ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP, VOLUME I (continued 2)

"Your health, signor," said the Visconte, when Giacomo had filled our glasses and retired. "May you become a Marescial di campo ere you turn your horse's tail on Italy!"

"I thank you, my lord," said I, smiling; "but I shall be very happy if I gain but stars to my epaulettes: and yet, ere that, Massena must be conquered and Rome won!"

"Now, then," he resumed, laying before me a long muster-roll of Italian names, "here are five hundred brave Calabrians, most of them my own immediate dependants, whom I have authority to raise in arms; but who, without the exertion of that authority, are able and willing to serve Ferdinand of Naples: whom Madonna long preserve! although the said Ferdinand is a fool. But unless your general appoints me their leader, and permits me to nominate my own officers, these fellows may desert en masse to the mountains; for they are unused to the rule of foreigners."

"Our general is too well aware of the courtesy requisite on his landing on these shores, to dispute with the Italian nobles, or chiefs of the Masse, their right to command their own followers. If they will serve obediently, and fight well—obeying as good soldiers must obey, and enduring as they must endure—Sir John Stuart will require nothing more." My enthusiastic friend grasped my hand.

"In our first pitched battle with the enemy," he exclaimed; "place us in front of the line, and we will show il Cavaliére Giovanni Stuardo, that the bold mountaineers of the Apennines are not less hardy or courageous than their ancestors were when Rome was in the zenith of its glory."

Puzzled for a moment to recognise the familiar name of the general through the pronunciation of the Visconte, I was deliberating how to reply, when I observed the great gnome-like visage of the hunchback appear at one of the open windows; his fierce twinkling eyes sternly fixed on mine, with the steady glistening gaze of a snake. He levelled a pistol, but it flashed in the pan. My first impulse was to grasp my sabre, my second to spring through the casement, which opened down to the level of the tessellated floor.

"What see you, signor?' exclaimed my astonished host.

"That abominable hunchback, Peter of Pisa, Friar Truffle, or whatever you call him."

"Impossible!" said the Visconte. "Most improbable, indeed! at such an hour of the morning, and in a place where the cliffs descend sheer downwards to the sea!"

"Monsignore, on my honour I saw his ill-omened visage peering between the rose-bushes."

Luigi snatched a sword from the wall, and we made tremendous havoc among the full-blown roses, searching so far as we dared to venture along the beetling rocks; but no trace of the eaves-dropper could be discovered. Indeed, the dangerous nature of the place, when I surveyed it, led me to suppose that I might have been mistaken, and that the apparition was an illusion of a heated imagination; for my head was now beginning to swim with the effects of the champagne. Santugo, however, took the precaution of bolting the casements, and drawing the curtains; after which we stretched ourselves once more on the couches to listen for any sound that announced the approach of an intruder.

"Ha! what is that?" exclaimed Santugo abruptly, as a dropping or pattering sound was heard on the floor.

"The deuce! my wound bleeds!" said I, on finding that the slight sword thrust which I had received in the morning had broken out afresh; probably in consequence of my exertions when searching for the hunchback.

"A wound!" rejoined Santugo, with astonishment; "I knew not that you had been hurt this morning in your skirmish with the voltigeurs."

"A mere scratch, Visconte," I replied, with a jaunty carelessness, half affected, as I unbuttoned my uniform coat, and found with surprise that the sleeve and white kerseymere vest were completely saturated with blood. Through my neglect, and the heat of the climate, the wound was becoming more painful than I could have expected so slight a thrust to be.

"Sancto Januario! you never said a word of all this!" cried Luigi, alarmed by seeing so much blood. "Olà, there!" he added, springing to the door. "Giacomo Salvatore! Andronicus! you Greek vagabond!"

In three minutes we had all the male portion, of the household about us, with faces of alarm, in motley garbs and variously armed.

Giacomo, who had gained some knowledge as a leech during his innumerable skirmishes with the French, bathed the wound and bound up my arm in a very scientific manner; after which I bade my host adieu, and requested to be shown to my apartment. In truth, it was time to be napping, when in three hours afterwards we should be on the march for Maida.

My sleeping-room was in a part of the villa which had formed a tower of the ancient castle; and, if there were any ghosts in merry Naples, it was just the place where one would have taken up its quarters. It was named the wolf's chamber; the legend thereof the reader will learn towards the close of my narrative. A large black stain on the dark oaken planks of the floor yet remained, in testimony of some deed of blood perpetrated in the days of Campanella; when a fierce civil war was waged in Southern Italy.

That I had seen the face of the hunchback palpably and distinctly, I had little doubt, when recalling the whole affair to mind; and I had none whatever that the hideous little man had great reason to be my enemy. At that unhappy gaming-table, I had stripped him, perhaps, of every coin he possessed, as well as the rich jewels he had won: a double triumph, which, coupled with my sarcasm on his appearance, was quite enough to whet his vengeance against me. In truth, it was impossible to feel perfectly at ease while reflecting that he might still be lurking about the villa; aye, perhaps under my very bed.

More than once, when about to drop asleep, the sullen dash of the waves in the arcades below the sea-terrace aroused me to watchfulness; and I started, half imagining that the bronze figures on the ebony cabinet, or the bold forms in a large dark painting by Annibale Carracci, were instinct with life.

Presently I saw a shadow pass across the muslin curtains of my bed, and a figure gliding softly between me and the night-lamp, which burned on a carved bracket upheld by a beautiful statue of a virgin bearing sacred fire. The sight aroused me in an instant; recalled my senses, quickened every pulse, and strung every nerve for action. Remaining breathlessly still, until my right hand had got a firm grasp of my sabre (which luckily lay on the other side of the couch), I dashed aside the curtains and sprang out of bed, just in time to elude the furious stroke of a Bastia knife; which, had it taken effect on my person instead of the down pillows, would have brought my Calabrian campaign to a premature and most unpleasant close.

It was Truffi, the hunchback! Exasperated by this second attempt upon my life, I rushed upon him. He made a bound towards the window, through which he had so stealthily entered by unfastening the Venetian blind; but at the moment he was scrambling out, my sword descended sheer on his enormous hump. Uttering a howl of rage and anguish, he fell to the ground, where he was immediately seized in the powerful grasp of Giacomo Belloni.

"Signor Teniente!" cried Giacomo, as they struggled together on the very edge of the cliff, "cleave his head while I hold him fast! The stunted Hercules—the cursed crookback! Maladetto! he has the strength of his father the devil! Quick, signor! smite him under the ribs, or he will throw me into the sea!" But before I could arrive to his assistance, the hunchback himself had fallen, or been tossed (Giacomo said the latter) from the balustrade terrace, which overhung the water. He sank in the very spot where Belloni informed me there was a whirlpool, which a hundred years before had sucked down the San Giovanni, a galley of the Maltese knights. Escape seemed impossible, and I expected to be troubled with him no more.

"You may sleep safely now, signor," said the panting victor; "he will never annoy you again in this world. The Signora Bianca was afraid that the hunchback might make some attempt upon your chamber (where, to speak truth, blood has been spilt more than once), and so she ordered me to watch below the window with my rifle; but overcome with wine and the heat of the air I dropped asleep, and was only awakened by his ugly carcass coming squash upon mine!"

"I am deeply grateful to the Signora Bianca for her anxiety and attention. But, Master Giacomo, you must learn to watch with your eyes open, after we take the field to-morrow: nodding on sentry will not do among us."

Giacomo was abashed, and withdrew. Thus closed the adventures of my first day in Lower Calabria.

CHAPTER VI.

THE CALABRIAN FREE CORPS.

Awakened at daybreak by the report of the morning gun from the admiral's ship in the bay, I leaped out of bed, and threw open the casement to enjoy the pure, cool breeze from the sea; for my blood felt hot and feverish: the effects of the wine I had taken during the past evening, and the exciting occurrences of the last few hours. My wounded arm, too, was stiff and painful; but I hoped it would soon cease to give me any inconvenience.

Another bright and cloudless Italian morning: the distant sea and the whole sky, so far as the eye could reach, were all of that pure azure tint which the most pellucid atmosphere alone can produce. The sun had not yet risen, but the east was bright with the dawn, which burnished the rippling surface of the ocean, whose wavelets gleamed alternately with green and gold, as they broke on the shining shore. The morning landscape presented the most vivid contrasts of dazzling light and deep shadow. The peaks of the hills above Maida,—those hills which were so soon to echo the boom of our artillery—the wavy woods which clothed their sides, and the silver current of the reedy Amato, glittered with glowing light; while the bosky vale through which the river wound, and the town of St. Eufemio, were steeped in comparative gloom. The bayonets of the marines on board Sir Sydney's squadron, were gleaming on poop and forecastle; and the red top-light, which burned like a lurid spark amid the well-squared yards and taut black rigging of the flag-ship, cast a long and tremulous ray across the still bosom of the brightening sea. It vanished when the morning-gun flashed forth from the dark port-hole; and, the shrill notes of the boatswains' whistles piping up the hands, when the whole fleet began to heave short on their anchors.

Dressing with expedition, in ten minutes I stood booted and belted in front of the villa, where Santugo and two other cavaliers mustered their recruits. Their appearance, though rather wild, was both romantic and picturesque: they numbered five hundred men; young, athletic, and handsome in person, swarthy in visage, and soldier-like in bearing—the setting-up a little excepted: altogether, they were a very valuable acquisition to our army. Their weapons were of a very miscellaneous and unwarlike character: consisting of clubs, poniards, and the formidable Italian oxgoads which glittered in the sun like lances, with some very indifferent rifles. But I promised the Visconte a sufficient supply of arms, accoutrements, and clothing, when his people were formally arrayed under our standard.

