ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP, VOLUME III (continued 3)

"O most ungrateful and unkind, Giosué! say rather your own wild and intractable spirit has occasioned your destruction——"

"And the loss of your love, Dianora?"

"Indeed, Giosué, I never could have loved you as—you would wish to be loved: but I have pitied you, wept for you, prayed for you——"

"Bless you, dear girl," replied the young man, with intense sadness; "you are very good and amiable; but I feel that love for you is making me mad!"

"Now, leave me, Giosué. Should the bishop find you here——"

"Say rather he whom you expect!" he exclaimed, bitterly and jealously. "Ha! false and fickle one! within sound of my whistle are those who in a moment would bear you off to yonder mountains in spite of all opposition, and leave in flames this villa of our dog of an uncle. But no, signora; I must have your love freely, or not at all."

"A moment ago you threatened——"

"Peace! Attempt not to stir until you have heard me. This cursed English lieutenant (ha! malediction! you see I know him), if he comes hither to-night may get a reception such as he little expects." He uttered a ferocious laugh, and struck with his hand the weapons which garnished his girdle. They clattered, and the heart of Dianora trembled between fear and indignation; for nothing rouses a young girl's spirit so much as hearing her lover spoken of lightly.

"Cospetto! let this baby-faced teniente beware," continued Giosué; "or, by the blessed Trinity! I will put a brace of bullets through his brain."

"Wretch!" exclaimed the trembling Dianora, "begone, lest I spit upon you! O Giosué! are you indeed become so ruffianly? Have brigandism and outrage hardened you thus?"

He laughed sternly, and said, "You do expect him to-night, then?"

"What is that to you?" she replied, pettishly. "Cousin, I will love whom I please."

"You shall not love him."

Dianora, who was now angry in downright earnest, began to sing, and thrum the strings of her mandolin.

"Me non segni il biondo Dio,

Me con Fille unisca amore—"

"Dianora!" exclaimed the young man, in a voice half mournful and half ferocious. "By the memory of other days, I conjure you to hear me! Think how, as children—as orphans—we lived, and played, and grew together—hear me!" His voice grew thick; but the irritated girl continued her song.

"E poi sfoghi il suo rigore

Fato rio, nemico ciel."

"Cruel that thou art: thy wish will never be realized!" he exclaimed, fiercely. Still she continued:—

"Che il desio non mi tormenta,

O——"

"Maledictions on you! Is it thus you treat me?"

Dianora laughed: he gazed intently upon her with fierce glistening eyes; his white lips were compressed with stern resolution, though agitation made them quiver—and that quivering was visible even in the moonlight.

"Dianora," said he, "for this time I will leave you; but when again we meet—tremble! Fury! I am not to be treated like a child!"

"Do not be so passionate, signor cousin. Madonna mia! You are quite the Horazio of Matteo Aliman's novel!"

"Beware," he responded, with a dark and inexplicable scowl, "that your hand—the hand pledged as mine—is not bestowed upon your lover as Clarinia's was. Farewell, fickle and cruel Dianora! Misfortune and love are turning my brain."

"Say rather wine, dice, and debauchery."

"Diavolessa!" he exclaimed, in accents of rage; and springing over the terrace, disappeared.

Dianora resumed her guitar; but she could sing no more: her assumed nonchalance quite deserted her. The instrument fell on the floor, and covering her face with her white hands she wept bitterly: for Giosué's threats and Oliver's absence terrified her.

The calm moon looked down on the dark forests and the snaky windings of the river, on whose glassy bosom here and there a red glow marked the watch-fires of the distant French picquets. No one was ascending the mountain side. In the villa, in the valley below, and on the hills around it, the most intense silence prevailed. Eagerly Dianora listened. Anon there rang through the welkin a shrill whistle—the whistle of Giosué; a faint cry succeeded: it rose from the river side, and floated tremulously upward through the still air. Another, and another followed: they were cries for succour! Her brain reeled—she sank upon her knees, and raised her hands to Heaven—her heart beat wildly—she panted rather than breathed. "O, God!" thought she; "if Oliver encounter the wild comrades of Giosué, what have I not to dread?"

Appalled by her own vivid and fearful thoughts, she sat as if spell-bound, listening for other sounds, in an agony of suspense; but none other arose from the dark wooded dell than the murmur of the river, as its waters rolled on their way to the ocean.

"Joy—joy—he comes at last!" she exclaimed, as the hoofs of a galloping horse rang on the narrow and rocky pathway, which wound between thickets of orange and citron trees up the mountain side. "Dear and blessed Lady of Burello, how I thank thee that he came not sooner! Three paters and three aves will I say.—I see him now: 'tis he! How bravely he reins up his roan English horse, with its high head and flowing mane! There is the dark cloak, and the little cap, beneath which his brown hair curls so crisply. Oh, well should I know him among a thousand!"

With all the frankness and ardour of an Italian girl she rushed upon the terrace, and, waving her hand over the balustrade, said playfully, "You have come at last, Signor mio. Fi! I owe you a severe lecture: approach, and receive it penitently."

At that moment, the horseman rode close to the wall of the terrace, and threw an arm around her. Overcome by her recent agitation, Dianora sank upon his breast, murmuring, in tender accents, "Oliver—dear Oliver."

"The curses of the whole calendar upon thee and Oliver too! Ha! you greet not him contemptuously with an old scrap of Metastasio. Burning hell! traitress, I recall your biting taunts, and will revenge me even as Horazio did. Lo! the hand you pledged unto me shall yet be mine."

A smothered cry burst from Dianora.—Instead of the handsome and flushed face of Oliver Lascelles, a livid and unearthly visage, distorted by the most vindictive passions, was close to her cheek; two ferocious eyes glared upon her, and the strong arm of Giosué was around her.

"Never again wilt thou scorn a lover, Dianora Montecino; and dear will that taunt cost thee which dictates my revenge."

His long keen acciaro gleamed in the moonlight, as he grasped her beautiful hand with the grasp of a tiger—instantly the sharp knife descended upon the slender wrist!

* * * * *

Let me throw a veil over the horrors that ensued.

The French sentinels on the windings of the lonely river, the wolf in the distant woods and the eagle on the rocks of Battaglia, must have been alike startled by the agonizing shrieks of Dianora. Fearful they were; but of short duration. A moan succeeded—a moan of terrible import. Then rang the hoofs of a horse as if spurred madly down the steep roadway. A turn of the dell hid the wild horseman, and then all became still.

Her right hand severed at the wrist, her nose cut off, and her face seamed with the most frightful gashes, Dianora was found by the alarmed household of the bishop, stretched on the marble terrace, bleeding and senseless—mutilated—dying. She was borne away: convulsions succeeded, and that night the unhappy Dianora died.

She expired in the arms of the venerable bishop, whose grief and horror rendered him almost distracted.

CHAPTER XV.

THE MONASTERY.

