# Mathias Sandorf/Page 14

Mathias Sandorf.

## CHAPTER VI. ON BOARD THE “SAVARENA.”

The doctor was in no such hurry to leave Gravosa as Mme. Bathory imagined. After endeavoring in vain to help the mother, he resolved to try and help the son. If up to then Pierre Bathory had not found the post for which his brilliant acquirements fitted him, he would probably not refuse the doctor's offers. To put him in a position worthy of his talents, worthy of the name he bore, was not an act of charity, if was only an act of justice to the young man!
But as Borik had said, Pierre Bathory had gone to Zara on business.
The doctor wrote to him without delay. He wrote that same day. The letter stated that he would be glad to receive Pierre Bathory on board the “Savarena,” having a proposition to make that might interest him.
The letter was posted at Gravosa, and all that could be done then was to wait for the young engineer's return. Meanwhile the doctor continued to live more retired than ever on board the schooner. The “Savarena,” moored in the center of the harbor, with her crew never coming ashore, was as isolated as if she were in the center of the Mediterranean or the Atlantic.
This was a peculiarity that much exercised the minds of the curious, reporters and others, who had never given up all hope of interviewing the mysterious owner, although they had not yet been allowed on board the yacht, which was almost as much a mystery as himself. As Point Pescade and Cape Matifou occasionally had shore-leave, they often found themselves quite an attraction to the reporters desirous of obtaining a particle or two of information that might bear working up.
We know that with Point Pescade a certain amount of fun had been introduced on board the schooner, and if Cape Matifou remained as serious as the capstan, of which he had the strength, Pescade, laughing and singing all day long, was as lively as a man-of-war pennant. When active as a seaman and agile as a cabin-boy, he was not clambering about the spars to the delight of the crew, to whom he was delivering a series of lessons on ground and lofty tumbling, he was amusing them by his interminable jokes. Dr. Antekirtt had recommended him to retain his cheerful spirits. And he kept them and yet parted with them to others.
We have said above that he and Cape Matifou often had shore-leave. They in fact were free to come and go as they pleased. The rest of the crew remained on board, they could go ashore, when they pleased. And hence the very natural propensity of the curious to follow them and attempt to draw them into conversation. But they could get nothing out of Point Pescade, whether he wished to be silent or to speak, for he had really nothing to tell.
“Who is your Dr. Antekirtt?”
“A famous physician! He can cure all your complaints—even those you are going to take with you to the other world!”
“Is he rich?”
“Hasn't got a half-penny! I lend him something to go on with every Sunday!”
“But where does he come from?”
“Why, from no one knows where!”
“And where is that?”
“All I can tell you about it is that it is bordered on the north by something big, and on the south by nothing at all!”
Evidently there was not much to be got out of the laughing companion of Cape Matifou, who for his part remained as dumb as a lump of granite.
But although they said nothing to strangers, the two friends, between themselves, often had a talk about their new master. They liked him already, and they liked him very much. Between them and the doctor there was a sort of chemical affinity, a cohesion which from day to day bound them more firmly together.
And each morning they waited to be called into the cabin to hear him say—
“My friends, I have need of you.”
But nothing came—to their vexation.
“Is this sort of thing going on much longer?” asked Point Pescade. “It is rather hard to remain doing nothing when you have not been brought up to it, eh, Cape?”
“Yes, your arms get rusty,” answered Hercules, looking at his enormous biceps motionless as the rods of an engine at rest.
“Shall I tell you something, Cape Matifou?”
“Tell me what you like.”
“Do you know what I think about Dr. Antekirtt?”
“No, but tell me, and that will help me to answer you.”
“Well, that in his past life there have been things—things! Look at his eyes, which every now and then give a glance that, almost blinds you like the lightning! And when the thunder rolls—”
“It makes a noise.”
“Exactly, Cape Matifou, a noise—and I fancy we shall come in useful at that game.”
It was not without reason that Point Pescade spoke in this way. Although the most complete calm reigned on board the schooner, the intelligent little fellow could not help noticing certain things which set him thinking. Nothing could be more evident than that the doctor was not a simple tourist on a yacht cruise in the Mediterranean. The “Savarena” was the center of a web of many threads whose ends were held in the hands of her mysterious owner.