I was welcomed by a shout; and the cavaliers Benedetto del Castagno and Marco di Castelermo received me with the utmost politeness and warmth of manner. Both these gentlemen were of noble families, and enjoyed a high reputation for courage. The first was a merry Neapolitan, who laughed at everything he said; the second the scarred and sun-burnt knight of Malta, on whose handsome features were marked a stern gravity and settled melancholy, no less striking than his garb. He was now enveloped in the dark mantle of his order, having on the left shoulder an eight-pointed cross, sewn in white velvet upon black cloth; the same sacred badge appeared upon the housings of his horse, and various parts of his attire: in silver on his epaulettes, in red enamel on his black velvet forage cap, and in scarlet cloth on the tops of his white leather gauntlets.

To my surprise, I understood that, before marching, solemn mass must be performed; and the Visconte led me to the private oratory, at the altar of which stood Fra Adriano, the chaplain and confessor of the family. The chapel was as gorgeously decorated as many coloured marbles, painted windows, a roof of gilding and fresco, springing from columns covered with the richest mosaic, and shining tessellated floor, could make it. Near the altar stood the celebrated statue of the patron of the Alfieri—Sant' Ugo. It was of oak, carved, gilt, and evidently of great antiquity; but so hideous that it might have passed for Thor, or any monster-god whom our rude forefathers worshipped in the dark ages of druidical superstition. At St. Eufemio, this image was regarded with the utmost veneration; from a belief in the wondrous miracles it wrought, and a tradition that it had been transported through the air by angels, from the saint's little hermitage in the beautiful plain near Palermo. Other relics in the chapel were viewed with no less reverence. I was shewn a leg of the cock which crew to Peter, a rag of the virgin's petticoat, a packet of the egg-shells on which San Lorenzo was broiled, and a tooth of the blessed Ugo! which, from its size and the number of rings, bore so strong a resemblance to the tooth of a horse, that the venerable aspect and earnestness of Adriano scarcely restrained me from laughing outright.

"Fra Adriano is the oldest of our Calabrian priests," observed Luigi, in a whisper: "he has been the confessor of our family for three generations."

"Kneel with us, signor, if it be but to please the good father, who is now verging on his hundredth year;" added the Maltese commander in the same low voice. "Saint John preserve him yet for many years to come: long after the grave has closed over me! He beheld my order when it was in the zenith of its power and glory. Yes, signor, he beheld the galleys of Malta sailing through the straits of Messina, when the grand master Antonio de Vilhena, of most pious and valiant memory, unfurled against the infidels of Algeria the blessed banner of redemption. But these days have passed. The silver keys of Jerusalem, of Acre, and of Rhodes—three cities of strength, over which the knights of our order once held sway—are now paltry trophies in the hands of the British. Struck down by the hand of Napoleon, the banner of God and St. John has sunk for ever, and the red flag of Mahomet may now sweep every shore of the Mediterranean with impunity!" (Lord Exmouth's attack on Algiers did not take place till six years after this time.)

A hundred years spent in the gloomy and monotonous cloister! This priest had dwelt there from his childhood, and I sighed when contemplating the silver hairs, magnificent white beard, and calm features of this fine old man, and reflecting on the long life he had wasted away—a life which might otherwise have been valuable. To what a living tomb had zeal and superstitious piety consigned him!

But to proceed. When the incense had been burned, the wine drunk, the bell rung, the prayers said, and responses given, we softly withdrew; the sweet, low singing of the choristers, mingled with the pealing notes of the organ, filling the little oratory with a burst of melodious harmonies.

After glasses of coffee had been served hastily round, we leaped on our horses; our appearance being the signal for the column of volunteers to get under arms. With no little trouble, we formed them into something like military order, and they moved off in sections of three files abreast. The Maltese knight enjoyed with me a hearty laugh at their shuffling march; but I had no doubt that, after being a few weeks under the tuition of our drill Serjeants, they would all make smart soldiers. Though we marched without the sound of drum or bugle, music was not wanting; two or three improvisatori who were in the ranks struck up a martial song, adapted to the occasion, and the others soon acquired the chorus—even Santugo and his friends joined; and the bold swell of five hundred manly voices ringing in the blue welkin, and awakening the echoes of the wooded hills, produced an effect at once impressive and animating.

These brave hearts formed the nucleus of that Calabrian corps which, on many future occasions, fought with such indomitable spirit under the British standard; which shared in the glories of Maida, the capture of Crotona, the expedition to Naples in 1809, and the storming of the Castle of Ischia, when Colonna, with all his garrison, surrendered to the bravery of Macfarlane and his soldiers.

As I rode round an angle of the villa, I observed the Signora Bianca, muffled in black velvet and sables, watching our departure, from one of the windows. Raising my cocked hat, I bowed, with something more than respect in my manner, at the same time making Cartouche curvet, and riding with as much of the air of "the staff" as I could assume. The graceful girl stepped out into one of the little stone balconies which projected before all the upper windows of the mansion, and I immediately pulled up; she smiled, and waved her hand in adieu. Standing up in my stirrups—"Signora," said I, in a low voice, "never shall I forget your kind anxiety for my safety last night; and believe me, Bianca, since the first moment we met at Palermo—but the Visconte is calling. The enemy are before us, and I may never see you again—adieu!"

"Addio! a reveder la!" she murmured; the blush which the first part of my farewell called forth giving way to paleness.

"May it soon happen, signora!" I added, as, spurring Cartouche, I galloped after the free corps, with my heart beating a little more tumultuously than it had done for a long time—at least since we left England.

"Olà, Dundas!" cried the Visconte, as I came up at a canter, "what has caused you to loiter?"

"My horse's near hind shoe was clattering, and I merely drew up for an instant to examine it," I replied: very unwilling he should suspect or learn the truth.

On our march, my new friends beguiled the tedium of the way by vivid descriptions of their encounters with the enemy, between whom and the Calabrese there had long been maintained a blood-thirsty war of reprisal. Every peasant who fell into the hands of the French, having arms in his possession—even if it were but the ordinary stiletto or ox-goad—was instantly dragged before a standing court-martial, tried, and shot, or else hanged. Every means were adopted by Regnier to exterminate the roving bands of armed peasantry and fierce banditti, who incessantly harassed his troops during all their marches and movements: but in vain. Every tree, shrub, and rock, concealed a rifle, and a stern eye, whose aim was deadly. In secluded spots, where all seemed calm and peaceful but a moment before, or the stillness of the leafy solitude had been broken only by the tap of the drum, or the carol of the merry French soldier—whose native buoyancy of heart often breaks forth in a joyous chorus on the line of march—when least expected, overwhelming ambuscades of wild mountaineers would start up from height and hollow, galling the march of some unhappy party: suddenly the foliage would blaze with the fire of rifles, their sharp reports ringing through the wood, while whistling bullets bore each one a message of death, responded to by the shrieks and groans of dying men.

But my Italian friends could not yet boast of the frightful massacre of Orzamarzo.

By the wayside I observed a mound of fresh earth, above which rose a cross, composed of two rough pieces of wood. It was the grave of Kraünz, the leader of our Corsicans, who yesterday had been alive, and at their head: to-day, Frank himself could not have wished him lower—poor man!

As we passed through St. Eufemio, the inhabitants followed us en masse, filling the air with shouts, and cries of "Long live Ferdinand of Naples! Death to the Corsican tyrant, and Massena the apostate! Death to their soldiery, the slayers of our people!" and the convent bells rang, as for a general jubilee. "Benissimo!" cried I, waving my hat, "Live Caroline! Viva la Reina!" and another tremendous shout, accompanied by the clapping of hands, rent the air.

The sun was now up, and the increasing heat of the morning made a halt for a few minutes not only desirable but requisite. We dismounted at the door of a café kept by a Sicilian (the Sicilians are famed for their ices), and procured a cool and delightful cup of limonea, and long glasses filled with what the seller called sherbet. Meanwhile, our volunteers were busily imbibing all the liquids they could procure from the stationary acquaiuóli, or water-sellers; who retail cool beverages to the passengers, at the corner of every street in a Neapolitan town. A gaudily painted barrel, swinging on an iron axis fixed between the door-posts, is the principal feature of these establishments, which generally open at a street corner; the rough columns supporting it are garnished with tin drinking cups, scoured bright as silver, and in these the seller supplies his customers with pure and sparkling water cooled by snow introduced through the bung-hole of the cask every time a draught is required.

"Caro signor, give a poor rogue a bajocch to get a draught of cold water!" is often the cry of the beggars in hot weather.

Thus refreshed, Santugo ordered his volunteers once more to march, and the road for our camp was resumed. After a short halt in the great forest, during noon, we reached the British forces, which still occupied their ground on the banks of the Mucato, where I had left them on the preceding evening. With much formality, I presented the Visconte and his companions to the general. The camp was already crowded with other volunteers, who came pouring in from all quarters, imploring arms and ammunition, and clamouring to be led against the enemy.

"Napoli! Napoli! Ferdinando nostro e la santa fede! Revenge or death!" was the shout of the Calabrians: it rang from the gorge of Orzamarzo to the cliffs of Capo di Larma; and all of the population who could draw a dagger, or wield an ox-goad, rushed to arms, panting for vengeance. In less than two days, we had a corps of two thousand picked soldiers embodied, armed, equipped, eager for battle, and officered by the noblest families in the provinces. Clad in their white uniform,—until then there was a ludicrous want of similarity in their garb,—they appeared a fine-looking body of men, and every way the reverse of their countrymen of the Southern Provinces: brave, resolute, and yielding every requisite obedience to those Italian cavalieri whom the general appointed to lead them into the field.

The peasantry brought us in provisions in plenty, but refused to receive payment in return; saying that they "could not sufficiently reward those who came to free them from the hateful tyranny of the French," led by Massena, the renegade peasant of Nice.

