It
resembled a huge amphitheatre in shape.
The American tramped the length of the brook, which disappeared into the
rocky wall at the far end. Then he returned through the orchards to the
house.
The place was silent and seemed deserted. There was a languor in the
atmosphere that invited sleep. Uncle John sought his room and lay down
for an afternoon nap, soon falling into a sound slumber.
When he awoke he found Ferralti seated beside his bed. The young man was
pale, but composed.
"Mr. Merrick," said he, "what have you decided to do?"
Uncle John rubbed his eyes and sat up.
"I'm going to purchase that ring," he answered, "at the best price the
Duke will make me."
"I am disappointed," returned Ferralti, stiffly. "I do not intend to
allow myself to be robbed in this way."
"Then write a farewell letter, and I'll take it to your friends."
"It may not be necessary, sir."
Uncle John regarded him thoughtfully.
"What can you do?" he asked.
Ferralti leaned forward and whispered, softly: "I have a stout
pocket-knife, with a very long blade. I shall try to kill the Duke. Once
he is dead his people will not dare to oppose us, but will fly in
terror. It is only Il Duca's audacity and genius that enables this
robber's den to exist."
"You would rather attempt this than pay?"
"Sir, I could not bear the infamy of letting this scoundrel triumph over
me.
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