It was decided that Cunningham himself should go to Naples, carrying with him not only his own letter of credit, but Amos Sanderson’s as well. He was to draw three thousand scudi on his own account, and two thousand on account of the American, and come back with this sum, on the receipt of which the three would be released.

“If you don’t come back,” said the interpreter, “this gentleman and the boy will have to take a long journey.”

“Where?” asked Amos Sanderson, with some curiosity.

“To the next world,” answered the interpreter grimly.

“Mr. Cunningham, you will not fail us?” said Sanderson nervously.

“You may rely on me. What do you take me for?”

“I thought perhaps when you found yourself at liberty you would choose to remain so. You have no particular interest in me.”

“Even if that were so, do you think I would leave Bernard exposed to danger?”

“Enough said. I am sure now that you will return. But,” continued the American, who was inclined to be suspicious, “perhaps these gentlemen, when they get the money, will keep us and demand another ransom.”

This was interpreted to the bandits, who looked angry.

“Tell the signor,” said the chief proudly, “that we are men of honor. When we give our word we keep it.”

“I have heard that there is honor among thieves,” muttered Sanderson.

“What does he say?” asked the chief suspiciously.

“What did you say, signor?” inquired the interpreter.

“I said that you looked like men of honor.”

“That is well. You will not be disappointed.”

In half an hour Walter Cunningham was on his way to Naples. The door was again bolted on the outside, and Bernard and Amos Sanderson were left to their reflections.

“This ain’t exactly cheerful, Bernard,” said Amos. “Here we are, free born American citizens, locked up as if we were criminals. It ain’t very creditable to any country to have such things going on. I’d like to have a short interview with the king of Italy.”

“What would you say to him?”

“What would I say? I’d give him a piece of my mind. I’d tell him that he didn’t know how to govern.”

“Probably he can’t stop this brigandage.”

“Then he ought to resign, and let somebody fill his place that could stop it. Do you think if old General Jackson were king that he would let these rascals stop and plunder travelers? However, the time will come when there will be a different government.”

“Do you think so, Mr. Sanderson?”

“Yes, I do.”.

“When will that be?”

“When Italy is under the Stars and Stripes.” Bernard looked surprised.

“Surely you don’t think that will ever happen?”

“I am sure of it,” said Amos Sanderson, in a positive tone. “It’s the manifest destiny of the United States to annex the rest of the world. Within fifty years England will form a part of the great American republic.”

“I wonder what Mr. Cunningham would say to that?”

“He would deny it, it’s likely. These Britishers are mighty conceited.”

“Perhaps he would think it more likely that we should belong to Great Britain.”

“Never! England tried to conquer us twice, and she got whipped each time.”

“I am glad of one thing,” said Bernard, smiling.

“And what is that?”

“That we shan’t have to stay here till the Stars and Stripes float over Italy.”

“I don’t know as I should care to wait, myself. I don’t say it will be soon. You may be an old man before it happens. But it’s bound to come some day.”

“I wonder how soon we may expect Mr. Cunningham back. Do you know how long it will take to go to Naples?”

“No, but it isn’t very far. Perhaps we shall see him back in three days.”

“I don’t expect him so soon. He will have to see the bankers.”

“Look here, Bernard,” said the American, after a pause, “I have been thinking that we might find some way of escape.”

Bernard shook his head.

“What good would it do?” he rejoined. “Mr. Cunningham wouldn’t know of it, and he would bring the money. When he does that we shall be released at any rate.”

Amos Sanderson was impressed by this consideration, and no longer allowed his mind to dwell on plans of escape.

Meals were served to the captives twice a day. This was probably as often as the bandits ate themselves, for of all nations Italians are perhaps the least fond of the pleasures of the table, and probably eat scarcely more than half as much as an average Englishman or American. They treated their captives as well as themselves, but this did not satisfy Amos Sanderson, who from his boyhood had been a hearty eater.

“They might as well feed us on bread and water and be done with it,” he said. “When I get through eating I am just as hungry as before. It’s as bad as prison fare.”

“Well, Mr. Sanderson, we are prisoners, are we not?”

“But not convicts. They might remember that we are gentlemen.”

Bernard was not as much disturbed by the scanty fare as his companion. True, he would have liked more abundant meals, but he had patience and reflected that the present inconvenience would probably last only a short time. Nevertheless, he and Amos Sanderson counted the days, and every morning said to each other: “One more day is past. It won’t be long before Mr. Cunningham returns, and we are released.”