To return to Scylla.—The hour of parade passed: Lascelles had not yet returned, and I could no longer withstand my anxiety for his safety. Accompanied by my intelligent countryman, Gask, a bugler, and twenty soldiers in light marching order, each with sixty rounds of ammunition, I departed in the direction of Fiumara, on the almost hopeless errand of endeavouring to discover him. I now reproached myself bitterly, and really thought I had been much to blame in not restricting my rash friend, even at the chance of a quarrel: it could not have been of long duration.

Leaving Scylla as quietly as possible, we marched towards Fiumara by the most lonely and unfrequented route, through gorges and thickets, expecting every instant to hear the musket of our advanced file discharged, as a signal that a patrol of French cavalry, or some such interruption, was in sight.

It was a beautiful morning: the rays of the bright sun streamed aslant between the peaks of Mylæ, and the white dewy vapour curled from the dells like a gauze screen, mellowing the dark green of the pine thickets and the blue of the gleaming ocean, which shone at times between the openings of the high and broken shore. The morning hymn to the Virgin, and the tolling of the matin bell, floated through the still air from the dark old walls of St. Battaglia; a monastery perched on a rock, by the base of which the pathway wound. On we hurried; and soon Fiumara, its houses shining in the sun, the red smoky fires of the French camp, and their chain of out-picquets near the river, appeared before us.

At the bottom of the hill on which the Villa of Montecino was situated, just as we were striking into the narrow path that wound up its wooded side, our advanced file, (who was about fifty paces in front), halted, and waved his hand.

"Keep together, men! fix bayonets!—look to your priming—forward!" I exclaimed, and we rushed towards him. There was no immediate cause for alarm; but on a level spot of green sward we discovered sufficient evidence that some deed of violence and atrocity had been perpetrated, and I trembled for my poor friend Oliver! On the grass lay his gilded gorget, with its white silk ribbon rent in two; near it lay a buff military glove, covered with blood; a little further on we found his riding switch, with his crest graven on its gold embossed head. All around, the trampled state of the grass, the marks of feet (some of which had evidently been shoeless), the deep indents of horse-hoofs, and, worst of all, a pool of coagulated blood on the pathway, led us to anticipate some terrible catastrophe. Loud and deep were the threats and execrations of the soldiers.

At an accelerated pace we pushed up the hill towards the house of Montecino, passing on our left the mouldering ruins of a castelletto, or little fortalice; the broken ramparts of which were almost hidden under heavy masses of dark green ivy and luxuriant weeds.

Entering the bishop's disordered mansion without ceremony, I halted the soldiers in the vestibule, and desired a servant, who appeared, to conduct me to her master. The woman vouchsafed me no other reply than a motion to follow her: she was very pale, and her eyes were red from recent weeping. Opening a door, she ushered me into a little darkened oratory; where, on a bier before the altar surrounded by tapers, shedding "a dim, religious light," lay the sad remains of the hapless Dianora. They were covered with a white shroud; and so completely, that I beheld not the frightful ravages committed by the knife of the assassin. Beside the body—his white vestments soiled with blood, his thin grey hairs dishevelled, his aspect wild and haggard—knelt Piero Montecino, the aged Bishop of Nicastro; his attenuated hands clasped and holding a crucifix, on which, at times, he bowed down his reverend head. His wonted spiritual resignation, priestly dignity, and stateliness of aspect were gone: his spirit was crushed and broken. How changed was his whole appearance since the day when, with Bianca, I stood before the altar in the church of his bishoprick!

"O, Dianora! my daughter—my child!" he exclaimed, in accents of the deepest grief: "O, madonna, have mercy upon me! Holy Trinity, have mercy upon me! Dianora, my blessed one! Saint Euphemio, pray for her! Saint Magdalene, pray for her! Sweet lady of Burello!—beatified Rosalia!—thrice blessed lady of Loretto, mother of mercy! hear me, and pray for her!" Heavy sobs succeeded.

The touching tones of his voice, and the passionate fervour of his devout appeals, deeply moved me. So intense was his sorrow, that it almost warranted the suspicion of a nearer relationship to Dianora than his vows and character as a Catholic churchman permitted; but no such ungenerous thought occurred to me then: my heart felt only the deepest and most sincere compassion for the bereaved old man. He was so besotted with woe, that I saw it was next to impossible to obtain from him the least intelligence or advice; and, withdrawing softly, I left the villa immediately.

When descending the hill towards the spot where we had found the relics of our missing comrade, we met a peasant, who, with a long ox-goad, was urging a pair of lazy buffaloes towards Scylla. I desired my soldiers to bring him before me, in the desperate hope of obtaining some information concerning poor Lascelles; and, strange to say, we could not have had a luckier rencontre, or better intelligencer.

"Hollo, Signor Campagnuolo!" said I to the cattle driver; "from whence have you come this morning—Fiumara, eh?"

"No, Signor."

"Where, then?"

"From the monastery of Battaglia, down the mountains yonder," he answered somewhat reservedly; and, endeavouring to pass, he added, "a holy day to you, Signor."

"Any movement taking place among the French lately?—are any of their patrols out?"

"I have not heard, excellency; but a fugitive, chased by a party of them, took refuge at the monastery this morning, and is said to have confessed to the Padre Abate a horrible crime."

"Ha! and is he now in the sanctuary?" I demanded, eagerly.

"Prostrate on the steps of the altar: his penitence is great. Madonna intercede for him!"

"Thanks," said I, permitting the uneasy rustic to pass on his way. "Advance, soldiers—trail arms—forward, double quick! We have got on the right scent at last, perhaps; and there is not a moment to be lost."

With right good will the soldiers moved forward towards the monastery; their arms glancing and pouches clanking as they rushed down the steep hill side. The place of our destination, a confused mass of irregular buildings, stood near the river before-mentioned, about a mile distant. It was a monastery of great antiquity; a high wall of grey stone girdled it round, and above that rose its campanile, a square tower, surmounted by a flat tiled roof. From the outer wall, the rocks on which the edifice was perched sloped precipitously down on all sides; especially towards the south, where they descended in one unbroken line to the deep dark waters of the still but rapid stream, which wound through a chasm below.

As we began to ascend the steep and devious path cut in the hard volcanic rock, and leading directly to the monastery, we saw the monks appearing and disappearing like black crows on their high outer wall; and the arched gateway was hurriedly closed: the fathers were evidently in a state of consternation, and making all fast; fearing that we might disregard the immunities of the holy sanctuary. All the friars had vanished by the time we reached the iron-studded door in the outer wall; over which the evergreen, ivy, and long rank grass were waving in profusion.

We knocked loudly. No answer was given.

"Sound!" said I, to the bugle-boy; and a loud blast from his instrument made the old walls, the echoing chapel, the bosky woods and splintered rocks ring far and near. Still the summons was unheeded, and the impatient soldiers thundered at the gateway with the butts of their muskets. The reverend fathers no doubt suspected our purpose.

"What want ye?" said an old vinegar-visaged friar, appearing on the top of the wall, which he had surmounted by the assistance of a ladder.

