experience was not always to be found easily. I looked after them with dazed, misty eyes. One, two, three, four.
"Dominic, where's Cesar?" I cried.
As if repulsing the very sound of the name, the Padrone made that ample, sweeping, knocking-down gesture. I stepped back a pace and stared at him fearfully. His open shirt uncovered his muscular neck and the thick hair on his chest. He planted the oar upright in the soft soil, and rolling up slowly his right sleeve, extended the bare arm before my face.
"This," he began, with an extreme deliberation, whose superhuman restraint vibrated with the suppressed violence of his feelings, "is the arm which delivered the blow. I am afraid it is your own gold that did the rest. I forgot all about your money." He clasped his hands together in sudden distress. "I forgot, I forgot," he repeated disconsolately.
"Cesar stole the belt?" I stammered out, bewildered.
"And who else? Canallia! He must have been spying on you for days. And he did the whole thing. Absent all day in Barcelona. Traditore! Sold his jacket—to hire a horse. Ha! ha! A good affair! I tell you it was he who set him at us. . . ."
Dominic pointed at the sea, where the guardacosta was a mere dark speck. His chin dropped on his breast.
". . . On information," he murmured, in a gloomy voice. "A Cervoni! Oh! my poor brother! . . ."
"And you drowned him," I said feebly.
"I struck once, and the wretch went down like a stone—with the gold. Yes. But he had time to read in my eyes that nothing could save him while I was alive. And had I not the right—I, Dominic Cervoni, Padrone, who brought him aboard your fellucca—my nephew, a traitor?"
He pulled the oar out of the ground and helped me
