Giovanni was brutal for once; he longed to wring the fellow's neck, or to give him up to Gouacho and the Zouaves.

The tones of Ugo's voice reminded him of injuries not so old as to be yet forgotten.

But he smothered his wrath and strode on, having promised his wife to save the wretch, much against his will.

It was a quarter of an hour before they reached the works, the longest quarter of an hour Del Ferice remembered in his whole life.

Neither spoke a word.