Still, Mr. Cunningham reflected that in case of an attack it would be convenient to have such an addition to his party as the American, for Amos Sanderson seemed like a brave man, who would have his wits about him and might render valuable assistance.

“Are you traveling on business, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Bernard.

“No; I’ve been pretty lucky, and put by a considerable pile, and my friends told me I ought to see Europe. So I left my business in the hands of my brother, and came over last March.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

“Well, middling well! I can’t get used to their cookery. Why, I haven’t seen a doughnut or eaten a plate of pork and beans since I left America.”

“I never ate a doughnut in my life,” said Walter Cunningham.

“Then you’ve missed a great deal. I reckon Bernard knows how they taste.”

“Oh, I have eaten a great many.”

“The fact is, there’s no country where you can get such good living as in America,” said Amos Sanderson, with patriotic complacency.

Mr. Cunningham smiled, but did not dispute the statement. It is doubtful, however, whether he would have agreed with the man from Nebraska.

Mr. Cunningham was not sorry that he had permitted Amos Sanderson to join his party. The American was singularly ignorant as regards the antiquities of Italy, but he had a shrewd common sense, and his quaint remarks were unintentionally humorous. He always spoke from the point of view of a Western American.

Scattered along the route, or a little distance from it, were the ruins of ancient or medieval buildings, churches, temples, monasteries, and other edifices. Many of these had historical associations. These were quite unknown to Mr. Sanderson, and even where they were explained to him he was not much interested.

“It isn’t creditable to Italy,” he said one day, “to have so many ruined buildings. They’d ought to be repaired when they’re worth it, and when they’re not the best way would be to pull ‘em down.”

“But, my dear sir,” said Walter Cunningham, “it would be a great loss to Italy if your advice were followed. Most travelers come here on purpose to see the ruins.”

“Then I don’t admire their taste.”

“And naturally they bring a great deal of money into Italy. If the ruins were repaired or pulled down they wouldn’t come, and the people would lose a good deal of their income.”

“That’s practical. That’s what I understand. But it seems foolish, after all. When Chicago burned down, a number of years ago, suppose they kept the ruins instead of building up again, everybody would have laughed at them.”

“There were no associations connected with the burned buildings of Chicago.”

“What’s associations, any way? They won’t pay your butcher’s bill.”

“Surely, Mr. Sanderson, if you could see the house once occupied by Julius Cæsar, for instance, you would be interested?”

“I don’t know that I would. Cæsar’s dead and gone, and I don’t believe any way that he was as great a man as General Jackson.”

“I see, Mr. Sanderson, you are hopelessly practical.”

“Yes, I’m practical, and I’m proud of it. There’s some folks that can write poetry, and leave their families to starve, because they can’t earn an honest penny. Why, I knew a man once named John L. Simpkins that could write poetry by the yard. He often writ poems for the Omaha papers, and never got a red cent for it. His folks had to support him, though he was strong and able to work.”

“I shouldn’t have much respect for a poet like that.”

“Nor I. He had a brother, Ephraim Simpkins, that kept a grocery store, and was forehanded. John fell in love with a girl and used to write poetry to her. Everybody thought she’d marry him. But when she found that he didn’t earn more’n three dollars a week she up and married his brother, the grocer, and that showed her to be a girl of sense.” When the travelers reached Ceprano, Mr. Cunningham suggested making an excursion to Isota and Arpino.

“At Isota,” he said, “we shall see the falls of the Liris, and at Arpino we shall see the site of Cicero’s villa.”

“Who was Cicero?” asked Amos Sanderson.

“Surely you must have heard of Cicero?” said Walter Cunningham, in surprise.

“Well, mebbe I have. What did he do?”

“He was a great orator.”

“Did he go to Congress?”

“There was no Congress in Rome. However, he was a consul – that is, one of the two rulers or presidents of Rome.”