Letters and dispatches seemed to arrive from every corner of the mighty sea whose waters bathe the shores of so many different countries. They came from the French coast, the Spanish coast, the coast of Morocco, of Algiers and Tripoli. Who sent them? Evidently correspondents occupied on certain matters, the gravity of which could not be mistaken unless they were patients consulting the celebrated doctor by correspondence, which did not seem to be probable.
In the telegraph office at Ragusa, the meaning of these messages was a mystery, for they were in an unknown tongue, of which the doctor alone seemed to know the secret. And even when the language was intelligible, what sense could be made out of such phrases as:
   “Almeira. They thought they were on the track of Z. R. False trail now abandoned.”
   “Recovered the correspondent of H. V. 5. * * * Connected with troop K. 3 between Catania and Syracuse. To follow.”
   “In the Manderaggio, La Valetta, Malta, have verified the passage T. R. 7.”
   “Cyrene. Wait fresh orders. Flotilla of Antek—ready. ‘Electric No. 3’ under pressure day and night.”
   “R. O. 3. Since death. Both disappeared.”
And this other telegram containing some special news by means of an agreed upon number:
   “2,117. Sare. Formerly a broker. Service Toronth. Ceased connection Tripoli of Africa.”
And to nearly all these dispatches there was sent from the “Savarena”:
   “Let the search proceed. Spare neither money nor trouble. Send new papers.”
Here was an exchange of incomprehensible correspondence that seemed to embrace the whole circuit of the Mediterranean. The doctor was not as much at leisure as he wished to appear. Notwithstanding the professional secrecy, it was difficult to prevent the fact of this interchange of mysterious telegrams from becoming known to the public, and hence a redoubling of the curiosity about this enigmatic individual.
In the upper circles of Ragusa Silas Toronthal was perhaps the most perplexed of men. On the quay at Gravosa he had met the doctor a few minutes after the “Savarena” arrived. During this meeting he had experienced in the first place a strong feeling of repulsion, and in the second an equally strong feeling of curiosity, which up to the present circumstances had not allowed the banker to gratify.
To tell the truth, the doctor's presence had had a disturbing influence on Toronthal which he could not explain. By preserving the incognito at Ragusa, and continuing the difficulty of access, the banker's desire to see him again had been greatly increased; and several times he had gone to Gravosa. There he had stood on the quay, looking at the schooner, and burning with envy to get on board. One day even he had been rowed out to her, and received the invariable reply:
“Dr. Antekirtt does not see anybody.”
The result of all this was that Toronthal felt a sort of chronic irritation in face of an obstacle he could not overcome. And so, at his own expense, he set a detective to watch, if the mysterious stranger made any visits in Gravosa or the neighborhood.
We may judge, therefore, of the uneasiness with which the banker heard that Borik had had an interview with the doctor, and that the day following a visit had been made to Mme. Bathory.
“Who is this man?” he asked himself.
But what had he to fear in his present position? For fifteen years nothing had transpired of his former machinations. And yet anything referring to the family of those lie had betrayed and sold rendered him uneasy. If remorse never troubled his conscience fear occasionally did, and the appearance of this doctor, powerful owing to his fame and powerful owing to his wealth, was anything but reassuring to him.
“But who is this man?” he repeated. “Who is he that comes to Ragusa and visits Madame Bathory? Did she send for him as a physician? What can she and he have in common?”
To this there could be no answer. One thing comforted Toronthal a little, and that was that the visit to Mme. Bathory was not repeated.
The banker had made up his mind that cost what it might he would make the doctor's acquaintance. The thought possessed him day and night. By a kind of illusion to which overexcited brains are subject he fancied that he would recover his peace of mind if he could only see Dr. Antekirtt, talk to him and ascertain the motives of his arrival at Gravosa. And he sought about for some way of obtaining an interview.
And he thought he had found it, and in this way. For many years Mme. Toronthal had suffered from a languer which the Ragusan doctors were powerless to overcome. In spite of all their advice, in spite of all the attentions of her daughter, Mme. Toronthal was not quite bedridden but she was visibly wasting away. Was her complain, due to mental causes? Perhaps, but no one had been able to discover it. The banker alone was aware that his wife, owing to her knowledge of his past life, had conceived an invincible disgust at an existence which filled her with horror. Whatever might be the cause of Mme. Toronthal's state of health, which had puzzled the doctors of the town, seemed to afford the banker the opportunity he desired for entering into communication with the owner of the “Savarena;” and he wrote a letter and sent it off to the schooner by a messenger. “He would be glad,” he said, “to have the advice of a physician of such undoubted distinction.”