"Are you all asleep within there?" I answered, angrily. "We want a fugitive, to whom you have given refuge. Call you this civility, padre? and to us whose swords are drawn in the cause of your country."

"Beware, Signori Inglesi! dare you violate the rights of the blessed sanctuary?"

"You will soon learn whether we will not, you old scarecrow!" I replied, with increased impatience. "Aprite la porta, Signor Canonico, or by Heaven! we will beat it down in a twinkling!"

"Patience, capitano—patience, until I confer with the reverend Superior."

"Be quick, then! We must see instantly this rascal who has obtained sanctuary. The enemy are so near, that we have not a moment to lose."

The monk disappeared. I directed Gask, with six soldiers, to watch the walls, and capture or wound any man attempting to escape; but not to kill—if possible. I was most anxious to learn with certainty the fate of Lascelles: whether he had been assassinated; or was lying perishing and mutilated in some solitary place; or had been delivered up to the French. Indeed, I should have been relieved from a load of anxiety, and felt overjoyed to learn that his fate was only the last. Gask was as well aware as I how jealous the continental monks were of the ancient right of sanctuary, and he knew that they would rather favour the escape of the vilest criminal than deliver him up to offended justice. Of their obstinacy in this respect, I know of several instances: one I will mention in particular. It occurred at Malta.

A soldier of ours, when passing one day through a street of Valetta, was run against and thrown down by a provoking brute of a pig. Exasperated at having his gay uniform soiled by the dusty street, he gave the grunting porker a hearty kick; upon which the villainous macellajo, to whom it belonged, drew his poniard and stabbed him to the heart. The poor soldier fell dead on the pavement; the murderer fled to the great church of St. John, and obtained sanctuary. Respecting the popular prejudices of the Maltese (who regard with the greatest veneration that sacred edifice, which contains the sepulchres of innumerable brave knights of the Isle,) the general commanding permitted the hot-blooded ruffian to remain some time in sanctuary, before he applied to the bishop for the exertion of his authority to have him delivered up to the civil magistrates. The prelate delayed, equivocated; and the reverend fathers, foreseeing the violation of their famous place of refuge, facilitated the escape of the assassin, and so defeated the ends of justice.

I was determined that the priests of St. Battaglia should not cheat me so in this affair; and, after desiring Gask with his party to keep on the alert, I was about to have the door blown to pieces by a volley of musketry, when the bars were withdrawn, and it slowly revolved on its creaking hinges. The soldiers were about to rush in; but the sight they beheld arrested them: all paused, mute, and turned inquiringly to me for instructions.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED.

The portal of the edifice slowly unfolded, disclosing the whole array of priests, who, clad in their floating vestments, advanced chaunting from the oratory, with tapers burning, censers smoking, and two emblazoned banners waving: one of white silk, bearing a large crimson cross, surmounted by the sacred charge of St. Peter—the keys of heaven; the other, the symbolical banner of St. Battaglia, surrounded by all the imaginary odour and glory of sanctity. The spectacle was very imposing: the tapers of scented wax, and the silver censers filled with lavender flowers, diffused through the air a fragrant perfume; while the pale curling smoke that encircled the gilded crosses and elevated images rendered—

"——Indistinct the pageant proud,

As fancy forms of midnight cloud,

When flings the moon upon her shroud

A wavering tinge of flame."

The misty vapour, the flickering lights, and the flowing garments of the fathers; the dark walls of the old cloisters which rang to the solemn and sonorous chaunt of twenty male voices; the distant organ swelling aloud, and then dying away in the hollow recesses of the arched oratory, together produced a striking effect. The abbot, an aged priest of venerable aspect, with a beard white as the new fallen snow (then an unusual appendage to a canon's chin), appeared at their head. They halted beneath the ivy-crowned archway; the chaunt ceased, the soldiers drew back, and all were silent: save the magnificent strains of the organ reverberating in the vaulted chapel and the rustle of the consecrated standards, all was still. The abbot, who no doubt expected that this religious display would impress us with a feeling of awe, then addressed me.

"Your purpose, signor?" he asked, mildly, but firmly.

"Reverend abate," I responded, lowering my sword respectfully, "I demand the person, of a vile assassin, whom I have learned, from unquestionable authority, you have concealed within these walls!"

"He whom you seek is under the protection of God. Know, signor, that he who puts forth a hand in anger against one who seeketh and findeth sanctuary in the church, is guilty of the most atrocious sacrilege!"

"On my own head be the guilt of the sacrilege, Padre Abate. Excuse us: the French are in your immediate vicinity, and we run the imminent risk of being all taken prisoners. One of our comrades, a young officer of distinction, is missing; and a frightful assassination has been committed at the villa Montecino: we have every reason to believe that your favoured fugitive is implicated in both these mysterious occurrences. I cannot parley with you, reverend signor: I demand an interview with the criminal; and if he is not instantly brought forth, I have to acquaint you that I will search the monastery by force; and, if need be, drag him from the very altar at the point of the bayonet!"

Ere the indignant abbot could reply—

"Darest thou! abominable heretic as thou art, violate the house of God?" cried a tall, fierce-looking and fanatical monk, rushing forward, with flushed cheeks and kindling eyes, and holding aloft a ponderous ebony crucifix. "Pause! lest the thunders of offended Heaven be hurled upon ye: pause! lest the vials of wrath——"

"Pshaw!" I exclaimed, impatiently; "we may parley here till sunset. Soldiers, forward to the chapel: there you will doubtless discover the rogue." My followers rushed past; a volley of execrations burst from the padri, and I was assailed with cries of—

"Paganico infame! malandrino! infidel! damnable heretic!" and a thousand other injurious and ridiculous epithets. I heeded them not; but, at the head of my party, burst into the chapel of the monastery. I had augured rightly: there the fugitive was discovered.

Pale as death, ghastly and bloody from a sword wound on the head, a savage-looking fellow was dragged by force from the foot of the great gilt crucifix on the altar; to the rail of which he clung for a moment with convulsive energy. The soldiers brought him before me, and, by their fixed bayonets, kept back the exasperated priests; who continued to pour forth upon us a ceaseless torrent of invectives and maledictions, which we regarded no more than the wind.

"Are you the unhappy man who is guilty of murder?" said I. He replied only by a wild and unmeaning stare.

"Unhappy wretch! your name?"

"Giosué of Montecino," said he, suddenly and fiercely. I trembled for poor Oliver, on remembering the name of his rival.

"Villain! what fiend tempted you to slay your unhappy cousin?"

He started, as if stung by a serpent.