“I’ll bet he couldn’t talk as well as Joseph L. Higgins, of Omaha. Why, that man can get up in a meeting and talk you deaf, dumb, and blind. The words will flow like a cataract.”

“I don’t think Cicero could talk like that,” said Bernard, smiling, “but I have read some of his orations, and they were very eloquent.”

“I’d like to match Joseph L. Higgins against him. I’d like to hear a specimen of Cicero’s speeches and judge for myself.”

“Here is a specimen,” said Bernard – “the beginning of his speech against Catiline: ‘Quousque tandem abntere Catilina patientia nostra.’”

“Why, that’s nothing but gibberish,” said Amos, in great disgust. “If Joseph L. Higgins should talk like that the people would fire bad eggs at him.”

“I hope you don’t object to visiting Cicero’s villa, Mr. Sanderson?”

“Oh, no, I’m ready to go wherever you and Bernard do. I suppose I must do the same as other people.”

“Your minister at home will be very much interested when you tell him you have visited the house where Cicero lived.”

“Do you think he ever heard of Cicero?”

“Oh, yes, all educated men have heard of him.”

“Then, I’ll take particular notice of it, and describe it to him.”

When they reached Cicero’s villa, however, Mr. Sanderson was not favorably impressed by it.

“For a president of Rome,” he said, “Cicero didn’t live very well. Why, for twenty-five dollars month he could get a house in Omaha with all the modern conveniences that would beat this by a long shot.”.

“They didn’t have modern conveniences at that time, Mr. Sanderson.”

“Then, I’m glad I didn’t live in them days. Give me the solid comfort of an Omaha house rather than all these marble pillars and ancient fandangos.”

“I am inclined to agree with you there, Mr. Sanderson,” said the young Englishman, laughing. “I enjoy seeing the remains of ancient edifices, but I think myself I should rather live in a nice English or American house.”

“From all I can see,” continued the American, “I’d rather be an alderman in Omaha than the biggest man in old Rome. Did they speak English?”

“No; English was not known.”

“How did they talk, then?”

“You haven’t forgotten the few words Bernard recited from one of Cicero’s orations?”

“No.”

“That was Latin, the language that was spoken at that time.”

“It’s the most foolish kind of gibberish I ever heard. There ain’t no language like English.”

“I prefer it myself to any other.”

“I should say so. I heard two Frenchmen jabbering the other day, shrugging their shoulders and waving their arms like windmills. It seemed awfully foolish.”

“They think their language much finer than English.”

“Then, they must be fools,” said Amos Sanderson scornfully. “Why, it made me think of monkeys, by hokey, it did!”

“Where did you receive your education, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Cunningham curiously.

“I went to a deestrict school till I was eleven. Then my father died, and I had to hustle. Didn’t have any time to study after that.”

“That’s the way most of your great men began, Mr. Sanderson.”

“I expect they did. Education isn’t everything. Why, the boy that stood at the head of my class is a clerk at fifteen dollars a week, while I have an income of fifteen thousand. He’s got a lot of book knowledge, but it hasn’t done him much good.”

This conversation will give some idea of the American’s peculiar ways of regarding everything foreign to his own experience. He could not like the Italian ruins, and this was not surprising. The inns on the route which they had selected were uncommonly poor, and the cookery was such as might have been expected from the comfortless surroundings.

One morning, however, Bernard and Mr. Cunningham were agreeably surprised by an excellent dish of ham and eggs.

“Really,” said Cunningham. “This seems something like what we get in England.”

“Or in America,” suggested Amos.

“Yes, or in America.”

“They must have an unusually good cook in this inn.”

“Thank you, squire,” said Sanderson, who seemed very much amused at something. “You do me proud.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I cooked the breakfast.”

“You!” exclaimed Cunningham and Bernard, in concert.

“Yes; I went out into the kitchen and scraped acquaintance with one of the understrappers who knows a little English, and I offered a piaster for the privilege of cooking the ham and eggs. They accepted the offer, and gave me what I needed. So here you see the result.”