On the night of the 3rd, I was despatched on the spur to the Podesta, or chief magistrate, of St. Eufemio, with a printed manifesto addressed by Sir John Stuart to the Italian people; inviting them to rise in arms, and throw off the yoke of France; promising them protection for their persons, property, laws, and religion; offering arms to the brave and loyal, and a free pardon to those whom Buonaparte had either seduced or terrified into temporary adherence to his brother Joseph.

Santuffo commanded the first battalion of the free corps; which was no sooner formed into something like fighting order, than we broke up our camp and moved to attack General Regnier; who, having been apprised of our debarkation, made a most rapid march from Reggio, collecting on the route all his detached corps, for the purpose of engaging us without delay.

On the evening of the 3rd, il Cavaliére del Castagno, a captain in Santugo's battalion, brought us intelligence that Regnier, at the head of 4,000 infantry, 300 cavalry, and four pieces of artillery, had taken up a position near Maida, a town ten miles distant from our camp, and that another corps of three regiments under the Marchese di Monteleone was en route to form a junction with him. These advices determined our leader to march at once on Regnier's position, and attack him ere the Marchese came up. Accordingly, four companies of Sir Louis de Watteville's regiment, under the command of Major Fisher, were left to protect our stores and a small field work which, under the direction of Signor Pietro Navarro of the Sicilian engineers, had been thrown up on our landing, and planted with cannon. Our little army marched next day (the 4th) in three brigades; which, together with the advance under Colonel Kempt, and a reserve of artillery with four six-pounders and two howitzers, under Major Le Moine, made barely five thousand men, exclusive of the free corps.

CHAPTER VII.

THE BATTLE OF MAIDA.

The morning of the battle was one of the most beautiful and serene I ever beheld, even in Italy. As the curtain of night was drawn aside, and the bright beams of morning lighted up the giant masses of the Apennines, the green rice-fields, and luxuriant vineyards; white-walled towns and villages, solitary convents and feudal castles, waving woods, and the indentations of the rocky coast, all became tinted with their most pleasing hues. But the surpassing splendour of the sun—in whose joyous effulgence the whole glorious landscape seemed palpitating with delight—the clearness of the atmosphere, and the deep blue of the wondrous vault above us, were all forgotten, or unheeded: we thought only of the foe in position before us; while the dropping fire from our flankers, who had commenced skirmishing with the French tirailleurs, kept us keenly alive to the desperate work which had to be accomplished ere the sun sank below the sea. When that hour came, might I be alive to behold it? How many an eye that looked on its glorious rising, would then be closed for ever!

General Regnier's troops were encamped below Maida, on the face of a thickly-wooded hill, which sloped into the plain of St. Eufemio. The Amato, a river which, though fordable, has very muddy and marshy banks, ran along the front of his line, while his flanks were strengthened and defended by groves of laurel bushes, and a thick impervious underwood, which he had filled with scattered light troops. Cavaliére Castagno by his influence among the peasantry, obtained hourly any intelligence we required; and just before the battle begun, he conveyed to me, for the general's information, the unpleasing tidings, that Monteleone's corps, to the number of three thousand men, were now moving into position on the French right. General Regnier was now at the head of eight thousand bayonets, while we had little more than half that number, exclusive of the Calabrians, on whom, as yet, we could not rely much in the field; and they were, consequently, to form a corps of reserve: much to the annoyance of the gallant Santugo and his friends.

We marched in close column of subdivisions, parallel with the sea-shore, until we had nearly turned Regnier's left; and as our movements were all made in a spacious plain, with the morning sun glaring on our serried ranks and burnished arms, he had an excellent view of our numbers and intentions. Had Regnier quietly maintained his position on the hill, we would soon have turned it altogether, and thus placed him between us and the sea; where Sir Sydney's squadron lay, broadside to the shore, with ports open and guns double shotted. To us the movement was full of peril: our retreat might be cut off; while, in consequence of the smallness of our force, the difficulties of access, and the natural strength of the ridge on which the enemy was posted, we should have found it no easy task to drive him back.

Whether the Frenchman feared he should be out-flanked, or was encouraged by his numbers to attack us, I know not; but he soon crossed the Amato, in order of battle, and moved his entire force into the plain, where his corps of cavalry—an arm, of which we were, most unfortunately, deficient—would act more effectively.

As yet, not a shot had been fired: the enemy continued advancing towards us steadily and in line; their arms flashing, colours fluttering in the breeze, and drums beating in sharp and measured time. They halted by sound of trumpet, and, at the head of a glittering staff, Regnier swept, at a gallop, from the right flank to the left.

"Gentlemen," said Sir John to his staff, on first observing this new movement of the enemy; "ride at full speed to the battalions, and order them to deploy into line. Mr. Lascelles, desire Cole to take up his ground where he is now. Dundas, you will direct Major Le Moine to get his guns into position on that knoll, where the wooden cross stands—to have them unlimbered, and ready to open on the enemy's line the moment he deems it within range. Order Lieutenant Colonel Kempt to throw forward the whole of his light infantry, double quick, and in extended order to "feel" the enemy, and keep their tirailleurs in check."

Saluting with one hand, I wheeled Cartouche round with the other, gave him the spur, and galloped on my mission; delivering the order to deploy into line as I passed the heads of the different columns. In three minutes Le Moine had his field-pieces at the appointed post, and wheeled round; the iron pintles drawn, the limbers cast off, and the muzzles pointed to the enemy. Leaping from his horse, he levelled, and fired the first shot himself.

It was the signal gun, announcing that the work of destruction and death had begun in grim, earnest. My heart beat thick and fast; every pulse quickened, and a proud, almost fierce and wild sensation, swelled within me, as the sharp report rang through the clear still air, and the white smoke floated away from the green knoll, revealing the dark cannon that bristled around it.

I reined up my gallant grey on an eminence, to watch the effect of the ball. General Regnier, escorted by fifty dragoons, their brass helmets and bright swords flashing in the sun, was at that moment galloping back to his right flank; and on this group the shot took effect: a commotion was visible among them immediately, and they rode on at a quicker pace, leaving a dark heap behind them—a rider and his horse lay dying or dead. The whole of our field-pieces now opened a rapid cannonade on the French line, and continued it incessantly during the action.

By this time the light infantry were hotly engaged: the Sicilian volunteers, the Corsicans, and our provisional light battalion, were filling the dark-green underwood, and the leafy groves along the banks of the Amato, with smoke; while hill, rock, and woodland rang with the ceaseless patter of the fire they rained on the French tirailleurs, who blazed at them in return with equal spirit, from behind every screen afforded by the irregularity of the ground. As the lines drew nearer, the light troops, as if by tacit agreement, were withdrawn by sound of bugle; and by nine o'clock in the morning the battle had become general, from centre to flanks.

The corps which formed the right of our advanced line, was a provisional battalion commanded by Colonel Kempt, and composed of the light companies of six of our regiments from Sicily, and that of de Watteville's corps, with a hundred and fifty picked men of the 35th under Major Robinson. These troops were opposed to the 1st regiment of French light infantry (the favourite corps of the Emperor), which they mauled in glorious style; pouring in a deadly fire at about a hundred yards distance. On their left was the corps of General Ackland, composed of the 78th, or Ross-shire Highlanders, the 81st regiment, and five companies of de Watteville's, with the 58th under the late General Sir John Oswald, then colonel.

General Cole, with the provisional battalion of grenadiers, and the 27th, formed our left. Such was the disposition of our little army when engaging the enemy, whose force mustered almost two to one. Sir Sydney Smith by this time had taken a position with his ships and gun-boats, to act and co-operate if circumstances favoured; but, much to the annoyance of the gallant sailor, his fleet could yield us no assistance during that day's fighting.

Led by the chivalric Macleod of Geanies,—a brave officer, who afterwards fell in Egypt,—the 78th rushed upon the enemy, with the wild and headlong impetuosity of their countrymen. I was close by their dashing colonel, when, sword in hand, he led them on.

"Forward the Ross-shire buffs! Let them feel the bayonet—charge!" And animated to a sort of martial phrenzy by the shrill pibroch—whose wild and sonorous war-blast rang as loudly on the plain of Maida as ever it did by the glassy Loch-duich, when the bale-fires of the M'Kenzie blazed on continent and isle—the bold Highlanders flung themselves with a yell upon the masses of the enemy. They were opposed to the French 42d regiment of grenadiers—a corps led by that brave French officer upon whom Buonaparte had bestowed the Calabrian title of Marchese di Monteleone. Riding in advance of his soldiers, by words and gestures the most enthusiastic, he urged them to advance, to keep together, to hold their ground. But his sabre was brandished, and the war-cry shouted, in vain; and vain, too, were the desperate efforts of his grenadiers before the tremendous charge of our Highlanders. Overwhelmed and broken, they were driven back in confusion, and pursued with slaughter by the 78th; until the latter were so far in advance of our whole line that Sir John sent me after them at full gallop, with an order to halt and re-form, in case of their being cut off.

I delivered the order to Macleod, who was stooping from his horse in the arms of a sergeant of his regiment, and almost unable to speak. A rifle-ball had passed through his breast, within an inch of the heart, inflicting a most severe and dangerous wound: yet he quitted not the field, but remained on horseback, and at the head of his Highlanders, during the remainder of the action, and the fierce pursuit which followed it.

Drumlugas, a captain of the corps, in the melée unhorsed the Marchese, who narrowly escaped with the loss of his steed and sabre: these remained the trophies of the victor, who distinguished himself by more conquests and captures ere the day was done.

