"Not on my account, I beg of you," returned Ferralti, quickly. "We are
half way to Amalfi now, and you may as well go on. For my part, if the
wrist troubles me, I will see a surgeon at Amalfi--that is, if you
permit me to accompany you."
He said this with a defferent bow and a glance of inquiry.
Uncle John could not well refuse. The young fellow might be a sham
count, but the manliness and courage he had displayed in their grave
emergency surely entitled him to their grateful consideration.
"You are quite welcome to join us," said Uncle John.
The driver had by now repaired a broken strap and found his equippage
otherwise uninjured.
The horses stood meekly quiescent, as if they had never known a moment's
fear in their lives. So the girls and their uncle climbed into the
vehicle again and the driver mounted the box and cracked his whip with
his usual vigor.
The wind had subsided as suddenly as it had arisen, and as they passed
through Positano--which is four hundred feet high, the houses all up and
down the side of a cliff like swallows' nests--big flakes of snow were
gently falling around them.
Count Ferralti rode at the side of the carriage but did not attempt much
conversation. His lips were tight set and the girls, slyly observing his
face, were sure his wrist was hurting him much more than he cared to
acknowledge.
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