“We missed you during the last half hour, but had no idea you were getting our breakfast Really, Mr. Sanderson, you have quite a genius for cookery.”

“I guess I could make a good living as a cook if I had to. Any way, if I couldn’t cook better than them furriners I’d be ashamed of myself.”

“I hope this isn’t the last time we are indebted to your skill.”

“Well, I don’t think I’d be willing to do it regular. It would be too much like work.”

Apart from the poor hotels the travelers enjoyed their leisurely journey. Sometimes they proceeded only fifteen miles a day. The trip was pleasant, but not exciting. The excitement was to come.

CHAPTER XXIX. CAPTURED BY BANDITTI

Though on joining the party Amos Sanderson had spoken of the possibility of encountering banditti, his companions had scarcely given a thought to the subject since. In the scenes of beauty through which they were passing such a possibility seemed incongruous, and no apprehension was felt. But danger there was, notwithstanding.

They had spent the night at a wretched inn in the town of Melfa, and proceeding on their way, passed on the left the picturesque town of Rocca Secca. About a mile beyond they were startled by the sudden appearance of three dark and swarthy Italians, who, darting from a clump of bushes at the wayside, seized one of the horses by the bridle, and pointing pistols at the party, called out in English in a menacing tone, “Money!”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” exclaimed the American, “here’s the banditti sure enough!”

Walter Cunningham looked troubled. It was a very disagreeable interruption.

“Look here, gentlemen bandits,” said Amos, “we haven’t any money to spare. We are only poor travelers. You have made a mistake. There’s some rich gentlemen on the road who will be here about this time to-morrow. You’d better wait for them.”

Of course all this was thrown away upon the Italians, who did not understand English, and frowned impatiently while Mr. Sanderson was speaking.

“Give up your money, and that at once,” said the foremost of the banditti.

He spoke in Italian, but Bernard, who had picked up some familiar phrases, understood and interpreted.

“Really this is very disagreeable,” said Cunningham.

“I wish they understood English. I’d argy a little with them,” added the American.

“I am afraid it wouldn’t do much good, Mr. Sanderson,” said Bernard. “They would probably shoot you for an answer.”

The party looked undecided. By way of hastening a decision one of the bandits came up to the door of the carriage, and holding his pistol in one hand, held out his hat in the other.

“I suppose we must surrender at discretion,” said the young Englishman. “They won’t make much of a haul in my case.”

“Nor in mine,” added Sanderson. “I have about enough money to last me as far as Naples, where I intend to call on my banker.”

“We had better give up what we have. It won’t ruin us.”

The American, who was pugnacious and liked to argue, yielded unwillingly. He and his companions emptied their pockets, and passed the contents over to the black-bearded fellow who acted as collector. He looked at the sum and frowned fiercely as he turned to his companions and spoke a few words to them.

“What does he say?” asked Amos Sanderson.

“I don’t understand,” said Bernard. “He talks too fast for me.”

Here Pasquale broke into the conversation.

“He says it isn’t enough,” he explained.

“But it is all we have. Tell him so.”

Pasquale put the message into Italian, and communicated it to his countrymen.

“Well, what does he say?” asked Walter Cunningham.

“He says it is not enough, and that you can get more.”

“Where can we get it?”

“He says you can get it at your bankers’.”

“Bring the bankers along, and we will ask them.”

“The signor will only anger them, and that will be bad.”

“How much in the name of wonder do they want?”

Pasquale repeated the question.

“They want five thousand scudi more,” he reported.

“How much is a scudi?” asked the American, turning to Cunningham.

“A dollar.”

“And the rascals want five thousand dollars? Jumping Jehoshaphat, haven’t they got cheek! Why do they ask so much of three poor travelers?”

Pasquale repeated the question, and received an answer.

“They say you are not poor, that one of you is a great English milord, and that you are a rich American.”