"She is dead, then!" he said in a hoarse and almost inarticulate voice, while his head drooped upon his heaving breast. Suddenly uttering a howl like a wild beast, he broke away from the soldiers, escaping their levelled bayonets; and, finding the gate secured, scrambled up the rugged outer wall like a polecat; there balancing himself, he turned, and regarding me with a scornful scowl, he burst into a bitter and hysterical laugh. The soldiers rushed towards him, and one fired; but I threw up his firelock, and the ball passed close to the head of the assassin, who never winced. Escape was now impossible. On one side of him bristled twenty bayonets; en the other was a tremendous precipice, with a deep river flowing at its base several hundred feet below. The slightest dizziness might have been fatal to him. But folding his arms he uttered a laugh of defiance, and called upon us to fire. I was strongly tempted to put his talisman to the proof; but restrained my exasperated soldiers.

"Wretch," said I; "know you aught of a British officer, who has been missing since last night?"

"Yes," he replied, with a sardonic grin, shaking his clenched right hand aloft with savage exultation. "These are the fingers that fastened on his throat with a tiger's clutch."

"You slew him!" I cried, and drew a pistol from my sash.

"I did not—ha! and yet I did."

"How, villain?" He laughed scornfully again.

"Hear me, Giosué Montecino," said I: "you see this pistol? I might in one moment deprive you of existence——"

"Ha! ha!" laughed the assassin.

"Yet I will spare your life, if you will tell me the fate of my comrade."

"My life? Bagatella! ho—ho! I want it not. Fools—dolts that ye are! think ye that I am afraid to die? Here is my breast—a thousand bullets were welcome—straight to the heart—fire!" and he smote his bosom as he spoke. There was something almost noble in his aspect at that moment, notwithstanding its wildness and repulsiveness.

"Hear me, fellow:—the Lieutenant Lascelles"——

"Ha!" he ground his teeth madly. "Curses hurl him to that perdition into which he has hurried me! At this moment he feels in the body some of those agonies I endure in the spirit. O, Dianora!—thou whose very shadow I worshipped,—I who loved the very ground you trod upon!" The inexplicable ruffian sobbed heavily; yet his blood-shot eyes were never moistened by a tear. "O, Dianora!" he continued, in a voice which, though husky, yet expressed the most intense pathos. "Who was the fiend that nerved me to destroy thee—and so barbarously? Who, but this accursed Englishman! Believe me, Signor, I had not the least intention of slaying her last night: O no! none—none!" He wrung his hands wildly. "What could be further from my thoughts? Disguised as her lover—as this Oliver—I intended to have carried her off; but her endearing accents, addressed as to him, fell like scorching fire upon my heart. I could restrain my demoniac feelings no longer. O, horror! Yet I have done nothing that I would not commit again, rather than behold her in the arms of—of—Maladetto!—his name is poison to my lips!"

"Madman, come down from the wall."

"Would you learn the fate of your friend?" he asked, exultingly.

"Had I a mountain of gold to give you—"

"Gold?—fool!—what is gold to me? Listen. Waylaid by my companions last night, the dog you call your comrade was dashed from his horse by their clubs. He fought bravely, and with his sabre laid open my head: my own blood blinded me. Ha! a moment, and my hand was on his throat—my acciaro at his breast—yet I spared him."

"Heaven will reward you"——

"Ha—ha! A sudden death suited not my purpose or my hate. Slow, consuming, diabolical mental tortures were what I wanted: and what think you we did?" I was breathless; I could not ask, but Giosué continued:

"Bound with cords, he was borne to a ruined vault among the lonely mountains yonder; there amid stinging adders, hissing vipers, bloated toads, and voracious polecats, we flung him down, tied hand and foot, stunned and bleeding. Then closing the aperture, we piled up earth and stones and rocks against it. There let him perish! unseen, unknown, unheard. May never an ave be said over his bones, and may a curse blight, haunt, and blast, to all futurity, the spot where they lie." He paused for a moment, and then continued more slowly and energetically.

"To laugh to scorn the terror of death was the glory of the Greek and the Roman; and I will show thee, Signor Inglese, that Giosué of Montecino can despise it, as nobly as his classic fathers may have done in the days of old." He raised aloft a long bright poniard, which he suddenly drew forth from his sleeve.

"Madman!—desperado!" I exclaimed; "hold, for the sake of mercy! A word—a word—I will give you a thousand ducats! life! all! anything! but say where you have imprisoned my friend?—for Heaven's sake say!"

"Never!" said he, with a triumphant scowl—-"never: let him perish with myself. Love for Dianora led me to destroy her; and love for her still, teaches me that to survive would be the foulest and basest cowardice!"

He struck the stiletto to his heart, and fell dead at my feet.

I was horror-stricken: not by the suicide of the assassin, but by the revelation he had had just made. Of its truth I could not entertain a doubt, The situation of the unfortunate Lascelles, pinioned, wounded, and entombed alive, to endure all the protracted agonies of death by starvation, rushed vividly upon my mind, and overwhelmed me with rage and mortification. I explained to my soldiers the terrible confession of the fierce Giosué, and their emotions were not much short of my own. We endured tantalization in its bitterest sense. What would I not have given that the convulsed corpse of the vindictive Montecino were yet endued with life. But, alas! the ruffian had perished in his villainy with the important secret undisclosed, and the horrible fate of my friend could not be averted.

And Giosué, wretch as he was, I pitied him. His had been the burning love, and his the deadly hatred of his country:

"The cold in clime, or cold in blood,

Their love it scarce deserves a name;

But his was like the lava's flood,

That boils in Etna's breast of flame."

Slowly and dejectedly we quitted the monastery, as the sun was setting behind the hills of Sicily; and marching in silence towards Scylla, we reached a third time the place where Oliver's glove and gorget had been found. There we made an involuntary halt, and gazed around us with the keenest scrutiny, in the hope of discovering some clue to the place of his immurement. My brave party seemed very unwilling to return to Scylla without making another effort to rescue the victim of Montecino. Innumerable were the ideas suggested and plans proposed; but none of them seemed worthy of attention, save one of Sergeant Gask's.

"The rascal mentioned a ruined vault among the hills," said he: "now what think you, Captain Dundas, of searching the ruins on the mountain yonder? And, by my faith, sir! the foot-marks and traces of blood lead off in that direction. See! the lower branches of the shrubs are broken, the withered leaves of the last year are trodden down, and bloody tracks are on the grass."

"The sergeant is right, sir," muttered the soldiers, pleased with his acuteness.

"Move on, then—forward to the old castle; any active occupation is preferable to this horrid state of idle suspense."

A quarter of an hour's rapid marching brought us to the castelletto, a little tower in a state of great dilapidation, covered with masses of bronze-like ivy, and the beautiful wild flowers of fruitful Italy. A large owl flew from one of the shattered openings, and with a shrill scream soared on its heavy wings through the evening sky. The woods and hills around us were growing dark; the place was still as the grave: the ivy leaves rustling tremulously on the rugged masonry of the ruin, and a rivulet tinkling through a fissure of a neighbouring rock, were the only sounds we heard. Solemn pines towered around it on every hand, and the aspect of the landscape was peculiarly desolate and gloomy. A musket was fired as a signal, and with a thousand reverberations the wooded hills gave back the echo. With heads bent to the ground, we listened intently; but there was no response, and we looked blankly in each other's faces.

"This cannot be the place," said I in a tone of sadness, about to move unwillingly away.

"Stay, sir—look here, Captain Dundas," cried Gask; "here is blood on the grass, and, sure as I live, stones freshly heaped up there!"

"Right—by Jove! Gask, you are an acute fellow. Pile your firelocks, lads, and clear away this heap of rubbish."

Flushed with hope, the soldiers attacked the pile of stones indicated by the sergeant: there were bushes, earth, and fragments of ruined masonry, all evidently but recently piled up against the base of the tower. Rapidly they rolled down the heavy blocks, and toiled so strenuously that in three minutes the whole heap was cleared away, and a little arched aperture disclosed. An exclamation of joy and hope burst from the whole party: we had found the place. Gask and the little bugler descended into the vault—a dark, damp, and hideous hole under the ruins. A faint moan drew them cautiously to a corner, and there they found the object of all our search and anxiety—Oliver Lascelles, benumbed by cold, and his limbs swollen almost to bursting by the tight cordage which confined them. He was speechless and half-stifled by the noxious vapours of the dungeon: had we been half an hour later he must have expired. When we drew him forth, he was so pale, haggard, and death-like, that his aspect shocked me; but the pure fresh breeze of the balmy evening revived him, and he recovered rapidly. He could not address us at first; but his looks of thankfulness, joy, and recognition were most expressive. The soldiers were merry and happy, every face beamed with gladness; even Gask's usually grave and melancholy visage was brightened by a smile.

We had little time for explanation; we were in a dangerous vicinity, from which it was necessary to retire without a moment's delay. Oliver was quite enfeebled; but, supported on the sergeant's arm and mine, he contrived to walk, though slowly, and we set out immediately for the castle of Scylla.

Gask afterwards told me, that in the vault "he had touched something that made his flesh creep." It was a small and delicate female hand. I never mentioned the circumstance to Oliver; who was long in recovering from the effects of his perilous love adventure. But I had no doubt the dead hand was poor Dianora's: the forfeited hand, which in cruel mockery that incarnate demon Giosué had thrown beside her lover.

In the bustle of succeeding and more important events the interest we took in Lascelles' affair gradually subsided. But it was long ere he forgot the fate of Dianora, and the horrible death which, by a lucky combination of incidents, he had so narrowly escaped; and longer still ere he recovered his wonted buoyancy of spirit and lightness of heart.

CHAPTER XVII.

UNEXPECTED PERILS.

The near approach of the enemy made it apparent that the town of Scylla would soon be destroyed by the shot and shell their artillery would pour upon it; and that the Free Corps, who occupied its half-ruined streets, would be sacrificed without being of service to the garrison in the castle; I, therefore, telegraphed to the Electra, to send off a boat, as I wished to consult with her commander about the transmission of those troops to Messina.

A strong breeze had been blowing from the south-west all day, and the sea ran with such fury through the Straits that no boat could come off until after sunset, when there was a lull. Immediately, on being informed that a boat had arrived at the sea staircase, I buckled on my sabre, threw my cloak round me, and hurried off, intending to return before the ever-anxious Bianca had discovered my absence. How vain were my anticipations!

The long fetch of the sea running from Syracuse rolled the breakers with great fury on the castle rock, and the boat was tossed about like a cork among the foaming surf that seethed and hissed around us. As the oars dipped in the water and she shot away, I seated myself in the stern-sheets, beside the little middy who held the tiller-ropes. The frigate lay nearly a mile to the southward, and there was such a tremendous current against us that the six oarsmen, though straining every nerve and sinew, found it impossible to make head against it.

"I wish we may make the frigate to-night, sir," said the midshipman, looking anxiously at the clouds: "there's a squall coming from the south-south-east, and these Straits are an awkward place to be caught by one. What do you think, Tom Taut?"

"Think, sir? why that we'll have a dirty night," replied the sailor whom he addressed: a grim, brown, and brawny tar. "When I sailed in the Polly Femus, 74, we had just such a night as this off Scylla, and I won't be in a hurry forgetting it!"

It was now past sunset, in the month of February, and the darkness of the louring sky increased rapidly. Through the thin mist floating over the surface of the water, the frigate loomed large; but when the rising wind cleared it away, we found the distance increasing between us: the strong current was carrying us, at the rate of five knots an hour, towards the terrible rock we had just left; which rose from the water like a black gigantic tower, and seemed ever to be close by, frowning its terrors upon us. Dense banks of vapour soon shrouded the land and hid the frigate: it grew so dark that we knew not which way to steer. The seamen still continued to pull fruitlessly; for we made so much sternway that I expected to find the frail craft momently stranded on the rocky beach.

"We shall never reach the frigate to-night, unless she fills and makes a stretch towards us," said the middy. "This current will not change till daylight, and the Lord knows when the wind will chop about. It has been blowing from Syracuse ever since the poor little Delight was driven on the rocks yonder."

"You cannot fetch Scylla, I suppose."

"Lord, no, sir! we must give it a wide berth: the breakers will be running against it in mountains just now. We must put up the helm and run with the wind and tide, to avoid swamping; and if we escape being sucked into Charybdis on the westward, or beached under the cliffs of Palmi to the northward, we may consider ourselves lucky dogs."

"But we may be thrown upon a part of the coast occupied by the enemy."

"Better that than go to old Davy, sir," said the grey-haired bow-oarsman, "as I nearly did when the Polly Femus, 74, came through these same Straits of Messina."

"When?" said I. "Lately?"

"Lord love you, no, sir—why 't was in the year one."

"One?"

"That is 1801. We were standing for Malta with a stiff breeze from the nor'-east. The Polly Femus was close hauled on the starboard tack——"

"D—n the Polyphemus," cried the midshipman, testily, as he put the helm up; "take in your loose gaff, Tom: if we are not picked up by the Amphion, your tune will be changed before morning. Hoste keeps a good look out!"

"He was made a sailor of in the Polly—whew! beg pardon, sir," said the old fellow, who could not resist making another allusion to his old ship.

"Faith! Captain Dundas," said the middy, "it is so dark that I have not the slightest notion of our whereabouts."

"Yonder's a spark away to windward, sir," said old Tom. "The Electra, cannot be less than somewhere about two miles off—a few fathoms more or less."

At that moment the frigate fired a gun; the red flash gleamed through the gloom, and after a lapse the report was borne past us on the night wind. A blue light was next burned; it shone like a distant star above the black and tumbling sea, then expired: and so did all our hopes of reaching the ship—the sound of her gun having informed us that we had been swept by the current far to the north of the Lanterna of Messina, which was rapidly being lost amid the murky vapour.

"Keep a good look out there forward," cried the middy: "if we miss the Amphion, we may all go to the bottom, or be under weigh for a French prison by this time to-morrow."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the sailor through his hand, while, bending forward, he strove to pierce the gloom a-head.

"Give way, men—cheerily now."

The rowers stretched back over the thwarts till their oars bent like willow wands, and as the strong current was with us now, we flew through the foaming water with the speed of a race-horse.

"The Amphion should be somewhere hereabouts," said the midshipman, as the oarsmen suspended their labours after a quarter of an hour's pulling: we anxiously scanned the gloomy watery waste, but could discern no trace of her. Vapour and obscurity involved us on every side, and our minds became a prey to apprehensions, while our blood chilled with the cold atmosphere, and a three hours' seat in an open boat at such a season. The tower of the Lantern had vanished; a single star only was visible, and the inky waves often hid it, as the boat plunged down into the dark trough of the midnight sea.

Suddenly the broad moon showed her silvery disc above the level horizon; her size seemed immense, and as the thin gauzy clouds rolled away from her shining face, we saw the black waves rising and falling in strong outline between. Her aspect was gloomy and louring.

"When the moon sets, the current will begin to run northward," said the experienced little mid; "and we shall have a capital chance of being sucked into the Calofaro, or stranded on Punta Secca. Would to God, we saw the frigate!"

As he spoke, a large vessel passed across the bright face of that magnificent moon, which shed a long line of silver light across the troubled water, brightening the summits of the waves as they rose successively from the dark bosom of the sea. The effect was beautiful, as the vessel passed on the rolling surge, and heaving gracefully, slid away into obscurity.

"A large frigate on the starboard tack," said the midshipman, as she disappeared: "she is five miles off."

"That's the Amphion, your honour," said Tom Taut; "I know her as well as the old Polly Femus."

"Are you sure?" I asked with anxiety.

"Sure?" replied Tom, energetically spitting his quid to leeward; "I know her in a moment, by the rake of her spars. Her mizen top-sail aback—her courses shivering: I know her better than any ship on the station, except the darling old Polly. Bill Hoste is creeping along shore, after some of these gun-boats the Delight let slip so easily."

"If I judge rightly, we must be somewhere off Palmi."

"Hark!" said the midshipman, and the roar of billows rolling on the shore confirmed my supposition.

"Breakers ahead!" cried the man at the bow, and we beheld a long white frothy line, glimmering through the gloom; and above it towered the dark outline of a lofty coast. The current shot us among the surf; which boiled around us as white as if we were amid the terrors of Charybdis. A little cove, where the waves rolled gently up the sandy slope, invited us to enter; the boat ran in, and we were immediately in the smooth water of a little harbour, where the dark wild woods overhung the rocks at its entrance, and all around it on every side. Here we hoped to remain unseen, till daylight revealed our "whereabouts," as the middy had it.

For a time we kept the oars in the rowlocks, ready to retire on a moment's notice; but finding that not a sound, save the dashing sea, woke the echoes of that lonely place, I volunteered to land and make a reconnoissance; desiring the midshipman to pull southward, along the shore, in case of any alarm, that I might be picked up at some other point. Belting my sabre tighter, I threw aside my cloak, and sprang ashore. On walking a little way forward, through the wood, I found the country open, and saw lights at a distance; which I conjectured to be those of Palmi or Seminara, where Regnier had concentrated a strong body of troops.

Struggling forward among a wilderness of prostrate columns and shattered walls overgrown with creeping plants and foliage (probably the ruins of ancient Taurianum), I often stopped and bent to the ground to listen; but heard only the creaking trees, the gurgle of a lonely rill seeking its devious path to the sea, or the rustle of withered leaves, swept over the waste by the rising wind. But the roll of a distant drum and the flash of a cannon about two miles off, arrested my steps and made me think of returning: I conjectured it to be the morning gun from the French fort at Palmi. Daylight soon began to brighten the summits of the Apennines, and the waves, as they rolled on each far off promontory and cape. Having nearly a mile to walk, I began hurriedly to retrace my steps; for the dawn stole rapidly on. As I walked on, the deep boom of a cannonade and the sharp patter of small arms made my heart leap with excitement and anxiety, and spurred me in my flight. Breaking through the wood, I rushed breathlessly to the shore; but alas! the boat was gone: I saw it pulled seaward, with a speed which the strong flow of the morning current accelerated. In close chase, giving stroke for stroke, while the crew plied their muskets and twenty-four pounder, followed one of those unlucky gun-boats captured by the French: it had been anchored in the same cove, and had discovered our little shallop the moment day broke.

The pursued and the pursuers soon disappeared behind a promontory, and I found myself alone, far behind the enemy's lines, and almost without a chance of escape. Cursing the zeal which had led me on such a fruitless reconnoissance, I retired into a beech wood, as the safest place; and lay down in a thicket to reflect on my position, and form a plan for extrication from it.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY—THE TWO GENERALS.

I was only twelve miles distant from Scylla; but as every approach to it was closely blocked up by Regnier, whose troops covered the whole province from sea to sea, every attempt to reach it would be attended by innumerable dangers and difficulties: yet, confiding in the loyalty of the Calabrese, and the influence my name had among them, I did not despair of regaining the fortress, by seeking its vicinity through the most retired paths.

Except my sword, spurs, and Hessian boots, I had nothing military about me; as I wore a Calabrian doublet of grey cloth, and a nondescript forage-cap. As I walked forward, the trees became more scattered, and the openness of the ground made the utmost circumspection necessary. A sudden cry of "Halte! arrêtez!" made me pause; and, within a few paces, I beheld a French vidette—a lancer in his long; scarlet cloak, which flowed from his shoulders over the crupper of his horse, and, like his heavy plume and tricoloured banderole, was dank with dew.

"Ah, sacre coquin!" he cried, lowering his lance, and charging me at full speed. "I see you are an Englishman." I sprang behind a tree, and as he passed me in full career, by a blow of my sabre I hewed the steel head from his lance. At that moment an officer rode up, and, placing a pistol at my head, commanded me to yield. Resistance was vain, and I surrendered my sabre in the most indescribable sorrow and chagrin; for thoughts of Bianca, of a long separation and imprisonment, of all my blighted hopes of happiness, honour, and promotion, and of the important trust reposed in me, rushed in a flood upon my mind: almost stupified, I was led away by my captor.

A few minutes' walk brought us to the bivouac of a cavalry brigade, which was in all the bustle of preparation for the march; while six trumpeters, blowing "boot and saddle," made the furthest dingles of the forest ring. The horses were all picqueted under trees, or within breast-ropes; and the officer informed me that the brigade was that of General Compere, before whom he led me.

Rolled up in a cloak, the general was seated at the foot of a tree; behind him stood his mounted orderly, holding his charger by the bridle. His aide-de-camp and a number of officers lounged round him, smoking cigars, drinking wine from a little barrel, and joking with great hilarity ere they marched. The ashes of the watch-fires smouldered near; the mist was curling between the branches of the leafless trees, and the rising sun glittered on the bright lance-heads, the gay caps, and accoutrements of the dashing lancers; who were rapidly unpicqueting their chargers, and forming close column of squadrons on the skirts of the wood.

"Monsieur le vicomte is welcome as flowers in spring," said the general; "but who is this?—Ah!" he exclaimed, suddenly recognising me, and raising politely his cocked-hat. "I did not expect to have this pleasure. You are the brave officer I met at Maida?"

I bowed.

"And again behind our lines at Cassano—disguised as a monk?" he added, with a keen glance.

"Thrown upon that coast by shipwreck, I gladly adopted any disguise until I could escape."

"Our whole army heard of you, and understood you had been employed as a spy by the Count of Maida; consequently Massena was enraged at your escape. Ah! the old Tambour—he is a rough dog! However, monsieur, I do not believe that one who could fight so gallantly at Maida, would stoop to act a dishonourable part."

"Yet, will monsieur be so good as explain," said another officer, "how we find him here; without the lines drawn round Scylla, to the garrison of which he says he belongs—and why in the garb of a Calabrian?"

Indignant at the suspicious nature of these queries, and unused to the humiliating situation of a prisoner, I replied briefly and haughtily; relating how I had missed the boat—a story which none of them seemed to believe. A whisper ran round, and the offensive term "espion" brought the blood rushing to my cheek.

"Monsieur le general," said I, with a sternness of manner which secured their respect, "will, I trust—in memory of that day at Maida—be so generous as to send me, on parole, to Messina, where I may treat about an exchange; by doing so, he will confer a lasting obligation, which the fortune of war may soon put it in my power to repay."

"I deeply regret that to General Regnier I must refer you—he alone can grant your request. As we move instantly on Scylla, you must be transmitted to head-quarters without delay, and under escort. Appearances are much against you; but I trust matters will be cleared up. Chataillion," said he to his aide, "help the gentleman to wine and a cigar, while I write a rough outline of this affair to monsieur le general."

Commanding my feelings and features, I drank a glass or two of wine, while the general, taking pen and ink from his sabretache, wrote a hasty note to Regnier.

"Chataillion," said he, while folding it, "order a corporal and a file of lances."

The vicomte went up to the first regiment of the brigade, and returned with the escort.

"In the charge of these soldiers, you must be sent to Seminara, where I trust your parole will be accepted in consequence of this note: though monsieur le general and monseigneur le marechal are far from being well disposed towards you; especially for the last affair with the voltigeurs of the 23rd. Ah! Regnier's son Philip was shot at Bagnara—poor boy! Adieu! May we meet under more agreeable circumstances;" and giving the letter to the corporal, Compere sprang into his saddle, and left me. His aide-de-camp, the Vicomte de Chataillion, seeing how deeply I was cast down, expressed regret at having been my capturer. "But monsieur will perceive," said he, with a most insinuating smile, "that I was only doing my duty. You cannot travel on foot with a mounted escort—it would be dishonourable; and as I have a spare horse, you are welcome to it: on reaching Seminara, or even the frontiers, you can return it with the corporal.—Adieu!" And we parted.

The frontier! distraction! I could scarcely thank the young Frenchman: but memory yet recalls his gallant presence and commanding features—one of the true old noblesse. How different he was from Pepe, Regnier, Massena, and many others; whom the madness and crimes of the Revolution had raised to place and power, from the dregs of the French people.

With a little ostentation, the lancers loaded their pistols before me, and in five minutes I was en route for Seminara, with a file on each side and the corporal riding behind. I often looked back: Compere's brigade were riding in sections towards the hills, with all their lance heads and bright accoutrements glittering in the sun; while the fanfare of the trumpets, the clash of the cymbals, and the roll of the kettle-drums, rang in the woods of Palmi. They were moving towards Scylla, and my heart swelled when I thought of my helplessness and of poor Bianca; the hope of Regnier accepting my parole alone sustained me: but that hope was doomed to be cruelly disappointed.

By the way we passed many ghastly objects, which announced the commencement of that savage war of extermination which General Manhes afterwards prosecuted in the Calabrias. Many armed peasantry had been shot like beasts of prey, wherever the French fell in with them; and their bodies hung on the trees we passed under, while their grisly heads were stuck on poles by the roadside. Some were in iron cages, and, reduced to bare skulls, grinned through the rusty ribs like spectres through barred helmets; while the birds of prey, screaming and flapping their wings over them, increased the gloomy effect such objects must necessarily have upon one's spirits.

The morning was balmy and beautiful, the sun hot and bright, the sky cloudless and of the palest azure; light fleecy vapour floated along the distant horizon, where the sea lay gleaming in green and azure: but never had I a more unpleasant ride than that from Compere's bivouac. I often looked round me, in the desperate hope that a sudden attack of robbers or loyal paesani would set me free; though warned by the corporal that on the least appearance of an attempt at rescue he would shoot me dead. But Regnier had effectually cleared and scoured the country, and we passed no living being, save an old Basilian pilgrim, travelling barefooted, perhaps on his way to the Eternal City; and once, in the distance, a solitary bandit on the look-out, perched on the summit of a rock like a lonely heron. The bells of the mountain goats, the hum of the bee or the flap of the wild bird's wing, and the dull tramp of our horses on the grassy way, alone broke the silence. My escort were solemn and taciturn Poles, who never addressed a word either to me or to each other; so my gloomy cogitations were uninterrupted till we entered Seminara, when the scene changed.

The town was crowded with soldiers, and all the populace had fled: cavalry, infantry, artillery, sappeurs, voltigeurs, and military artizans, thronged on every hand; shirts and belts were drying at every window, and the air was thickened by pipe clay and tobacco-smoke, while the sound of drums, bugles, and trumpets mingled with shouts and laughter, rang through the whole place—noise and uproar reigning on all sides. The great Greek abbey and cathedral were littered with straw for cavalry horses; the principal street was blocked up by waggons, caissons, tumbrils, pontoons, mortars, and the whole of that immense battering train concentrated for the especial behoof of my brave little band at Scylla: whither it would be conveyed the moment the roads were completed.

A strong guard of grenadiers stationed before the best house in the town, announced it to be the quarters of the general. They belonged to the 62nd of the French line. In front of the mansion stood thirty pieces of beautiful brass cannon: the same which the French threw into the sea on abandoning Scylla, when, in the year following, the British beleaguered it under Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, 27th regiment. I was ushered by the corporal into the general's presence, and found him just finishing breakfast: he had pushed away his last cup of chocolate, placed his foot on the braciere, and was composing himself to resume reading the Moniteur, while his servant, a grenadier in blue uniform, with rough iron-grey moustaches cleared the table. On the wall hung a bombastic bulletin of Napoleon, dated 27th December, 1806:—

"The Neapolitan dynasty has ceased to reign! its existence is incompatible with the repose of Europe and the honour of our crown. Soldiers, march! and if they will await your attack, drive into the sea those feeble battalions of the tyrants of the ocean—lose no time in making all Italy subject to my arms!"

Probably the Moniteur contained some unpleasant account of our brilliant success in other parts of the world; for the temper of the general was soured, and he regarded me with a most vinegar-like aspect, when the corporal ushered me in. I bowed coldly; he answered only by a stern glance, spread his hands behind his coat tails, and leaned against the mantel-piece.

"Ouf! a prisoner of war," said he, and scanning me at intervals, while reading the letter of Compere.

"Your name and rank?"

"Dundas, captain of the 62nd regiment of the line, and commandant of the castle of Scylla, for his Majesty Ferdinand IV."

"Ouf! the very man we wanted! You were caught on the shore near Palmi?"

"Yes, when left there by the boat of the Electra frigate, and merely meaning to make a reconnoissance, (until daybreak enabled us to put to sea) I penetrated"—

"A deuced lame story! Bah! you were merely making a reconnoissance at Canne too, I suppose? Ha! ha! well, we will cure you of that propensity for the future."

"I request to be liberated on my parole."

"A spy on parole! Ouf!"

"Scoundrel!" I exclaimed, losing all temper, "I am a gentleman—a British officer."

"Sacre coquin! men of honour do not prowl in the rear of an enemy's chain de quartiers in disguise: where is your uniform?"

I gave him a scornful glance in reply.

"Ouf!" said he, "you came to see our arrangements for capturing your crow's nest at Scylla. Behold, then, our pontoons, our battering train, our brigades of infantry and sappers: I trust you will report to monseigneur the Prince of Essling, that they are all ready for instant service."

"Monsieur, I demand my parole."

"If Massena grants a parole he may, but not so Regnier: you must be sent to the marshal; and I believe he is most likely to give you a yard or two of stout cord, and a leap from the nearest tree."

"Such conduct would not surprise me in the least!" I answered, bitterly; "the savage military government, which dragged the Duc d'Enghien from a neutral territory, and after a mockery of judicial form shot him by torchlight at midnight; and which so barbarously tortured to death a British officer, in the Temple, at Paris, must be capable of any inhumanity. After the ten thousand nameless atrocities by which France, since the days of the Revolution, has disgraced herself among the nations of Europe; no new violation of military honour, of humanity, or the laws of civilized nations, can be a subject of wonder."

"Ah, faquin! I could order you to be hanged in ten minutes."

"A day may yet come when this ruffianly treatment shall be repaid."

"Ouf! monsieur mouchard, Massena will look to that. At Castello di Bivona, you will be embarked on board La Vigilante courier gunboat, commanded by Antonio Balotte. He is a rough Lucchese, that same Antonio, who will string you to the yard-arm if you prove troublesome. Ouf! if the emperor was of my opinion, his soldiers would not take any prisoners." He grinned savagely, and summoned his orderly.

"Order a corporal and file of soldiers. To them," he continued, addressing the Lancer, "you will hand over the prisoner with this brief despatch for Marshal Massena at Cosenza; it states who he is, and the suspicions against him."

Massena! O, how little I had to hope for, if once in the clutches of that savage and apostate Italian: particularly when blackened by all that Regnier's malicious nature might dictate. In half an hour I was on the march for Castello di Bivona, escorted by a corporal and file of the 101st, with fixed bayonets. As a deeper degradation, Regnier had ordered me to be hand-cuffed. Heavens! my blood boils yet at the recollection of that! I would have resisted; but a musket levelled at my head silenced all remonstrance, and I bottled up my wrath while Corporal Crapaud locked the fetters on me. We marched off, my exasperation increasing as we proceeded; for the escort seemed determined to consider me in the character of a spy, and consequently treated me with insult and neglect: in vain I told them I was a British officer, and deserved other treatment.

"True, monsieur," replied the corporal, who was a dapper little Gaul, four feet six inches high, "but I am obeying only the orders of the general; and a British officer, or any other officer, who is caught among an enemy's cantonments in disguise, must be considered as a spy, and expect degradation as such. Monsieur will excuse us—we have orders not to converse with prisoners; and the general—ah! ventre bleu!—he is a man of iron!"

This coolness, or affectation of contempt or superiority, only increased my annoyance. Although the soldiers conversed with all the loquacity and sung with all the gaiety of Frenchmen, they addressed me no more during the march of more than twenty-five miles. This lasted seven hours, exclusive of halts at Gioja, Rossarno, and several half-deserted villages and shepherds' huts; where they extorted whatever they wanted, at point of the bayonet, and made good their quarters whenever they chose; browbeating the men and caressing the women (if pretty). I often expected a brawl, and perhaps a release; but all hope died away, when, about sunset, we entered Castello di Bivona: my spirit fell in proportion as the plains and snow-capped Apennines grew dark, when the red sun dipped into the Tyrhene sea.

There were no French troops in the town; but anchored close to the shore lay the French gun-boat La Vigilante, mounting a six and a fourteen pounder, and having thirty-six men—quite sufficient to hold in terror the inhabitants of the little town, who had not forgotten the visit paid them by Regnier's rear-guard. My heart sickened when, from an eminence, I beheld La Vigilante, which was to bear me further from liberty and hope; and the most acute anguish took possession of me, when confined for the night and left to my own sad meditations. I understood that I was to be transmitted to the Upper Province with some other prisoners, who were to arrive from Monteleone in the morning, and be conveyed across the gulf of St. Eufemio by the gun-boat.

I found myself confined for the night in the upper apartment of a gloomy tower, formed of immense blocks of stone, squared and built by the hands of the Locrians. The chamber was vaulted, damp, and destitute of furniture; but a bundle of straw was thrown in for my couch by Corporal Crapaud: he, with the escort, occupied a chamber below, where they caroused and played with dominoes. A turf battery of four 24-pounders, facing the seaward, showed that the French had converted this remnant of the ancient Hipponium into a temporary fort: a trench and palisade surrounded it.

A single aperture a foot square, four feet from the floor, and crossed by an iron bar, admitted the night breeze and the rays of the moon; showing the dark mountains, the blue sky, and the sparkling stars.

Left to solitude, my own thoughts soon became insupportable. "At this time yesternight I was with Bianca!" To be separated from her for an uncertain time—perhaps for ever, if Regnier's threats were fulfilled by the relentless Massena; to be taken from my important command at a time so critical—when the last stronghold of the British in Calabria was threatened by a desperate siege, on the issue of which the eyes of all Italy and Sicily were turned; the imminent danger and degrading suspicions under which I lay, manacled and imprisoned like a common felon; threatened on the one hand with captivity, on the other with death; and, worst of all, the image of Bianca, overwhelmed with sorrow and horror by the obscurity which enveloped my fate: all combined, tortured me to madness. I was in a state bordering on distraction. Stone walls, iron bars, and steel bayonets: alas! these are formidable barriers to liberty.

Midnight tolled from a distant bell, then all became still: so still that I heard my heart beating. Deeming me secure, my escort were probably sleeping over their cups and dominoes. I was encouraged to attempt escaping, and endeavoured to rally my thoughts. