I’m glad to see you, old man,” called out Amos Sanderson joyfully. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come. It came near being serious for us.”

“Yes, I have come,” said Walter Cunningham wearily.

He looked ready to drop, and there was an expression of sadness on his face.

“You seem very tired,” said Bernard compassionately.

“Yes, I was afraid I would be too late. Why are you all out here? What is going to happen?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Sanderson. “These gentlemen were about to kill us. They had just offered us the choice of how to die. But now that you have come with the money——”

“I have no money,” said Cunningham in a low voice.

“What!” exclaimed Sanderson, in dismay.

“You have no money?” said the interpreter, in amazement.

“What have you been doing all this time, then?” asked the American.

“I will tell you, but I must sit. I have been walking for hours.”

He sat down on a broken branch of a tree and breathed a deep sigh.

The bandits looked puzzled. They did not understand what he had said, but felt that it was something of importance, and they looked to the interpreter for an explanation. The latter said nothing, but waited.

“Listen,” began Cunningham; “a week since I left here and went to Naples.”

“You did go to Naples, then?”

“Yes, I reached Naples, though it took me rather longer than I anticipated. I went to see the bankers, and——”

“Got the money?”

“Yes, I got the money.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“You will soon. I was delayed two days, and this will account in part for the length of time I have been absent. As soon as I could I started on my return.”

“With the money?”

“Yes, with the money. But I was waylaid by two men twenty miles back, and robbed of every scudi.”

Amos Sanderson groaned.

“Is this true?” asked the interpreter.

“Yes; I wish it were not.”

“And you have come here with empty pockets?”

“Yes.”

“Why, then, did you come back at all?”

“Because I felt that I could not desert my comrades. I went out as their agent, and it was my duty to report to them, and share their fate if any harm should befall them.”

“You hear that, Mr. Sanderson?” said Bernard triumphantly.

“If I had been the messenger this thing would not have happened.”

“Will you explain to these gentlemen what I have said?” said Cunningham to the interpreter.

The latter did so, and the result was scowling looks on the swarthy faces of the three Italians. The three captives awaited in silence the result of their conference. They had not to wait long.

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” said the interpreter, “for what is going to happen. My friends here are deeply disappointed.”

“It is not our fault,” said Amos Sanderson.

“They have stated the terms of release. They required five thousand scudi, and they are not forthcoming. Under the circumstances they have no choice but to doom you all to death.”

It was a terrible sentence, and the hearts of the three captives quailed.

“At least spare the boy—spare Bernard,” said Walter Cunningham.

“We can make no exception,” replied the interpreter, after a brief conference with the bandits. “All we can do is to give you the choice of the knife or the pistol.”

“I choose the pistol,” said the Englishman.

“Look here, you are making fools of yourselves,” cried Amos Sanderson. “Send me to Naples, and I will bring back the money. I see that you are in earnest, and I will keep my word.”

Again there was a whispered conference. Then the interpreter spoke again.

“My friends do not trust you,” he said. “You would not return.”

Sanderson wished to argue the question, but the interpreter silenced him by an imperative gesture.

“No words of yours can alter our purpose,” he said. “We have been more lenient with you than with most of our prisoners. We have given you seven days to get the money for your ransom, and it is not here. We have no time to waste. What is to be done must be done quickly.”

“There seems no help for it, Bernard,” said the Englishman.

Within five minutes the three captives, with hands tied, were bound to trees, and with blanched faces awaited the fatal volley from the three bandits, who stationed themselves at the distance of twenty paces fronting them.

Bernard gave himself up for lost when something unexpected happened. He heard shots, and for the moment thought they came from the pistols of their intended murderers. But to his astonishment it was the robber opposite him who fell. Another shot and another and the other two fell, fatally wounded. Then a party of soldiers came dashing forward, accompanied by a man whose face looked familiar to Bernard.

“Mr. Penrose!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, Bernard, it is I. I was robbed by these men a month since. I tracked them, and I have at last brought them to justice.”

“You’re a trump, squire!” said Amos Sanderson. “I never felt so relieved in the whole course of my life. Come and untie me.”

William Penrose took a jack-knife from his pocket, but he untied Bernard first.

“You have the prior claim on me,” he said.

It was found that two of the bandits were dead.

The third was taken by the soldiers, and carried on an extemporized litter to the nearest town, where he was imprisoned, but later tried and sentenced to be executed.

Overjoyed at their unexpected rescue from peril, the three travelers made the best of their way to Naples, where, despite the loss of five thousand scudi, Walter Cunningham and Amos Sanderson enjoyed themselves by trips to Mt. Vesuvius, Pompeii, and a ride to Sorrento along the shores of the magnificent Bay of Naples.

“Have you consoled yourself for the loss of two thousand scudi?” asked Bernard, addressing himself to the American, as they sat on a balcony in their Sorrento hotel, looking out upon the moonlit waters of the famous sea.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Sanderson. “Now that the three rascals who captured us and nearly put us to death have met the same fate themselves, I don’t make any account of the money. Thank Providence, I have plenty, left.”

“That’s the right way to look upon it,” said Walter Cunningham.

“I am the only one who has lost nothing,” said Bernard. “I have the best reason to be satisfied.” The three still remained together. They had been companions in misfortune, and this was a tie that still held them. Yet, truth to tell, neither Bernard nor his English friend enjoyed the society of the American, who was hardly congenial, and had some objectionable qualities.

“I have no prejudice against your countrymen,” said Mr. Cunningham to Bernard. “I have known many cultivated and refined Americans, whose society I enjoyed, but they differed essentially from Mr. Sanderson. I own I wish he would leave us.”

“He seems determined to stand by us,” said Bernard.

“Yes, so it seems.”

“There is one chance of separating from him. He has made up his mind to go to Sicily and wants us to go with him.”

“We can refuse. But in that case he may give up his plan.”

“I don’t think he will. He tells me he has always wanted to go to Sicily.”

“He may stand a chance of being again captured by banditti. I understand that Sicily is more infested with them than the mainland.”

“I earnestly hope not. I don’t care especially for Mr. Sanderson, but I think he has had his share of that kind of peril.”

That evening Mr. Sanderson broached the subject, and strongly urged his two companions to start with him for Palermo.

“We shall have to disappoint you,” said Walter Cunningham. “We have other plans.”

“But it won’t take long, and I surmise you have no important business to keep you from going.”

The next day, however, Mr. Cunningham was provided with an excuse. He received a letter from England informing him that an uncle, his mother’s brother, was dying, and wished to see him.

“Are you ready to go back to England with me at once, Bernard?” he said.

“I shall be glad to do so.”

“Then pack your luggage, and we will go.”

In London Bernard received a letter from America that interested him.