“I’d like to know how they found out I am rich,” said Amos, disgusted. “Have they seen my tax bill?”

“They say all Americans are rich.”

“That’s where they make a big mistake. I know plenty of men in Omaha that wouldn’t be worth a hundred dollars if their debts were paid. As to my friend here being a rich milord, I don’t know but he is. I am not a milord at all, but only a plain American citizen.”

“I am not a milord,” said Walter Cunningham, smiling. “However, I am aware that in Italy every Englishman who has money enough to travel is supposed to be a lord, just as every American is called rich.”

“They don’t say anything about me,” said Bernard. “I wonder whether they take me to be rich or a milord?”

“They don’t take account of you because you are a boy. They think you are related to Mr. Cunningham or myself.”

“I am willing to be overlooked.”

“I wonder if I could pass myself off for a boy,” said the American humorously.

“Hardly. You have lost too much hair.”

“The gentlemen are getting impatient,” said Pas-quale warningly.

“Are they? Well, I guess we shall take our time.”

“It will not be well to provoke them needlessly,” said Walter Cunningham. “You may tell them that we cannot give them five thousand scudi,” he added addressing the vetturino.

The bandits held a conference, but it was not prolonged. Evidently they were incensed at the contumacy of their victims.

After the conference, during which the three travelers were very anxious, they spoke to Pasquale, who communicated their decision.

“They say you must either make arrangements to pay the five thousand scudi, or go with them.”

“Where in thunder do they mean to carry us, Pasquale?”

“I don’t know. They would not tell if I asked them.”

“Tell them to take us along, then,” said Mr. Sanderson, leaning back in his seat and nodding obstinately.

Walter Cunningham seemed to acquiesce, and the answer was returned.

Immediately one of the bandits took his seat beside the vetturino and took the reins from him. The other two walked beside the carriage. The party turned off from the main road, and entered a lane leading up the hill to the left.

“Well, boys, we’re in for it, I s’pose,” said Amos Sanderson. “It’s too bad, I vow. Such things couldn’t be done in America under the Stars and Stripes.”

“Don’t robberies ever take place in the States?” asked Walter Cunningham.

“Well, perhaps so, but these fellows have not only robbed us of all we have, but are carrying us off because we won’t give them more. I’d just like to wrestle with them one by one. If I didn’t throw them, I’d be jiggered, that’s all.”

“I don’t think they would agree to any such plan. They carry pistols, and probably knives. They are more used to them than to wrestling.”

“No doubt you are right, milord,” said Amos, at which Cunningham laughed. “Where do you think they’re going to carry us?”

“They probably have some secret resort somewhere among these hills. We shall find out before long. What do you think of our adventure, Bernard?”

“I wish I knew how it was going to turn out, Walter,” returned Bernard soberly.

“So do I,” said the American. “I shall have to have a good think. I can’t think unless I have a smoke. Will you have a cigar, Cunningham?”

“No, thank you.”

“Or you, Bernard?”

“No, but it might be a good idea to offer cigars to our new friends.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll act on it.”

Mr. Sanderson took out a cigar, and, lighting it, put it in his mouth. Next he selected three others, offering the first to the man who sat beside the vetturino.

“Will you have a cigar, my friend?” he said.

The bandit took it, and said politely, “Grazia, signor.”

“What’s that?”

“He says ‘thank you,’” returned Bernard.

The other bandits accepted the cigars graciously, and were evidently more favorably inclined to the travelers they were escorting.

“I say, Bernard, we look like a friendly family party,” said Amos, who was amused by the situation.

The new driver was in no hurry. He drove in leisurely fashion, partly because their way ran up hill, partly because his two companions were obliged to walk, and could not otherwise keep up.

“I wish I knew where they were taking us,” said Amos Sanderson.

“To a free hotel,” answered Bernard.

“It’ll have to be free, for they haven’t left us any money to pay for that or anything else.”