Colonel Kempt's corps was now within a few yards of the enemy, and the deadly fire which they had been pouring upon each other was suspended, "as if by mutual agreement," as Sir John stated in his despatch; "and in close, compact order, and with awful silence, they advanced towards each other, until the bayonets began to cross. At this momentous crisis, the enemy became appalled; they broke, and endeavoured to fly; but it was too late: they were overtaken with most dreadful slaughter." Ere they fled—

"Dundas, ride to Brigadier-General Ackland; let him push forward his brave corps, and complete that which Kempt has so nobly begun!" cried the general. I departed with this order, on the spur; but it was anticipated by Ackland, who was already leading on in triumph, through clouds of smoke, and over heaps of dead and dying, the 78th and 81st: shoulder to shoulder, they rushed on, with bayonets levelled to the charge—cool, compact, and resolute. Discomfited by their formidable aspect, and the impetuosity of this movement, the whole of the French left wing gave way, and retired in confusion, leaving the plain strewn with killed and wounded. The river Amato was choked with the bodies and crimsoned with the blood of those who, unable by wounds or fatigue to cross the stream, became entangled among the thick sedges on its banks; where they perished miserably, either by the bayonets of the pursuers or by drowning.

At that moment a dashing French officer, at the head of three hundred heavy dragoons, made a desperate attempt to retrieve the honour of France and the fortune of the day: rushing forward at full speed through the white clouds of rolling smoke, he attempted to turn the left of the 81st, and capture three field-pieces posted between that regiment and the Ross-shire Buffs.

"Allons, mes enfans! Napoleon! Napoleon! allons!" cried he, waving his sabre aloft. "Vive l'Empereur! Guerre à mort!" was the answering shout of his fierce troopers, as they swept onward in solid squadron; their brandished swords and long line of brass helmets gleaming in the sun, while their tricoloured Guideon and waving crests of black horse-hair danced on the passing breeze. But the steady fire of the Highlanders made them recoil obliquely, and I found myself most unexpectedly among them, when spurring onward with the order to Ackland: to deliver which with speed, I had the temerity to ride through a little hollow raked by the fire of the three guns already mentioned, and along which these dragoons had advanced unseen amid the smoke.

The press was tremendous: riders cursed and shrieked as they were thrown and trod to death; horses were plunging and kicking; and both fell fast on every side. Twenty swords at once gleamed around me, and their cuts whistled on every side, as I attempted desperately to break through the dense, heaving mass of men and horses. My heart leaped within me, my brain reeled, and my blood seemed on fire: I struck to the right, left, and rear, giving point and cut with the utmost rapidity; never attempting to ward off the flashing blades that played around my bare head—for my gay staff hat, with its red and white plume, had vanished in the melée. I must inevitably have been unhorsed and cut down, but for a sudden volley that was poured in point blank upon the cavalry from the dark brushwood covering one side of the gorge. A score of saddles were emptied, and many a strong horse and gallant rider rolled on the turf in the agonies of death; while all the survivors, save their officers alone, retreated at full gallop to the French position.

Next moment the whole line of the dashing 20th, led on by Lieutenant-colonel Ross, started out from their ambush in the thick underwood; where the regiment lay concealed during the smoke and confusion of the battle, unseen even by ourselves. Having only landed that morning from Messina, they had come up with our army during the heat of the contest; and Ross, observing the movement of the enemy's cavalry, threw his battalion into the thicket, the sudden flank-fire from which completely foiled their attempt upon our cannon. One man only of the 20th fell: but he was deeply regretted by the whole regiment—Captain Maclean (the son of Gilian Maclean of Scallecastle, in the Isle of Mull), an officer who had served with distinction in Holland, in the first expedition to Egypt, and elsewhere.

The Frenchman who had led on the dragoons seemed to be one of those daring and reckless fellows who scorn flight, and laugh at danger; so, venting a malediction on his runaway troops, he rode alone towards me. The 20th and other corps near us, seeing that we were well matched, with a chivalric resolution to see fair play, suspended their fire to let us prove our mettle, while they looked on.

Being an expert swordsman, and master of my horse, so far that I could clear a five-barred gate or cross a hunting country with any man, I had but slight fear as to the issue of the encounter; yet it flashed upon my mind, that to be signally defeated in front of our whole army would be worse than death. My antagonist was about thirty years of age, with a form modelled like that of a young Hercules; and his aspect and bearing led me to conclude that the encounter would be a tough one. He belonged to the staff, and on his breast glittered the star of the Iron Crown of Lombardy: a badge bestowed upon five hundred knights (the flower of his officers) created by Napoleon on his recent coronation at Milan, as king of Italy.

We advanced within twelve yards of each other, and then rode our horses warily round in a circle; each watching the eyes and movements of the other, with stern caution and alert vigilance, such as the time and circumstances could alone draw forth: the life of one depended on the death of the other. At last I rushed furiously to the assault, making a cut seemingly at the head of my antagonist, but changing it adroitly to his bridle hand; the stroke missed the man, but cut through both curb and snaffle rein. I deemed him now completely at my mercy; but as he had a chain-rein attached to his bridle, nothing was gained by the first stroke.

"Monsieur, I disdain to return the compliment!" said he carelessly, while, with a laugh of triumphant scorn, he shook his strong chain-bridle. Provoked by his insolent non-chalance, I dealt a backward blow with such force and dexterity that he began to press me in turn; and with skill that I had some trouble in meeting. His charger was so well trained, that he was aided in every stroke and thrust by its movements; while Cartouche, startled by the clash of the sabres, began to snort and rear. The restless spirit of the fiery English blood-horse was roused, and a shell thrown by a French field howitzer exploding close by, completed his terror and my discomfiture: Cartouche plunged so fearfully that my sabre fell from my grasp, and I nearly lost my seat while endeavouring, by curb and caress, to reduce him to subjection. I was thus quite at the mercy of the Frenchman; who, generously disdaining to take the advantage that my restive horse gave him, merely said, "Gardez, monsieur!" and bowing, lowered the point of his sabre in salute and galloped away, greeted by a hearty cheer from the 20th and Ackland's brigade.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE COTTAGE ON THE MAIDA ROAD—THE EAGLE.

Broken by the impetuous and simultaneous advance of our brigades, Regnier's whole line of battle gave way, and retired from the field with precipitation—especially the left wing—leaving the position strewn with dead and wounded, and presenting a terrible scene of carnage and agony, as we pressed triumphantly forward. The right and centre retreated in tolerable order, covered by the cavalry; but the left was swept away and almost annihilated by the fierce charge of the Ross-shire Buffs. Our light battalion, commanded by Colonel Kempt, and Macleod with his regiment, flushed with victory, were ordered forward immediately in pursuit. They followed it up in double quick time for upwards of three miles, killing and capturing an immense number of the enemy; whose rear they galled by a continual fire from the eminences commanding their line of march.

When Sir John again sent me after them with an order to halt, I found them briskly engaged with a small band of fugitives who had thrown themselves into a little cottage by the wayside, over which a gigantic chestnut threw its ample shadow. From the garden wall and barricaded door and windows, the French maintained a spirited fire, to defend a standard and eagle which Regnier's son, a young sub-lieutenant, had carried in there instead of continuing his flight. This rural post was enveloped in the blaze of musketry and clouds of snow-white smoke: steel bayonets bristled above the green hedges, through which, and the shattered casements, red flashes broke incessantly; while fierce faces, pale with anger and chagrin, appeared at every opening.

"Shall I ride to Le Moine, to send up a four-pounder, and blow the place about their ears?" said I to Kempt.

"Cannon against a shelling!" exclaimed Macleod, backing his horse over the heaps of dead. "No, no; let the Buffs storm it. I will lead them on. Forward the Ross-shiremen!"

"Forward!" I added; "for the cavalry have halted, and seem disposed to return and engage. On, then, colonel; and a dozen of wine from the last officer over the wall!"

"CUIDICH'N RHI!" (the motto of the regiment), cried Macleod, dashing spurs into his horse. "Charge, Seventy-eighth!"

A shout burst from the ranks, and the brave fellows rushed to closer conflict. I urged forward Cartouche, and the spirited horse shook the foam from his bit, as snorting and rearing up he bounded over the enclosure of the garden, and came down crash among the mass of Frenchmen, whose bayonets formed a steel hedge around me. I must have been destroyed in a moment, but for the strenuous exertions of Macleod and his gallant Buffs; who came pouring in at the gap my horse had made, and engaged the enemy hand to hand—fighting with that fierce and unconquerable ardour which has enabled those brave sons of the north to sweep all the troops of Europe before them.

I was not slow in seconding their efforts, and made good use of my sabre: one instant it descended upon musket barrels and bear-skin caps, and the next inflicted some deadly wound, which at that wild and exciting time was a matter of exulting triumph to me. Terrible were the bayonet wounds given and received in that short encounter; many poor fellows who were beaten to the earth were trodden to death beneath the hoofs of our horses, and in five minutes the defenders of the cottage surrendered. The walls without and within were piled up with dead and dying, and its once blooming garden was trodden flat, cumbered with bodies, and drenched with blood. But another desperate encounter was yet before me.

"The colours! the eagle!" exclaimed Macleod, breaking in amongst the prisoners; "where is the officer who bore the eagle?"

"Escaped, by Heaven!" answered Oliver Lascelles, who galloped up at that moment, and cleared the garden-wall at a flying leap. "There he goes on the bald-faced nag. A hundred to one the standard is lost!" A muttered exclamation of regret and mortification burst from us all on beholding the bearer of the eagle riding at full speed after the retreating cavalry.

"S'death!" cried Macleod, rushing to his horse; "he has escaped by the rear. Come on, gentlemen, we will have a steeple-chase for it!"

"Stole away! hark forward!" exclaimed Lascelles, with a reckless laugh, as his nag once more cleared the wall. The mounted officers all pushed onward at full gallop; but they were soon outstripped by my noble grey, which rapidly brought me up with the fugitive. On finding himself nearer the French rear-guard than the victors, and perhaps disdaining to fly from a single foe, young Regnier reined up on an eminence near the Amato, and with his sabre lashed by the knot to his wrist, with bent brows, and eyes flashing fire with determination, he awaited my onset. His horse was a small French trooper; the straight neck, drooping ears, and close flanks of which showed its inferiority of breed when compared with my high-headed, bold-eyed, and bluff-chested charger.

