Ferralti. "However could such a slip of a
girl do so great a deed?"
"Why, it's nothing at all," returned Beth, flushing; "we're trained to
do such things in the gymnasium at Cloverton, and I'm much stronger than
I appear to be."
"'Twas her head, mostly," said Patsy, giving her cousin an admiring hug;
"she kept her wits while the rest of us were scared to death."
Uncle John had been observing the Count. One of the young man's hands
hung limp and helpless.
"Are you hurt, sir?" he asked.
Ferralti smiled, and his eyes rested upon Louise.
"A little, perhaps, Mr. Merrick; but it is unimportant. The horses were
frantic at the time and wrenched my wrist viciously as I tried to hold
them. I felt something snap; a small bone, perhaps. But I am sure it is
nothing of moment."
"We'd better get back to Sorrento," said Uncle John, abruptly.
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