“Their hotel can’t be much worse than the one we stopped at last night at Melfa.”

“I wish their bill might not be any larger,” said Walter Cunningham.

The cigars were smoked, and then the party subsided into silence. Even the lively American realized that they were in a difficult and perhaps dangerous situation. All three were busy with their own thoughts, Bernard was anxious, but he was also curious, and excited. He remembered to have read a story three years before in which a party had been surprised by banditti somewhere in Sicily. He forgot how the story ended. When he read it he certainly was very far from thinking that some time a similar adventure would happen to himself.

CHAPTER XXX. IN A TRAP

They proceeded thus for a short distance, when there was a sudden stop. The vetturino was ordered to descend from the driver’s seat, and he and the bandits had a conference.

Bernard was the only one of the party who understood Italian at all, and he failed to get any idea from the rapid words spoken by the four Italians. What they could be talking about not one of the party could conjecture.

At length the conference seemed to be over. One of the bandits took out a few scudi and handed them to the vetturino. The latter looked very much dissatisfied and had the appearance of one who was making a bad bargain.

Then the bandit who had taken the lead came to the door of the carriage.

“Gentlemen, you will descend,” he said.

“What’s that?” asked the American.

“He says we are to get out of the carriage,” interpreted Bernard.

“What’s that for, I wonder?”

“Probably we shall find out after a while.”

When the three travelers had left the carriage their traveling bags were taken from the vettura and placed in their hands.

Then Pasquale mounted the box and drove away. “Where are you going, Pasquale?” asked Walter Cunningham.

“I am obliged to go. The gentlemen will not allow me to go any further.”

“Will you inform the authorities of the outrage that has been perpetrated?” said the American. Pasquale shrugged his shoulders.

“It would be as much as my life is worth,” he replied.

“I suppose,” replied Cunningham, “that the bandits are unwilling to let the vetturino know their headquarters. So they have sent him away.”

“I believe he is in the plot.”

“I don’t think so. He seems an honest sort of fellow. But what can he do single handed? Should he betray these men, it would, as he says, be as much as his life is worth.”

The captives did not particularly enjoy carrying their baggage, and the American in particular grumbled not a little, but there seemed no help for it.

They ascended a rising ground, and then made a descent to a plain. After an hour’s walking, quite spent with fatigue, they reached a large, irregularly built stone house, which was in a state of partial ruin. It was very old, dating back probably to the middle ages.

“I wonder whether that is the bandits’ retreat?” said Bernard.

“At any rate, it is an improvement upon the hotel where we spent last night.”

The question was soon settled. Through a doorway the bandits led the way into a courtyard, and; crossing it, one of them took out a huge key and opened an oaken door.

He signed to the captives to follow him.

They did so, and found themselves in a spacious room nearly twenty-five feet square. The floor was of stone, and it was nearly bare of furniture. In one corner there was a heap of bedclothes. Along one side was a bench, on which Amos Sanderson seated himself without asking permission.

“I feel about ready to drop,” he said. “My valise is as heavy as yours and Bernard’s together.”

“Have you a dress suit?” asked Bernard, laughing. “If our captors should give a ball in our honor you might need it.”

“It doesn’t seem like a very gay place. I have never been in jail, but this room carries out my idea of a dungeon cell.”

The room was indeed a gloomy one. There were windows, it is true, but so high up that they only admitted a limited amount of sunshine.

“Now, how long are they going to keep us? That is what I would like to know; and what object have they in detaining us?”

“I suppose,” said Cunningham, “they will keep us till they get the five thousand scudi.”

“Then they’ll wait a long time, I reckon.”

The bandits left the room, taking care to fasten the door on the outside.

“Boys,” said Amos Sanderson, “I don’t mind admitting that I have never been more hungry in the whole course of my life.”

Bernard and Walter Cunningham agreed that their feelings harmonized with his.

