The Duke dictated what he should say, although he was allowed to express the words in his own characteristic style, and he followed his instructions implicitly, secretly admiring the shrewdness of the brigand's methods.
It was now Ferralti's turn.

He had just seated himself at the table and taken the pen when they were startled by a shrill scream from the rear of the house.

It was followed by another, and another, in quick succession.
It was Tato's voice, and the duke gave an answering cry and sprang from the veranda to dart quickly around the corner of the house.

Uncle John followed him, nearly as fearful as the child's father.
Tommaso seized a short rifle that stood near and ran around the house in the other direction, when Ferralti, who for a moment had seemed dazed by the interruption, followed Tommaso rather than the others.
As they came to the rear they were amazed to see the old Duchessa, whom they had known to be feeble and dependent upon her women, rush through the garden hedge with the agility of a man, bearing in her arms the struggling form of little Tato.
The child screamed pitifully, but the woman glared upon Tommaso and Ferralti, as she passed them, with the ferocity of a tiger.
"She is mad!" cried Ferralti.

"Quick, Tommaso; let us follow her." The brigand bounded forward, with the young man scarce a pace behind him.