I charged him with such fury that both man and horse were almost overturned by the shock; and parrying his thrust, I dealt a blow which had certainly cleft his jaws, but for the thick brass scales of his shako. He was stunned, and reeled in his saddle for a moment, striking blindly and at random. At that instant the French cavalry trumpets sounded an advance, and I was compelled to press him more boldly than ever. Grasping the colour-staff with my bridle hand, the flag was nearly rent between us; while he endeavoured to hew off the eagle with his sabre. He glared at me like a tiger and cut fiercely at my left hand, which the twisted reins and thick military glove alone saved from being slashed off; but at the second blow his sabre turned in his grasp, and the blade was shivered into fragments on the stout ash-pole. In the heat of the moment, my sword was raised to cut him down: he was completely at my mercy. He was young, brave, and handsome. I remembered how his countryman had spared me but an hour before, and could I be less generous? Determined, however, to carry off the colours, I grasped him by the belt, placed my foot under his left stirrup, and hurled him to the ground on the other side. The moment he let go the staff, I struck spurs into my grey, and galloped off with the prize to our own troops; who had watched the combat from the eminence on which the contested cottage stood.

My heart bounded with exultation as I bore aloft the tricoloured trophy: it was so torn with shot and shell splinters, that we could never discover to what regiment it belonged. How different must have been the feelings of the poor sub-lieutenant, while borne off by the French cavalry; who, returning to the rescue, discharged their carbines after me: but I was happily beyond the range of their fire.

The battle was now completely over, and every hostile sound had died away. No trace now remained of all that gallant host, whose bayonets had flashed back the morning rays from the ridge of Maida, save the wounded and the dead: the distant glitter of arms and eddying clouds of dust, marked the route of columns hurrying in full retreat towards the shores of the Adriatic. Four thousand Frenchmen lay dead or wounded on the plain; exhibiting a melancholy picture of war and its attendant horrors—more especially on the day succeeding the action. A French account of the battle of St. Eufemio, as they style it, states that Regnier left fifteen hundred on the field; but we had substantial proofs that this number was far below the truth. Our own loss was trifling: one officer only was killed (Maclean of the 20th); but Major Hamil of the Maltese, and many others, lay severely wounded on the plain: our casualties, however, amounted to only three hundred and twenty-six. When riding towards our position, to present my trophy to the general, I had to pick my way with the utmost nicety, to avoid treading on the wounded; who filled the air with groans and ceaseless cries for "water!" as they lay unheeded, bleeding—too many of them to death—under a blazing Italian sun.

The evening, like the morning, was serene and beautiful. The dense white smoke, which during the whole day enveloped the plain of Maida and overhung the dark forest of St. Eufemio, had now floated away to the distant sea. The volleying musketry and hollow thunder of the cannon awoke no more the echoes of the lofty hills, and the deep dingles of the woods: a mournful silence seemed to have succeeded to the roar, the turmoil and carnage of that eventful day,—eventful at least to those who witnessed and survived it.

It is a deplorable sight—when one is calm or suffering under a reaction of spirits so lately excited to the utmost stretch, and after the fierce tumult of a hot engagement has evaporated—to behold a vast plain bepuddled with human blood, and strewn with the bodies of men and horses, mingled with arms, broken cannon, splintered shells, balls half buried in the turf, shattered drums, and torn standards—on every hand, destruction, agony, and death; while ghastly piles of slain mark where the fiercest encounters have taken place. Alas! how changed the aspect of the gay young officer, or the stout and toil-worn veteran, when, shorn of their trappings, they lie weltering in blood—death glazing the eyes that have no kind hand to close them, and each yielding up his life like a dog in a ditch, unnoticed and unknown!

—"The groan, the roll in dust, the all white eye

Turned back within its socket,—these reward

Your rank and file by thousands; while the rest

May win, perhaps, a ribbon at the breast."

CHAPTER IX.

LIVES FOR DUCATS!—BIANCA D'ALFIERI.

The remains of General Regnier's army were now in fall retreat for Crotona, a seaport of Naples; harassed and galled by the Highlanders, and by the Free corps under the Duca di Bagnara and Cavalier del Castagno. The brigands and a host of armed peasantry also hovered like storm-clouds on their skirts; and all who fell to the rear, under wounds or fatigue, perished by that favourite Italian weapon—the knife.

On rejoining the main body of our army, I found the general in the highest state of glee at the glorious success of the day: he was seated on horseback in the midst of the field, a holster-flap serving as his desk, writing a hurried despatch recounting our first regular brush with the enemy in Calabria. My arrival with the standard added a new and important paragraph to the general's missive. While he was complimenting and rallying me by turns, our interview was interrupted by cries of Frenchmen for succour, proceeding from a thicket close by. There I found six French officers, and the same number of soldiers, bound with cords to the trees, and surrounded by some of Santugo's free corps; who were hammering their flints and loading, with great deliberation, for the purpose of making targets of these unfortunates. Among the prisoners I recognised the gallant leader of the cavalry, whom I had encountered in the early part of the day. His arms were corded behind him round the trunk of an oak, and he was nearly blinded by the blood which flowed from a wound on his head, inflicted apparently by the butt of a musket, or the knob of a peasant's club.

"Save us, Monsieur Aide-de-camp!" cried he, in broken English; "these Italian ruffians know not the rules of nations, or the courtesy of war. Save us from such base poltroons! It is hard for brave men to die so helplessly."

"Giacomo—how now, rascal! Is this the way you mean to treat our prisoners?" I angrily asked of Santugo's follower, who seemed to be the officiating authority. "Unbind them instantly, and with these mule-headed rogues of yours, rejoin the free corps! But first, read to them the general's proclamation concerning the treatment of prisoners." As I severed the cords which bound the staff officer, the Calabrians vented their anger in loud murmurs.

"Eh, via! what would you do, signor?" asked Belloni, with an air of sulky surprise.

"Olà, damnazione!" growled the rest, as they grimly handled their knives, and closed round the Frenchmen; seemingly resolved that their prey should not escape. Poor fellows! it was an anxious moment for them. Taking from my sabretache a copy of Sir John's proclamation to the Calabrians, I read it aloud: it enjoined them to treat generously all captives who fell into their hands, and offered rewards for every one conducted by them in safety to the British camp—twenty ducats for an officer, and six for each private soldier. Immediately there arose a shout of "Il denaro—the money!" I cast the ducats (part of what I had won from Truffi the crookback) amongst them, with ill concealed impatience and scorn. The money was gathered up hurriedly, and the prisoners were unbound. Thus, for a hundred and fifty pieces of silver, I saved the lives of twelve human beings; who would have been butchered without remorse, but for my opportune arrival and intervention.

I led the reprieved men to Sir John Stuart, who was still intent on his despatch. Surrounded by whole hecatombs of slain and wounded—by sights and sounds replete with agony and horror—the old soldier continued to scribble on "for the information of his Royal Highness," with an expression and air of as perfect coolness, as if seated in the most comfortable drawing-room at home. A group of adjutants and orderlies stood round him, reporting the various casualties, and making up their lists of killed, wounded, and missing. They fell back on our approach.

I presented the prisoners, among whom were an aide-de-camp, the lieutenant-colonel of a Swiss battalion, and my brave antagonist; whom I discovered to be the famous General Compere. He had been unhorsed and disarmed by Captain Drumlugas, who gave him in charge of the free corps; from whose gentle wardship I had rescued him. The privates were poor Swiss conscripts, who had been marched from their native mountains to fight under the eagles of the Emperor. They were placed among the rest of our prisoners, who now numbered about a thousand: these were formed in a solid square, and surrounded by the Sicilian battalion, with two four-pounders loaded with cannister and grape, to keep the forlorn band in complete subjection.

As I accompanied General Compere in search of a surgeon to dress his wound, we passed a deep trench, or natural chasm of rock, in which about seven hundred French dead were being hastily interred; to prevent their bodies producing malaria, or being stripped and mutilated by the peasantry. A wing of les chasseurs Brittaniques, working with their jackets off, were performing the duty of sextons. Compere paused to observe them.

"Poor fellows!" said he, looking down on the heaped dead within that hideous catacomb. "This morning, how merrily they marched from Maida! How many a young and brave heart, that was then swelling with courage and ardour, is lying here—crushed, cold, and still!" His fine, bronzed face, clouded for a moment with the deepest dejection and mortification, while surveying the ghastly trench where his soldiers lay piled one on another, with arms, knapsacks, and harness, just as they were found; but his proud eye brightened as he turned towards the darkening hills, where the far-off clouds of dust, curling like smoke in the distance, marked the line of Regnier's quick retreat.

"Hah!" added he, gaily, "France yet swarms with brave soldiers; and Massena will soon show your haughty general that Naples is not to be won and lost on Maida only. He is 'the child of victory;' and fortune will soon smile again on the soldiers of the emperor. As for this day's field, about which they will doubtless make a great noise in England—poh! 'tis a mere battle of eggshells to what I have seen: even in Italy—this land of cowards! Had you been on the fields of Arcole and Lodi—had you seen our victorious legions sweep the Romans from the mountains of Imola—'twould have done your heart good. Faith! one who has captured Naples, fought in Apulia, invested Gaeta, and seen the corpses piled chin-deep in the redoubt of San Andero, must know what campaigning is! But allons! Monsieur; if it please you, let me get my poor broken head dressed." I hailed one of the medical staff (Dr. Macneisa of ours) who was passing near us, and in a few minutes Compere's wound was bathed and bandaged up, with a care and tenderness of which he seemed deeply sensible.

Macneisa had scarcely retired, when we were informed that the numerous prisoners had become refractory, and Sir John was about to give them a dose from the field-pieces; but Compere hastened to the spot, and by his presence reduced them to subjection. They were then formed in sections, and strongly escorted, preparatory to their march to the coast, where the boats of Sir Sydney's fleet were in waiting to embark them.

"En arriere—marche!" cried the crest-fallen Compere, half-forgetting that his authority was no more; and the dark, disarmed mass moved off towards the sea, encircled by a hedge of glittering bayonets. "Dieu vous benisse!" said the French general, raising his cocked hat; "Monsieur aide-de-camp, I shall never forget your kindness. Adieu—a thousand adieux!" And I saw him no more—at least, not as a prisoner.

On their retreat to Crotona, the French were closely followed by Macleod with the 78th, les chasseurs Brittaniques, and Santugo's free corps, with orders to attack them on every occasion, and to endeavour to dislodge them entirely from Calabria Ulteriore. As their route lay along the shore of the Adriatic, an excellent opportunity was afforded for an effectual co-operation with our squadron in that sea, commanded by Captain (afterwards Sir William) Hoste; who never neglected an opportunity of galling their left flank whenever it came within range. On their right a giant chain of mountains heaved upwards from the beach; and there the chiefs of the Masse, at the head of thousands panting for French blood, hovered in clouds, while Macleod pressed on their rear. For miles the shore was strewn with their killed and wounded. A position was hastily taken up at Catanzaro; but as hastily abandoned, before the overwhelming power of the Masse.

Our wounded were conveyed to St. Eufemio, where all the officers of the medical staff and fleet were in attendance on them daily. The solicitude of the sailors to be of use to us, and their anxiety to assist their wounded countrymen—the alacrity with which they brought supplies ashore—and the general tenderness and attention with which these rough tars treated their helpless brethren, elicited the highest encomiums from the general and the admiral; on board whose ship I had the honour to lodge the eagle (captured at Maida), which, with our despatches, was immediately transmitted to London in charge of Lieutenant Villiers of ours. Sir John wished me to have been the bearer; but, having cogent reasons for remaining in Calabria as long as possible, I contrived to excuse myself.

Our head-quarters were established at St. Eufemio; while Macleod, with three thousand men, laid siege to Crotona, and Hoste, with the Adriatic fleet of gun-boats, blockaded it by sea. Colonel Oswald was despatched to invest Scylla, with orders to storm the castle of Monteleone on his way. These were the only strongholds of importance possessed by Regnier in the lower province. Immediately on his retreat, the famous Capo-bandito Francatripa, with his ferocious horde issued from the forest of St. Eufemio, and carried by storm a battlemented and palisadoed house at the place called the Sauveria; where an unfortunate party of the 23d French light infantry, who formed its garrison, had been abandoned by Regnier in his flight. After a gallant resistance, the garrison were all cruelly massacred by these blood-thirsty patriots; even their little trumpeter, a boy only twelve years of age, perished beneath their poniards. Such a sample of Italian savagism called forth the indignation of our soldiers, who were well aware that by the courtesy of war the little band deserved very different treatment; but Francatripa excused himself on the plea that it was but a part of that cruel system of reprisals maintained on both sides.

When the embarkation of prisoners, the landing of cannon and stores, the billetting of sick and wounded, the burial of the dead, and all the bustle succeeding the battle were over, I thought of paying a visit to my friends at the villa d'Alfieri. There could not be a better time; the Visconte was at Crotona with his regiment, and I should have Bianca to myself.

My billet was at an inn of St. Eufemio, called "Il Concha d'Oro," from its sign, the Golden Shell. It was kept by a worthy bustling little Italian, Maestro Matteo Buzzone: who, in truth, was not ill named; his paunch being one of the first amplitude. I was enjoying a cigar and a decanter of iced Malvasia from the classic isles of Lipari, at an open lattice. Opposite, stood the house of the Signor Podesta, and I amused myself for some time by attempting to engage his daughter, a dark-eyed and red-cheeked damsel, in a flirtation: but my efforts were vain; though she appeared every moment at the window—watering flowers, arranging and disarranging the sunshade, bowing to a passer by, or what not.

The coolness of the evening induced me to think of a canter as far as the villa d'Alfieri. Summoning the groom, I desired him to saddle Cartouche; while, with rather more care than usual, I made my toilet: for I was about to pay my devoirs to the fair Bianca. In those days, when one was not on duty, the uniform coat was worn open, with the lappelles buttoned back, to show the facings barred with silver; the sash and swordbelt being worn under it, and over a white kerseymere waistcoat. White breeches, long jackboots reaching above the knee, and equipped with jangling spurs, a heavy sabre with a brass sheath, buff gloves, and a cocked hat with a drooping plume of scarlet and white feathers, completed the uniform of a British staff officer.

I was just setting forth, when the ill-omened visage of the general's orderly, an old and sunburnt serjeant of the 81st, appeared at the door: erect as a ramrod, he raised his hand to his bear-skin cap, and placed a despatch in my hand.

"Hallo, Pierce! what's fresh now?"

"Sir John's compliments, sir, and he requests you will make all speed with this before the night sets in."

"Now, by all the gods! 'tis mere slavery this staff work—I'll resign, and join the 62d at Syracuse!" I muttered, while tearing open the note accompanying the dispatch—an oblong document, addressed "O.H.M.S., To Lt.-Col. Macleod, Ross-shire Buffs, Crotona."

"Dear Dundas (ran the note), You will ride forthwith, and deliver the accompanying letter at Crotona. If it suits your taste, stay there to partake of the fighting; but bring me word the moment it capitulates. Yours, &c.,

"JOHN STUART, Maj.-Gen."

There was no course but to obey: yet I determined that my original purpose of visiting Bianca should not be interfered with. Thrusting the despatch into the sabretache, I buckled on my sabre, and in five minutes was en route, with all the worldly goods I possessed (at least in Calabria) strapped to the saddle before and behind me. In front were a pair of excellent pistols, newly oiled, flinted and loaded, and my blue cloak was rolled and buckled over the holsters; a valise was strapped behind me, containing a few changes of linen, and a fighting jacket: a handful of cigars and an Army List, a horse-picker and a cork-screw, with a copy of "The Eighteen Manoeuvres" (compiled by my namesake Sir David Dundas), completed my camp equipage; the whole of our heavy baggage having been left behind us in Sicily. The telescope—an appendage indispensable to a staff-officer—I carried in a pipe-clayed case, slung across my left shoulder.

Evening had almost given place to night when I arrived at the villa, and dismounted. Its ample façade was shrouded in gloom, and there were no signs of animation within; which was accounted for by the absence of Santugo, with all his dependents. I fastened my horse in the porch, for there was no one to receive it: the guard-room of the sbirri, or armed militia (which all the feudal nobles maintained until the French invasion), was empty, and the quadrangle deserted. In remote places on the mountains some residences were still garrisoned or protected by the sbirri; and the landholders, abetted by these armed followers in their hereditary and inveterate feuds, became the perpetrators of outrages and atrocities of every kind.

In the vestibule I met Annina, a girl of Capri, and Bianca's favourite attendant; who, on beholding me, uttered an exclamation of delight: this was a good omen. I enquired of course for the Viscontessa, and was informed that she was away to the prince's conversazione at Nicastro, accompanied by the old Major Gismondo; but the Signora Bianca was at home, and, taking my hand, the frank Italian girl bade me accompany her. With my clattering boots, buckskin gloves, and worn accoutrements, I was in fitter trim for the march than for a lady's boudoir: but though my scarlet uniform, its embroidery and silver epaulettes, were faded and dingy, still they were quite service-like; and the coat yet showed the stains of blood from the wound I had received at Cefalu, and the scratch in the skirmish near St. Eufemio.

Bianca was seated at a table, leaning her cheek upon her hand, intent on the sorrowful pages of "La Guiletta," her glossy curls clustering over her white arm, which the fashion of her country revealed to the dimpled elbow. The lamp by which she sat reading (a globe of light, upheld by a silver Atlas) shed its radiance full upon her eyes, which flashed brilliantly as she raised them on my entrance, with an expression in which surprise, confusion, and welcome were blended. Good omen the second! thought I. One is more apt to be egotistical when on the staff, than when doing duty as a mere regimental officer. The momentary flush which suffused her soft cheek and pale forehead, heightened her rare beauty; and at the moment when she arose, and threw back the rich masses of half-disordered curls with her white hand, her bust resplendent in the full glare of light, she seemed perfectly divine—in the language of her countrymen, a Bell'idolo.

Her constant companion, Luisa Gismondo, rising from an embroidery frame, received me with a smile of welcome: she, too, was an enchanting girl, though much shorter in stature than Bianca; and never did the light of a candelabrum shine on curls more glossy, lips more rosy, softer blue eyes, or a face more brilliantly fair than poor Luisa's.

"O joy!" exclaimed the girls together; "and so, signor, you have escaped the awful day at Maida?"

"Yes, ladies; and I hope to escape many more such days. I trust you will excuse this somewhat unseasonable visit, Signora Bianca," said I, slightly pressing her hand; "but being ordered off on the spur to Crotona, I have taken the liberty of visiting you, to be the bearer of any message or letters to Monsignore Luigi."

"How very kind of you, Signor Claude; but—but you do not proceed on the road to Crotona to-night?"

"I must, indeed, ride forward without delay; and believe me the general, kind-hearted though he be, would scarcely excuse my having made a detour, even to visit the Villa D'Alfieri."

"O, Signor Claude, consider the state of the country!" said she earnestly, as I seated myself at the other end of the sofa, evincing not the least hurry in the world.

"'Consider the nature of the service,' the general would reply; but I believe that the wildest bandit in Italy—not even Francatripa, or Frà Diavolo—would molest a British soldier."

"You, perhaps, trust them too far. But, indeed, our oppressed people are not quite so bad as the Parisian papers have represented them."

By this time the distance between us on the sofa was greatly diminished, and I was about to say something very pointed and gallant, when Annina entered with a tray of refreshments, which she placed on the ebony table before us. I saw a cunning smile twinkling in her black eyes as she watched us, while arranging the ices, the crystal goblets, and a superbly embossed caraffa of the wine of Gioja—a village of Calabria, famed for the excellence of its grapes. The Viscontessa was, as I have said, at Nicastro, where, I heartily hoped, she would continue to enjoy herself; not wishing my tête-a-tête with these two charming girls to be interrupted by her presence, or that of the Major.

"O, signor, tell us how you captured the standard at Maida?" asked Luisa.

Well aware how much such an encounter makes one shine in the estimation of women, I briefly related the whole affair; deriving considerable satisfaction from the expressions of horror, pity, and surprise, that flitted in succession across the fair faces of the listeners.

"And so you escaped unhurt!" exclaimed Bianca clasping her hands—with delight I was fain to suppose.

"Quite, signora: you observe my thick glove, and the curb rein—"

"And the bearer—the poor Frenchman!" said Luisa, fixing her blue eyes upon me.

"Escaped, I am now happy to say. Poor fellow! 'tis said he was Regnier's son."

"Phillipe Regnier! O my God!" murmured Luisa in a breathless voice.

"Luisa!" exclaimed Bianca, surveying her pale features with astonishment. The poor girl blushed deeply, and bent over her embroidery frame, adding, in a faltering voice, that she herself was soon to behold such scenes, and looked forward to them with horror.

"True, Luisa, dear," said Bianca, kissing her cheek, "You set out with your father for our army at Cassano to-morrow."

"To join the chiefs of the Masse?" I asked. Luisa Gismondo bowed, and the subject was abruptly changed. I saw that some secret was labouring in her breast; causing a dejection and confusion she could ill conceal.

But to proceed, briefly. The acquaintance that Bianca and I had formed in Sicily was fast ripening, and we became as intimate as cousins; and quite as harmless in our flirtation. Swiftly and happily passed that agreeable evening, in the course of which I discovered that the minds of these fair girls were no way inferior to the perfection of their persons. Their manners were animated and bewitching, their imaginations brilliant; each was mistress of music and drawing, and well read in the best works of Italian literature. We commented on the "Giuletta" of Captain Luigi da Porta—that brave cavalry officer, who wielded his pen in peace as well as he had done the sword in the wars of the league of Cambray and the campaigns of Gradiska; and from whose pathetic novel, Shakspeare derived the plot of his far-famed tragedy. We also dipped into the "Gierusalemme" of Tasso, and wooed the softer muse of Petrarch. Then Luisa seated herself at the piano, and with Bianca sang a beautiful duet from the "Antonio e Cleopatra," of the amorous Vittorio D'Alfieri; whose genius enriched and invigorated the literature of his country. Bianca showed me her portfolio, wherein I sketched the distant hills of Maida, as seen from the casement, shining in all the silvery blaze of an Italian moonlight: next came her collection of medals and bronzes; and her music, including the last new piece from Palermo. Her lap-dogs, parrot, and heaven knows what besides, were all separately admired; while the general, his dispatch, and the service were alike forgotten.

The boudoir was a charming little place; elegantly fitted up and decorated with every ornament that her own taste or her cousin's wealth could procure; and the cool sea-breeze wafted the aromatic perfumes of the garden through the open casements. The broad moon was shining on the glassy deep, and we heard the solemn hymn of the Sicilian fishermen, and the dipping of oars as they fell in measured time into the sparkling waters of the gulf.

The sullen toll from the clock turret in the quadrangle, warned me that it wanted but an hour of midnight. I started up as the forgotten dispatch rushed upon my remembrance.

"The deuce!" thought I; "now then to horse and away."

Bianca set before me in grim array all the dangers of travelling in so wild a country at midnight—the woods, the marshes, the wolves, the banditti; and begged me to remain at least until her aunt returned with some of the mounted servants. The fine eyes of the lovely and warm-hearted girl became almost suffused with tears, as she presented me with an Agnus Dei for Luigi. This was a piece of some unknown stuff cut in the form of a heart, which Fra Adriano had informed her had power to drive away evil spirits and calm storms, and tempests; having been consecrated by his holiness the Pope, who provides an ample supply of these sacred toys for distribution every seven years. Although at that moment I was on the point of leaving her, perhaps for ever, I could not forbear smiling at the credulous superstition or devout simplicity which induced her to entrust me, in such sincere good faith, with this gift for her cousin.

"Felicissima notte, Signorina Luisa, and happiest night to you, dearest Bianca!" said I on turning to leave them.

"I would give you such an amulet too," said Bianca, "but 'twere better not: you only scoff at these things, which your erring fathers have taught you to scorn."

"No, dear Bianca; believe me that any gift—"

"Hush now, Caro Claude!" said she, placing her pretty hand on my mouth; "I will not believe you."

In one short evening how had the enchanting manner, the gentle tones and sweet nature of this Italian girl endeared her to me! Until I rose unwillingly to depart, I knew not that the spell she had cast around me was so powerful. My hand trembled; and this sympathetic confusion was conveyed by its touch to Bianca; who blushed and cast down her eyes, while a roguish smile overspread the fair face of Luisa. A love affair makes rapid progress in the fervid clime of volcanoes and earthquakes, though the pathway is too often planted with poniards; and before parting, Bianca and I had formally exchanged rings. Respectfully pressing my lips to her hand and cheek, I resigned her, in tears, to the tender solace of Luisa Gismondo, and hastened from the apartment. I led forth poor Cartouche, who had spent the whole night in the dark porch shaking his ears and snorting with impatience, while the cold night dew gathered on his glossy coat and glittering harness.

My foot was in the stirrup, when the opening of a window above made me pause, and my fair friends appeared leaning over a balcony.

"Claude," said Bianca; "on the wild hills above Maida there dwells an aged hermit, to whom every year we have sent alms—madonna mia! he is very, very old! My aunt did so when she was a girl, and her mother had done so before her. Tell the good man that I remember him in my prayers, and ask his blessing for Bianca."

"And for me, too, signor," added Luisa.

"I shall not forget, ladies," said I, leaping into my saddle. "Adieu."

In ten minutes the Villa d'Alfieri was far behind, and I was galloping along the moonlit beach of St. Eufemio.

CHAPTER X.

A NIGHT WITH THE ZINGARI.

An hour's hard riding brought me to the skirts of the great forest; so famous as the haunt of wolves and brigands, that I did not feel perfectly at ease in its vicinity, and kept on the alert as I proceeded. On one side stretched away into obscurity the level shore, bordered by the sea; which rolled its sullen waves on the yellow sand, or dashed them in glittering foam against the jutting rocks: on the other, arose the rustling oaks and beeches of the lofty forest, the long dark vistas and gloomy recesses of which the sun had never penetrated. From the wooded heights I expected every moment to issue the red flash of a rifle, or the glancing weapons and tall conical hats of Francatripa's horde; but I trusted that my character as an Italian ally, would gain me some favour with those desperadoes—whose ferocity, strange to say, was often mingled with the highest spirit of patriotism and chivalry.

A dense cloud obscured the radiant moon, casting a long dark shadow over sea and land, and I missed the beaten track which supplied the place of a road. Presently, Cartouche sank to the girths in a plantation of rice, where he snorted and plunged furiously. By using bridle and spur with the utmost caution, I extricated him; but he sank again and again, and I had fears of losing my noble grey altogether. A rice field is little better than a marsh, full of water and holes. I toiled on for half an hour, holding his bridle and endeavouring to regain the lost road; but every instant we plunged deeper into bogs and pools of stagnant water. At last I regained terra firma, close to the forest: but was exhausted with over-exertion and want of sleep. Then the warnings of Bianca were remembered, and I regretted not having remained all night at the villa.

On the verge of the forest, and close to the preceptory house of Castelermo—a ruin overgrown with vine and ivy, and now brilliantly illuminated by the moon, which broke forth with double splendour—I came suddenly upon a large blazing fire, that lit up the dark arcades of the wood, and hissed as the dew was shaken from the waving branches on the flames. Around it moved a group of people, whom at first I supposed to be brigands, but on nearer approach I found they were Zingari—a class half gipsies half robbers; of unknown origin, and speaking Italian, but with an accent peculiar to themselves. Like all the scattered remnants of this mysterious tribe in other countries, the Zingari wander over the face of the land without possessing any property save the chattels borne in the panniers of their mules and asses. These vagrants are chiefly employed in working on metals, which they manufacture into rude stilettos, buckles, and bodkins; though they live principally by their wits, and the nimbleness of their fingers.

On my approach, the male portion of the community snatched up their knives and poles; and a skirmish might have ensued, had not an old man, who appeared to be their capo, or chief, quieted their clamour, and stepped forward to receive me. The gang consisted of twelve men and the same number of women; all of them clad in a gaudy, though miserable manner.

The old Zingaro had a beard like that of a patriarch, and the thick masses of his grizzled hair were confined in a netted bag—the only covering his head perhaps had ever known. His red cotton breeches and deer-skin jacket were worn to tatters, and his brawny brown legs were bare below the knee, his feet being encased in sandals, laced with straps above the ankle; a broad belt encircled his waist, and sustained a knife, a flask, a pouch, and a mandolin, which, with a staff or ashen pole, six feet long, completed his equipment. The younger vagabonds were all attired much in the same manner; their dark glancing eyes, naked limbs and shoulders, wild tangled hair, and wolf-skin garments, giving them, a very savage or satyr-like aspect.

Believing there was no cause to fear these people, and being willing to rest and gratify my curiosity, I dismounted, and returned ceremoniously the greeting of the venerable capo.

"Cross her hand with a ducat of gold, that Zilla may read your fortune, signor gentiluomo!" said a young girl, dancing round me, and snapping her castanets, while a gipsy struck a few notes on a rude guitar, and chanted the Zingaresca. "Touch my hand with gold, and if your love will be successful, I will read it in the stars."

"I would rather have it read from your own bright eyes, my pretty donzella," said I, with a gallant air. This made the eyes of the young rogue with the guitar flash fire; and on my attempting to take the hand of the girl, she tripped away from me with a demure air of rustic coquetry which made her look prettier still. Though not tall, she was finely formed: the contour of her head and profile was of classic beauty. Her eyes were darker than any I had ever looked on, and at times they became lustrous with lambent light; and her teeth, white and regular, were unsurpassed in brilliancy even by those of Bianca. But her face, her arms, and legs—the latter partially displayed by a scanty petticoat—were burned by the sun to a hue considerably darker than the natural olive tint of her race. Her hair was so black, that it seemed of a blue tint, where the light struck upon it, and its luxuriant masses were confined by a golden arrow, with an unexpanded bulb; announcing that she was a maiden spotless and free: the barb being the sign of betrothal or marriage.

"Gentil signor, for a crown, I will write you a spell that will make all the women love you."

"Benissimo, my girl!" said I, "if only one woman loves me truly"——

"Or seek you a love potion? or a charm against French bullets?" said a hideous hag, with fierce black eyes, a shrivelled skin, and the aspect of a Hecate.

"Bah!" growled the old Zingaro; "away with you, Zilla—and you, too, good mother! The cavaliere has not come among us to have charms made, or fortunes read; but for a trusty guide, who for a handful of carlini will conduct him through any part of the woods between seas."

"Right, master Zingaro!—a guide is just what I am in search of, to direct me on the Crotona road: at least, so far as we may go until dawn; when I may see to avoid these cursed rice-fields and quagmires, through which it is no joke to ride in the dark."

"True, signor: you have had a very narrow escape. I remember that in the wet season, when these marshes become lakes, three of Regnier's dragoons, while escorting the famous crook-back, Gaspare Truffi, to the gallows at Monteleone, were cajoled by his oily tongue, and led among the rice-fields yonder, as the shortest way. Via! 't was the longest road they ever marched—for they are on it yet. Gaspare escaped; but the troopers and their horses sunk for ever in the shifting morass. You may thank those blessed stars that shone so kindly on you: you had perished but for them. Seat yourself on the turf, signor: the Zingari feast when other men sleep; and if you will condescend to partake of our meal"——I bowed assent, and seated myself beside his daughter.

It would have been wiser to have ridden on my way, with or without a guide, rather than have trusted myself in such quarters and company; but the aspect of the whole group was so strikingly romantic, that I was tempted to linger. The red flames of the fire cast fitful and lurid gleams of light on the dark countenances and wild garments of the wanderers, shedding a fiery glow on the rich green foliage of the gigantic oaks and elms, whose gnarled trunks were interlaced with ivy, vine, and olive. No wind poured through the long, still vistas of the forest; whose gloomy recesses were spangled with myriads of fire-flies, flitting like flames of fairy tapers. A mountain torrent was falling near us; and the roaring hiss of the cascade seemed alone to stir the dewy leaves of the umbrageous foliage. The large eyes of the Zingari were glinting in the light, as they stared fixedly on the red embers, or watched the motions of the aged crone who superintended the cooking. The meal—whether late supper or early breakfast, I know not—consisted of sundry portions of roebuck and wild pig, which were broiling and sputtering merrily on the glowing bars of an immense gridiron. To these savoury viands were added cakes of flour, a jar of boiled rice, and a pitcher of the wine of the country. Close by me stood Cartouche, reined up to the lower branch of an oak; his large and prominent eyes glaring in the light of the fire, and his broad, red nostrils quivering as the smoke curled around them.

This was one of those picturesque scenes of service, which are rendered so pleasant by the very contrast they present to others. Two hours before I had been seated in a superb boudoir, beside Bianca and her friend; now I lounged on the grass among unshaven thieves and vagrants, who regarded my rich uniform and well-trimmed mustachios with eyes of ill-concealed admiration and wonder.

During this midnight revel, the old capo represented the roads about the forest, as being so dangerous, that I resolved to abide with his band until dawn, when he promised to send a guide with me so far as I wished.

"Besides, Excellenza," he added, "Francatripa's men are in the forest, and you might be in some peril if you fell into their hands alone: while under my protection you are safe. I mean not that the noble Francatripa would in person molest you; but there are those in his band who are less scrupulous, and who care not whether a traveller wears the scarlet uniform of Britain, or the blue of my Lord Peppo: especially that crooked fiend, Gaspare Truffi, who, since the massacre of his own gang by the voltigeurs of the Marchese di Monteleone, acts as Signor Francatripa's lieutenant."

As day light could not be far distant I consented to remain. Rolled up in my cloak, I lay down to sleep by the feet of my horse; while the Zingari, after posting one of their gang to watch, also composed themselves for repose on the green sward.

The novelty of my situation, the character of my companions, and my late happy interview with Bianca, kept floating before me, chasing away sleep, and compelling me for a time to lie awake. I lay watching a gigantic tarantella—a species of spider well known for the venomous nature of its bite—spinning its net of silvery gauze from the branches of the oak above me. But I soon found a more agreeable object for contemplation, in the classic form of Zilla; who lay near me, sleeping on her father's mantle of undressed deer-skin, over which her unbound ringlets rolled in luxuriant profusion. At last I dropped into a half slumber, but was speedily aroused by something writhing within my cloak. I threw it open, and lo! a bloated viper of enormous size was coiled round my left arm. While I endeavoured in vain to shake it off, an exclamation of disgust escaped me, which awoke the young girl Zilla; who, on beholding my predicament, fearlessly grasped the throat of the venomous reptile, and tossed it with all her strength among the trees. This action recalled the lines in Virgil's Third Georgic—

"In fair Calabria's woods a snake is bred,

With curling crest and with advancing head;

Waving he rolls, and makes a winding track:

His belly spotted, burnished is his back."

"Signor, do not be alarmed!" said Zilla; "I hope the horrid thing has not bitten you? Ah, were you to sleep for a single night where I have often slept, in the sedges by the Lake of Lugano, at the base of Mont Salvador, where the surface of the water and all the fields around it swarm with vipers, you would not be so frightened by one."

"I was not frightened, my gentil Zingara, though certainly a little startled."

"Pardon me, Excellenza—I meant not that; but—but only that I am so happy to have been of service." She paused with something like embarrassment.

She was so beautiful that I was half ashamed to offer her money; and on my placing a Venetian sequin in her hand, strange to say, it was with the utmost reluctance, and after many a furtive glance at the snoring capo, that this half-clad gipsy girl accepted the gift. So I kissed each of her dimpled cheeks—a soldier-like mode of payment, which she evidently relished much more: the sequin seemed only the bestowal of a charity, but the kiss was a compliment. Her oriental eyes kindled with vivacity and light, equalled only by those of the young Zingaro, her admirer; whom I observed coiled up close by, like a snake in a bush, and watching us with a keen expression of anger and mistrust, that boded me little good-will.

"And so, for this night, I am the rival of a Zingaro—a beggarly gipsy boy!" thought I, resigning myself once more to slumber; "what a dashing intrigue for an aide-de-camp! And yet the girl is pretty enough to turn the heads of our whole mess."

I tossed and turned restlessly on my grassy bed. In vain I invoked sleep: a dreamy sense of danger kept me awake, although I had a long and hard ride before me at daybreak. At last I fell into a dozing stupor, produced by the capo's wine and the dampness of his bivouac.

I was roused to consciousness by a shriek from Zilla—a piercing cry—which brought the whole Zingari on their legs in an instant; and springing up, I grasped my sabre. The hideous visage of Gaspare Truffi, lit up by the dying embers, scowled at me for a moment, from among the pale green foliage of an orange tree; we then heard him bounding away with one of his elvish yells of spite and malice.

"Slay him—slay him! O the hideous crook-back," exclaimed Zilla. "Caro Signor, I watched while you slept, and saw him stealing near you like a tiger-cat. He had a dagger in his hand, and his look was deadly: I knew his fell intentions."

"Olà Zingari!" shouted the enraged capo; "up Mosé—up Maldo—away—after him with your knives and poles!"

"A hundred ducats for him, dead or alive!" I exclaimed.

"Cowards!" ejaculated the old capo. But no man stirred in pursuit: the lieutenant of Francatripa was not to be pursued and attacked like an ordinary outlaw. The gang hung their heads and drew back.

My exasperation was only equalled by my astonishment at this re-appearance of the hunchback; who, I had supposed, must have perished in the whirlpool beneath the Villa d'Alfieri. My rage was kindled anew by this third attempt to assassinate me; and had he fallen into my hands at that moment, I should certainly have incapacitated him from making another attempt on my life.

As a longer stay with my new acquaintances in such a vicinity seemed likely to be fraught with other troubles and dangers, I mounted and rode off; accompanied by a little boy, the brother of Zillah. To her I tendered my thanks and purse at parting: but what gold could ever repay the debt of gratitude I owed the poor gipsy girl? She had saved my life. I thought less of it then than I have done since; one's existence is in hourly peril when campaigning, and escapes from danger are matters of much less note in warfare than in a time of peace.

CHAPTER XI.

THE HUNCHBACK AGAIN.

In a little while day dawned, and all the splendour of an Italian sunrise lit up the scenery. The waning moon shone pale and dim as, fading, it disappeared in the azure sky. From the lofty hills I had a view of the Mediterranean; its bright surface gleamed like a sea of polished glass, throwing out in strong relief the dark frigates anchored in the gulf, the gaudy xebecques with their broad lateen sails, swift feluccas, oared galleys, and a swarm of little coasting vessels. These seas, nevertheless, were at times infested by French cruisers and Algerine corsairs; who, darting from behind some cape or isle, pounced upon the unwary merchantman: for this tribe of Mussulman pirates had not then been extirpated or subdued.