The Italian said nothing, but his lips moved, and his lowering brow was
as expressive as words could be to his old comrade.

It boded ill for Jefferson.

They had met in fair fight, and he, Toro, had been defeated.

That defeat was as bitter as gall to him.

He would be avenged.

And if he could not cope with the doughty Anglo-American, then let him
look to it.

What strength and skill failed to achieve, the assassin's knife would
accomplish.

"Did you see the girl that attended him to the gate?" demanded the
mendicant friar, or Hunston, as it would be better to call him, since
there is no further need of concealment.

"I did."

"And recognised her, Mathias?" he asked of the brigand captain.

"Yes; it is the pretty girl we stopped with her lover, the coy
Marietta."

"Now that they are well off, we may as well set to work," said Hunston.