Then apologizing for the inconvenience it would occasion to one living in such retirement, he begged Dr. Antekirtt “to appoint a time when he could expect him at his house in the Stradone.”
When the doctor received this letter in the morning he looked first at the signature, and then not a muscle of his face moved. He read the letter through to the last line and yet nothing showed the thoughts it suggested.
What reply should he give? Should he take advantage of the opportunity to visit Toronthal's house, and become acquainted with his family? But to enter the house even in the character of a physician, would that not embarrass his future action?
The doctor hesitated not a moment. He answered by a very short note which was handed to the banker's servant. All it said was:
   “Dr. Antekirtt regrets that he is unable to attend Madame Toronthal. He does not practice in Europe.”
When the banker received this laconic reply he crumpled it in his hand in his vexation. It was evident that the doctor would have nothing to do with him. It was a transparent refusal indicative of a settled plan.
“And then,” said he to himself, “if he does not practice in Europe why did he go to Madame Bathory—if it was in the character of a physician that he went to her? What was he doing there? What is there between them?”
The uncertainty worried Toronthal exceedingly. His life had become a burden to him since the doctor had appeared at Gravosa, and would continue to be so until the “Savarena” had sailed. He said not a word to his wife or daughter about his futile letter. He kept his anxiety to himself. But he did not give up watching the doctor's movements, and kept himself informed of all his proceedings at Gravosa and Ragusa.
The very next day came a new and equally serious cause of alarm.
Pierre Bathory had returned, disappointed, to Zara. He had not been able to accept the position that had been offered to him—the management of important smelting works at Herzegovina.
“The terms would not suit me.” This was all he said to his mother. Mme. Bathory did not think it worth while to ask why the terms were unacceptable; a look sufficed her. Then she handed him a letter that had arrived during his absence.
This was the letter in which Dr. Antekirtt asked Pierre Bathory to visit him on board the “Savarena” to discuss a proposal he was in a position to make to him.
Pierre Bathory handed the letter to his mother. The doctor's offer was no surprise to her.
“I was expecting that,” she said.
“You expected this?” asked the young man in astonishment.
“Yes, Pierre!—Dr. Antekirtt came to see me while you were away.”
“Do you know who this man is, then, that everybody is talking about at Ragusa?”
“No; but Dr. Antekirtt knew your father, and he was the friend of Count Sandorf and Count Zathmar, and that character he came here.”
“Mother,” asked Pierre, “what proof did the doctor give that he was my father's friend?”
“None,” answered Mme. Bathory, who did not care to mention the hundred thousand florins that she wished to keep secret from all but herself and the doctor.
“And suppose he is some informer, some spy, some Austrian detective?”
“You will see that.”
“Do you advise me to go, then?”
“Yes that is my advice. We should not neglect a man who is desirous of befriending you for the friendship he bore your father.”
“But what has he come to Ragusa for?” asked Pierre. “Has he any business in this country?”
“Perhaps he thinks of doing something. He is supposed to be very rich, and it is possible that he thinks of offering you a post worth accepting.”
“I will go and see him and find out.”
“Go to-day then, and at the same time return the visit that I am unable to return myself.”
Pierre embraced his mother, and it seemed as he lingered near her as though some secret was choking him—some secret that he dare not tell. What was there in his heart so sad and serious that he dare not confide it to his mother?
“My poor child!” murmured Mme. Bathory.
It was one o'clock in the afternoon when Pierre entered the Stradone on his way to the harbor of Gravosa. As he passed Toronthal's house he stopped for an instant—only for an instant. He looked up at one of the wings, the windows of which opened on to the road. The blinds were drawn. Had the house been uninhabited it could not have been more shut up.
Pierre Bathory continued his walk, which he had rather slackened than stopped. But his movements had not escaped the notice of a woman who was watching on the opposite side of the Stradone.
She was above the usual height. Her age? Between forty and fifty. Her walk? Almost mechanical. This foreigner—her nationality could be easily seen from her brown frizzled hair and Moorish complexion—was wrapped in a dark colored cloak, with its hood thrown over her head-dress ornamented with its sequins. Was she a Bohemian, a Gitana, a Gypsy, an Egyptian or a Hindoo? So many types did she resemble that it was difficult to say Anyhow she was not asking for charity and did not look as though she would accept any. She was there on her own account, or on the account of somebody else, watching not only what went on at Toronthal's, but also what took place in the Rue Marinella.