“If he does come back,” suggested Sanderson.

“Do you doubt that he is honorable?” asked Bernard angrily.

“Well, no; but the temptation is great. If he stays away he will be five thousand scudi in, and be his own master besides.”

“Would you yield to any such temptation?”

“No.”

“Then you doubt whether he is as honorable as yourself?”

“Don’t get riled, Bernard. I can’t help thinking how much depends on your friend’s return.”

“He will return. You needn’t be afraid.”

But when the sixth morning came, and Mr. Cunningham was still absent, even Bernard became somewhat anxious.

“Well, he isn’t here yet,” said the American significantly.

“No.”

“Do you still have confidence in him?”

“Certainly.”

“All I can say, then, is that he isn’t hurrying much. Why, it isn’t far to Naples. If I had gone I’ll guarantee I would have been back within three days.”

Bernard did not answer.

“I notice you don’t look so chipper as you did.”

“No. I have just as much confidence in Mr. Cunningham, but he may have met with some accident.”

“Very likely,” said Amos Sanderson sarcastically. “Or, he may have fallen into the hands of another gang of bandits on his way here.”

“It won’t be very lucky for us if he has. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

There was another cause for anxiety. The bandits, who, during the first three or four days, had treated their captives politely and even courteously, now wore a different expression. They looked gloomy and frowned ominously when they entered the apartment where their captives were confined. They made no conversation with them, but their looks were hostile. Finally – it was on the morning of the seventh day – they entered the room in a body, accompanied by the interpreter.

They took seats, and the interpreter addressed himself to Mr. Sanderson.

“Signor,” he said, “your friend has not returned.”

“I know it, and I am blamed sorry for it.”

“This is the seventh day since he started.”

“Correct, squire. It seemed as much as seven weeks to me.”

“Naples is not far off,” continued the interpreter significantly.

“That’s so.”

“Don’t you think he has had time to go there and return?”

“Yes, I do,” blurted out Sanderson. “I think he’s been infernally slow. If you’d only let me go instead of him I’d have been back long ago.”

“I see the signor agrees with me. He has been gone much longer than is necessary.”

“I think so, too.”

“Perhaps there has been some accident,” suggested Bernard.

“My friends are not willing to wait much longer,” said the interpreter.

“I don’t see that we can do anything to hurry him back.”

“No, but if he should delay another day it might be very uncomfortable for you and the boy.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that if he is not here by to-morrow we will think that he does not mean to come at all.”

“And what then?”

The interpreter shrugged his shoulders.

“Probably the signor can conjecture?”

“You will keep us in captivity then?”

“No, we will give you a passport to another world.”

“You will murder us?” inquired Amos Sanderson, horror-struck, for he had a natural love for the world in which his money secured him a liberal share of enjoyment.

“The signor has said it.”

“Why, that would be outrageous!” exclaimed the American, big drops of perspiration forming on his forehead.

“Then your friend should come back with the money.”

“But it won’t be our fault if he does not.”

“True, but it will be very disagreeable for you.”

“Look here, what good is it going to do you to kill me?” asked Amos Sanderson, in an argumentative tone.

“I don’t care to argue. Our friends here wish to prepare you for the worst. If your friend does not appear to-morrow at noon you and the boy must die.”

“Do you hear that, Bernard?” asked Sanderson.

“Yes,” answered Bernard, in a low voice.

The boy’s face was pale, and a feeling of awe was in his heart as he felt that the end of his life might be near. He did not feel inclined to argue the matter like Sanderson, but he inwardly prayed for Walter Cunningham’s return.

CHAPTER XXXII. SUSPENSE

Neither Bernard nor his companion slept much that night. Both realized that it might be the last night of their lives. Bernard felt solemn, but mingled with Sanderson’s alarm and anxiety was a feeling of intense anger against Walter Cunningham for his desertion of them.

“It is a mean, contemptible trick that Cunningham has played upon us,” he said. “For the sake of saving his paltry money he has doomed us both to death.”

“I am sure it isn’t his fault.”

“Oh, you may excuse him if you will. I won’t do it. I understand him better than you do.”

“I don’t feel like disputing you,” said Bernard gravely, “but I know him well, and I am sure he would not leave me in the lurch.”

They tossed about on their beds and neither one slept. They woke and rose unrefreshed.

Breakfast was brought them, but neither could eat a mouthful.

“I can’t eat anything. It would choke me,” said Sanderson.

“Walter Cunningham may come yet,” said Bernard, but his hope was very faint.

