The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) by Barbara Cartland

can be heard for miles away.”
    “What do you mean by unhealthy?” Vesta asked.
    Then even as she spoke she saw a number of men scrambling down towards them through the trees.
    The Count’s hand went towards his pistol, but even as he touched it he realised there were at least a dozen men advancing towards them and he was outnumbered.
    The men drew nearer and Vesta saw they were roughly dressed in native white cotton tunics and over them sleeveless coats of sheep-skin or fur. They were bare-headed and the majority of them had greasy untidy hair, long moustaches or beards.
    They all of them carried stout poles in their hands and each man had a huge knife stuck into a belt not unlike the Count’s.
    They came nearer until the Count and Vesta who had drawn their horses to a standstill were encircled.
    “What do you want?” the Count asked.
    The man who replied spoke with a dialect which was quite impossible for Vesta to understand. But whatever it was the Count protested hotly.
    “We are travellers doing no harm. All we ask is that we can proceed in peace.”
    Again the man spoke harshly. He was an unpleasant-looking individual, Vesta thought: he had a noticeable squint and a deep scar running from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth giving him almost a grotesque appearance.
    One man stepped forward to take hold of the bridle of Vesta’s horse, another did the same to the Count’s.
    “What is ... happening?” Vesta asked in a frightened tone.
    “They insist on taking us to see their Chief,” the Count replied in English.
    “Their Chief?” Vesta enquired in surprise.
    “They are Brigands,” the Count said grimly. “I am afraid there is nothing we can do but acquiesce to their demands.”
    Two men appeared and drew large dirty handkerchiefs from their belts. One of them advanced towards Vesta. As she shrank back from the thought of him touching her, the Count spoke sharply and raising his hands took his cravat from round his neck.
    “They wish to blindfold us,” he said, “but I have told them that you are my wife and that no-one must touch you but me. I will therefore blindfold you myself.”
    He bent towards her without dismounting and put his cravat over her eyes, tying it behind her head.
    “Try not to be frightened,” he said softly.
    But she knew he was only trying to encourage her and that the position in which they found themselves was likely to be extremely unpleasant if not dangerous.
    She imagined that the Count himself also was being blindfolded, and then she heard his horse led ahead in front of hers and there was nothing she could do but hold onto her saddle and wonder what was going to happen.
    As they went the men said very little amongst themselves.
    Since she could not see them, their silence was more uncanny than if they had chattered away and she had tried to understand what they were saying.
    They left the path on which she and the Count had been travelling and were now climbing steadily up the side of the mountain.
    They were zig-zagging, Vesta thought to avoid trees; but after perhaps half an hour the trees clearly had been left behind because now there was the sound of the horses’ hooves on rock.
    She wondered fearfully whether there was a sudden drop at one side of her such as there had been before.
    The Count did not speak to her, but she was vividly conscious of him being led ahead. Once indeed he did start to talk to the Head man who had given the orders in the first place.
    Vesta recognised the word “money” and guessed that the Count was offering to pay for their freedom.
    ‘It must be for ransom they are taking us,’ she thought.
    The Brigand replied sharply and briefly, and although Vesta did not understand she was sure he had replied that it was up to the Chief to decide what should be done.
    On and on they went, climbing all the time.
    The sun was hot on Vesta’s bare head and on her hands. But now she could feel a cool breeze and was sure that it came from the