As soon as she caught sight of the young man coming into the Stradone and walking toward Gravosa, she followed so as to keep him in view; but so adroitly that he was unaware of her proceedings. Besides, he was too much occupied to bother himself with what was taking place behind him. When he slackened his pace in front of Toronthal's the woman slackened hers. When he started on again she started on, suiting her pace to his.
Reaching the first gate at Ragusa, Pierre strode through it swiftly, but not swiftly enough to distance the stranger. Once through the gate she found him hurrying on to Gravosa, and twenty yards behind him she followed down the avenue.
At the same moment Silas Toronthal was returning to Ragusa in a covered carriage, so that he could not avoid meeting Pierre.
Seeing them both the Moor stopped for a moment. “Perhaps,” she thought, “they will have something to say to each other.” And so with kindling eyes she slipped behind a neighboring tree. But if the men were to speak how could she hear what they said?
They did not speak. Toronthal had seen Pierre twenty yards before he reached him, and instead of replying with the haughty salute he had used on the quay at Gravosa when his daughter was with him, he turned away his head as the young man raised his hat and his carriage drove rapidly on toward Ragusa.
The stranger lost nothing of this little scene; and a feeble smile animated her impassible face.
Pierre, more in sorrow than anger, continued his walk without turning back to look after Toronthal.
The Moor followed him from afar, and might have been heard to mutter in Arabic:
“It is time that he came!”

## CHAPTER VII. THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA.

A quarter of an hour afterward Pierre arrived on the quays of Gravosa. For a few minutes he stopped to admire the schooner, whose burgee was lazily fluttering from the mainmast-head.
“Whence comes this Dr. Antekirtt?” he said to himself. “I do not know that flag.”
Then addressing himself to a pilot who was standing near, he asked:
“Do you know what flag that is?”
The pilot did not know. All he could say about the schooner was that she had come from Brindisi, and that all her papers had been found correct by the harbor-master; and as she was a pleasure yacht the authorities had respected her incognito.
Pierre Bathory then hired a boat and was rowed off to the “Savarena,” while the Moor, very much surprised, watched him as he neared the yacht.
In a few minutes the young man had set foot on the schooner's deck and asked if Dr. Antekirtt was on board. Doubtless the order which denied admittance to strangers did not apply to him, for the boatswain immediately replied that the doctor was in his room. Pierre presented his card and asked if he could see the doctor. A sailor took the card and disappeared down the companion which led to the aft saloon. A minute afterward he returned with the message that the doctor was expecting Mr. Pierre Bathory.
The young man was immediately introduced into a saloon where only a half light found its way in through the curtains overhead. But when he reached the double doors both of which were wide open, the light from the glass panels at the end shone on him strong and full.
In the half-shadow was Dr. Antekirtt seated on a divan. At the sudden appearance of the son of Stephen Bathory he felt a sort of thrill go through him, unnoticed by Pierre, and these words escaped, so to speak, from his lips:
“'Tis he! 'tis he!”
And in truth Pierre Bathory was the very image of his father, as the noble Hungarian had been at his age. There was the same energy in his eyes, the same nobleness in his attitude, the same look prompt at enthusiasm for all that was good and true and beautiful.
“Mr. Bathory,” said the doctor, rising, “I am very glad to see you in response to the invitation contained in my letter.”
And he motioned Pierre to sit down in the other angle of the saloon.
The doctor had spoken in Hungarian, which he knew was the young man's native language.
“Sir,” said Pierre Bathory, “I would have come to return the visit you made to my mother even if you had not asked me to come on board. I know you are one of those known friends to whom the memory is so dear of my father and the two patriots who died with him. I thank you for having kept a place for them in your remembrance.”
In thus evoking the past, now so far away, in speaking of his father, and his friends Mathias Sandorf and Ladislas Zathmar, Pierre could not hide his emotion.
“Forgive me,” he said. “When I think of these things I can not help—”
Did he not feel that Dr. Antekirtt was more affected than he was, and that if he did not reply it was the better to keep hidden what he felt?
“Mr. Bathory,” he said, after a lengthened pause, “I have nothing to forgive in so natural a grief. You are of Hungarian blood, and what child of Hungary would become so denaturalized as not to feel his heart shrink at such remembrances? At that time, fifteen years ago—yes, already fifteen years have passed you were still young. You can scarcely remember your father and the events in which he took part.”
“My mother is his other self,” answered Pierre. “She brought me up in the creed of him she has never ceased to mourn. All that he did, all that he tried to do, all the life of devotion to his people and his country, I have learned from her. I was only eight years old when my father died, but it seems that he is still living, for he lives again in my mother.”
“You love your mother as she deserves to be loved,” said the doctor; “and we venerate her as if she were a martyr's widow.”
Pierre could only thank the doctor for thus expressing himself. His heart beat loudly as he listened; and he did not notice the coldness, natural or acquired, with which the doctor spoke, and which seemed to be characteristic.
“May I ask if you knew my father personally?” asked he.
“Yes, Mr. Bathory,” was the reply, not without a certain hesitation; “but I knew him as a student knew a professor who was one of the most distinguished men in the Hungarian universities. I studied medicine and physics in your country. I was one of your father's pupils, for he was only my senior by twelve years. I learned to esteem him, to love him, for I felt that through all his teaching there thrilled all that which made him later on an ardent patriot, and I only left him when I went away to finish the studies I had begun in Hungary. But shortly afterward Professor Stephen Bathory sacrificed his position for the sake of ideas he believed to be noble and just, and no private interest could stop him in his path of duty. It was then that he left Presburg to take up his residence in Trieste. Your mother had sustained him with her advice and encompassed him with her thoughtfulness during that time of anxiety. She possessed all the virtues of a woman as your father had all the virtues of a man. Yon will forgive me for awakening your sad recollections, and if I have done so it is only because you are not one of those that can forget them!”
“No, sir, no,” replied the young man with the enthusiasm of his age; “no more than Hungary can forget the three men who were sacrificed for her Ladislas Zathmar, Stephen Bathory, and the boldest of the three, Mathias Sandorf!”
“If he was the boldest,” answered the doctor, “do not think that his two companions were inferior to him in devotion, in sacrifices or in courage! The three are worthy of the same respect! The three have the same right to be avenged!”
The doctor paused and then asked if Mme. Bathory had told him the circumstances under which the chiefs of the conspiracy had been delivered up, if she had told him that treason had been at work? But the young engineer had not heard anything.
In fact Mme. Bathory had been silent on the subject. She shrunk from instilling hatred into her son's life and perhaps sending him on a false track, for no one knew the names of the traitors. And the doctor thought that for the present he had better maintain the same reserve.
What he did not hesitate to say was that, without the odious deed of the Spaniard who had betrayed the fugitives in the house of Ferrato the fisherman, Count Sandorf and Stephen Bathory would probably have escaped. And once beyond the Austrian frontier, no matter in what country, every door would be opened to receive them.
“With me,” he concluded, “they would have found a refuge which never would have failed them.”
“In what country, sir?”
“In Cephalonia, where I then lived.”
“Yes, in the Ionian Islands under the protection of the Greek flag they would have been safe, and my father would be still alive.”
For a minute or two the conversation was broken off with this return to the past. The doctor broke the silence:
“Our recollections have taken us far from the present. Shall we now talk about it, and especially of the future I have been thinking of for you?”
“I am ready,” answered Pierre. “In your letter you gave me to understand that it might be to my interest—”
“In short, Mr. Bathory, as I am aware of your mother's devotion during the childhood of her son, I am also aware that you are worthy of her, and after the bitter experience you have become a man—”
“A man,” said Pierre, bitterly, “a man who has not enough to keep himself, nor to give his mother a return for what she has done for him.”
“That is so!” answered the doctor; “but the fault is not yours. I know how difficult it is for any one to obtain a position with so many rivals struggling against you. You are an engineer?”
“Yes. I passed out of the schools with the title but I am an engineer unattached, and have no employment from the State. I have been seeking an appointment with some manufacturing company, and up to the present I have found nothing to suit me—at least at Ragusa.”
“And elsewhere?”
“Elsewhere?” replied Pierre, with some hesitation.
“Yes! Was it not about some business of the sort that you went to Zara a few days ago?”
“I had heard of a situation which a metallurgical company had vacant—”
“And this situation?”