“Then he had better hurry, that’s all I have got to say. I wish I could communicate with the American minister. Our government should send over a fleet of war vessels and blow Naples sky high.”

“You must remember that these men are outlaws – that it is their work, and not the work of the government.”

“Then the government should suppress them. I wish,” Amos Sanderson continued, with a groan, “that I had never set foot in this forsaken country. I should have stood a better chance in a savage land.”

“The signor is not hungry?” said the bandit who had brought in the breakfast. He spoke in Italian, but Bernard understood.

“No,” he answered, “we are not hungry.”

“How can you expect a man to have an appetite when he’s going to be murdered?” growled Sanderson.

The bandit did not understand, and merely looked at him gravely.

“It’s too bad,” went on the American, “to leave the world, when a man has made a fortune and is able to enjoy it. Why, I ought to live twenty-five years yet. I am only forty-seven.”

“And I am not yet seventeen,” said Bernard.

“Yes, it’s hard luck for us both. And to think Cunningham has doomed us to all this! I’d like to wring his neck. If I had gone it would have been different.”

Bernard felt too despondent to defend his friend. In his secret heart he felt that Cunningham ought to have managed somehow to come back and save them from the doom which now awaited them.

“It is half past eleven,” said the American, drawing out his watch, which, perhaps because it was only of silver, the bandits had not confiscated.

“Then we have half an hour to live. If only Mr. Cunningham would appear in that time!” sighed Bernard.

Slowly the minutes passed, but there was no arrival.

Punctually at twelve o’clock the door opened and the bandits entered, accompanied by the interpreter. There was a stern gravity upon the faces of the three Italians, which caused the hearts of the captives to sink within them.

“Well,” said the interpreter, “your friend has not come.”

“No, confound him!” exclaimed Sanderson fiercely. “I’d like to strangle him.”

“Give him another day,” pleaded Bernard. “He must have met with some delay.”

The interpreter shrugged his shoulders.

“Naples is only fifteen miles away, and it is now the seventh day. Doubtless he is enjoying himself. He has no thought of returning.”

“I have no doubt you are right,” said Amos Sanderson bitterly.

“The signor agrees with me, then.”

“You should have let me go.”

“Would it have been any better?” asked the interpreter gravely.

“Yes. I give you my word it would.”

Then a sudden thought came to Mr. Sanderson.

“Look here,” he said, “you want money, don’t you?”

“That is what we want.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Send me to Naples, and I’ll bring you five thousand scudi. I’ll hurry back as soon as I can.”

“Does the signor take us for fools? We have lost one of our prisoners. Shall we let another go?”

“But you will have the boy left.”

“Well?”

“If I don’t come back you will have him in your power.”

Bernard looked at Amos Sanderson.

He was not especially pleased with his proposal, nor did he feel in the least certain that he would come back. Still, his life would be prolonged, and that would lead to something. Possibly it would give Walter Cunningham time to return.

“I am willing to be left,” he said, “if you choose to let this gentleman go.”

“You’re a trump, Bernard!” said Mr. Sanderson cordially. “I’ll come back, I assure you. You see the boy is willing.”

“But we are not,” said the interpreter decidedly. “Of the three the boy is the last one that we wish to retain.”

“But you want the money, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me go.”

“How will the signor get the money?”

“From my bankers.”

“But you gave your letter of credit to the other signor.”

“So I did,” said Amos Sanderson, with sudden recollection.

“And without your letter of credit you could get no money.”

Amos Sanderson was silent. He had no answer to make. He had still harder thoughts in his heart of Walter Cunningham, whom he accused of the basest treachery.

“Have you any more to say?” asked the interpreter.

“No,” answered Sanderson sullenly.

“And you?” turning to Bernard.

“I ask you to wait another day.”

“We cannot do it. It is clear that Signor Cunningham will not return.”

At a signal one of the bandits went to the door and opened it.

“Follow me,” said the interpreter.

Bernard and Sanderson had been so long confined that they were glad to pass through the portal into the bright sunshine without.

“Now what are you going to do with us?” asked the American.

“You can choose in what way you will die. Shall it be by the knife or the pistol?”

Just then Bernard turned his head. He uttered a joyful exclamation.

“Look!” he said in delight, “there he comes! There is Walter Cunningham.”

A dozen rods away could be seen the figure of their missing companion. He seemed to be extremely fatigued, and his clothing was covered with dust.

“I knew he would come,” said Bernard triumphantly.

CHAPTER XXXIII. RESCUED

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.