“Suppose we order dinner,” said Bernard humorously.

“They will be sure to feed us,” observed Cunningham. “They won’t kill the goose from which they expect golden eggs.”

He proved to be right. In a short time the door was opened, and one of the bandits appeared, bringing a large loaf of black bread, with a small dish of olives, and a supply of macaroni. A quart bottle of sour wine completed the generous collation.

It was not very tempting. It was worse than, they had fared at any of the poor inns where they had lodged, yet Amos Sanderson’s face brightened when he saw the food, and he did full justice to it.

“I am so hungry that I really believe I could eat shoe leather,” he said.

Bernard and Walter Cunningham also ate with zest.

“Now I suppose they will bring in the bill,” said Amos Sanderson grimly.

But when the meal was over they were left to themselves for a time.

“Now that I have eaten I feel sleepy,” said the American. “I suppose that heap of rags in the corner is meant for a bed. I will make one.”

He picked up a narrow mattress, which had been rolled up before it was laid away, and spread it out on the floor. Then he selected a quilt, and, stretching himself out, spread it over him.

“That walk with my valise quite tuckered me out,” he said. “Just call me when the carriage is ready.” Bernard and Walter Cunningham could not so readily throw off the burden of anxiety. They sat together upon the bench and discussed the situation.

“We are in a bad scrape, Bernard,” said his friend, “and I have led you into it.”

“I think we will get out of it after a while,” said Bernard, trying to be cheerful.

“Yes; if absolutely necessary, I will persuade Mr. Sanderson to join me in paying the ransom, though I should hate to let these rascals reap the reward of their knavery.”

They were served with supper at six o’clock. Scarcely was this over when the three bandits entered the room, accompanied by a man of thirty-five or thereabouts, who looked like a clerk or bookkeeper. It was soon evident that he was present as an interpreter.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in tolerable English, “my friends here, who are not acquainted with your language, have asked me to act as interpreter. They wish to confer with you about your release.”

“That’s the talk,” said Amos Sanderson, with alacrity. “A release is what we are anxious about.”

“I may say that you won’t have to stay here any longer than you desire.”

“Then we’ll go now, and thank you for your consideration.”

“Upon conditions.”

Walter Cunningham smiled. He quite understood that there would be conditions.

“I suppose you want us to keep your secret,” said the American. “We’ll do it.”

“That is not quite all,” replied the interpreter. “My friends want to be paid for their trouble.”

“They needn’t have taken any trouble. We didn’t ask them to.”

The interpreter frowned slightly. He began to-think Mr. Sanderson “too fresh.”

“You talk too much,” he said curtly. “They have fixed your ransom at five thousand scudi. That is certainly small for such wealthy and illustrious signors.”

“Look here, my friend, five thousand scudi is a great deal of money.”

“Not for millionaires.”

“Who said we were millionaires?”

“All English and American signors are rich.”

“How are we to get the money to pay you? You, or your friends, rather, have taken all we have.”

“You can get some from your bankers in Naples.”

“You seem to have got our affairs down fine. Well, let us go to Naples – you can go with us if you like – and we’ll, see whether our bankers will let us have the money.”

“The signor takes us for fools.”

Here Mr. Cunningham thought it time to interfere, as the American was likely to anger their captors and upset all negotiations.

“Even if we have money,” he said, “it would probably be necessary for us to see our bankers. They do not know us, and might not give the money to a messenger.”

“Just what I said,” put in Mr. Sanderson.

The bandits conferred together, and then the interpreter spoke again.

“To whom does the boy belong?” he asked.

“To me,” answered Walter Cunningham.

“Is he known to your bankers?”

“No. He has never been in Naples.”

“Are you fond of him?”

“Very much so.”

“If he should go to Naples with a letter from you, could he get the money?”

“I am not sure.”

“Then I am not sure about your release.”

“Mr. Sanderson, will you join me in paying the ransom this gentleman has mentioned?”