He drew back his head a little bit, as if startled, and stared at her.

“My dear young lady—­”

But her courage had not returned to her for nothing.  She raised the beautiful, dark, pathetic eyes, and regarded him with an indignant fearlessness.

“That is what any one might guess,” she said.  “But there is more.  Signore, you and your friends meditate the assassination of the King of Italy! and you call on an Englishman—­an Englishman who has no love of secret and blood-stained ways—­”

“Stefan!” the mother cried, quickly, and she placed her hand on the general’s arm; “do not be angry.  Do not heed her—­she is a child—­she is quick to speak.  Believe me, there are other reasons for our coming to you.”

“Yes, yes, my friend Natalie; all in good time.  But I am most anxious to put myself right with the signorina your daughter first of all.  Now, my dear young lady,” he said, taking her hand, and putting it on his arm, and gently compelling her to walk with him toward the opener space where the sea-air was cool, “I again apologize to you for having spoken unwittingly—­”

“Oh, signore, do not trouble about that!  It is no matter of courtesy or politeness that is in the question:  it is the life of one of one’s dearest friends.  There are other times for politeness.”

“Stefan,” the mother interposed, anxiously, “do not heed her—­she is agitated.”

“My dear Natalie,” said the general, smiling, “I admire a brave woman as I admire a brave man.  Do not I recognize another of you Berezolyis?  The moment you think one of your friends is being wronged, fire and water won’t prevent you from speaking out.  No, no, my dear young lady,” he said, turning to the daughter, “you cannot offend me by being loyal and outspoken.”

He patted her hand, just as Calabressa had done.

“But I must ask you to listen for a moment, to remove one or two misconceptions.  It is true I know something of the service which your English friend has undertaken to perform.  Believe me, it has nothing to do with the assassination of the King of Italy—­nothing in the world.”

She lifted her dark eyes for a second, and regarded him steadily.

“I perceive,” said he, “that you pay me the compliment of asking me if I lie.  I do not.  Reassure yourself:  there are no people in this country more loyal to the present dynasty than my friends and myself.  We have no time for wild Republican projects.”

She looked somewhat bewildered.  This speculation as to the possible nature of the service demanded of George Brand had been the outcome of many a night’s anxious self-communing; and she had indulged in the wild hope that this man, when abruptly challenged, might have been startled into some avowal.  For then, would not her course have been clear enough?  But now she was thrown back on her former perplexity, with only the one certainty present to her mind—­the certainty of the danger that confronted her lover.