“It was offered to me.”
“And you did not accept it?”
“I had to refuse it because I should have had to settle permanently in Herzegovina.”
“In Herzegovina? Would not Madame Bathory have gone with you?”
“My mother would go wherever my interests required.”
“And why did you not take the place?” persisted the doctor.
“Sir,” said the young man, “as I am situated, I have strong reasons for not leaving Ragusa.”
And as he made the remark, the doctor noticed that he seemed embarrassed. His voice trembled as he expressed his desire—more than his desire—his resolution not to leave Ragusa. What was the reason for his refusing the offer that had been made?
“That will make what I was going to offer you unacceptable,” said the doctor.
“Should I have to go—”
“Yes—to a country where I am about commencing some very considerable works which I should put under your management.”
“I am very sorry, but, believe me, that as I have made this resolution—”
“I believe, you, and, perhaps, I regret it as much as you. I should have been very glad to have been able to help you in consideration of my feelings toward your father.”
Pierre made no reply. A prey to internal strife, he showed that he was suffering—and suffering acutely. The doctor felt sure that he wished to speak and dared not. But at last an irresistible impulse impelled Pierre toward the man who had shown such sympathy with his mother and himself.
“Sir—sir,” said he with an emotion that he took no pains to hide, “do not think it is caprice or obstinacy that makes me refuse your offer. You have spoken like a friend of Stephen Bathory. You would show me all the friendship you felt for him; I feel it, although I have only known you for a few minutes. Yes, I feel for you all the affection that I should have had for my father.”
“Pierre, my child!” said the doctor, seizing the young man's hand.
“Yes, sir!” continued Pierre, “and I will tell you all! I am in love with a young lady in this town! Between us there is the gulf which separates poverty from wealth. But I will not look at the abyss, and maybe she has not seen it! If occasionally I can see her in the street or at the window, it gives me a happiness I have not strength to renounce! At the idea that I must go away, and go away for long, I become insane! Ah! sir! understand me, and forgive my refusal!”
“Yes, Pierre,” answered the doctor, “I understand you, and I have nothing to forgive. You have done well to tell me so frankly; and it may lead to something! Does your mother know of what you have been telling me?”
“I have said nothing to her yet. I have not dared, because, in our modest position she would perhaps have the wisdom to deprive me of all hope! But she may have divined and understood what I suffer—what I must suffer.”
“Pierre,” said the doctor, “you have confided in me, and you are right to have done so! Is the young lady rich?”
“Very rich! Too rich! Yes, too rich for me!”
“Is she worthy of you?”
“Ah! sir, could I dream of giving my mother a daughter that was not worthy of her?”
“Well, Pierre,” continued the doctor, “perhaps the abyss may be bridged!”
“Sir,” said the young man, “do not encourage me with hopes that are unrealizable!”
“Unrealizable!”
And the accent with which the doctor uttered the word betrayed such confidence in himself that Pierre Bathory seemed as it were transformed, as if he believed himself master of the present, master of the future.
“Yes, Pierre,” continued the doctor, “have confidence in me. When you think fit and think the time has come you will tell me the lady's name—”
“Why should I hide it now? It is Sava Toronthal—”
The effort the doctor made to keep calm as he heard the hated name was as that of a man who strives to prevent himself from starting when the lightning strikes at his feet. An instant—several seconds—he remained motionless and mute.
Then in a voice that betrayed not the slightest emotion he remarked:
“Good! Pierre, good! I must think it over! Let me see—”
“I will go,” interrupted the young man, clasping the hand which the doctor held out to him, “and allow me to thank you as I would have thanked my father.”
He left the doctor alone in the saloon, and then gaining the deck he entered his boat, landed at the quay, and returned to Ragusa.
Pierre felt very much happier in his mind. At last his heart had been opened! He had found a friend in whom he could trust—more than a friend perhaps. To him this had been one of those happy days of which fortune is so stingy in this world.
And how could he doubt it when as he passed along the Stradone he saw the corner of the curtain at one of the windows of Toronthal's house slowly rise and suddenly fall!
But the stranger had also seen the movement, and as Pierre turned up the Rue Marinella she remained motionless at the corner. Then she hurried to the telegraph office and dispatched a message which contained but one word—and that was—
“Come!”
The address of that monosyllabic message was—“Sarrany; to be called for; Syracuse. Sicily.”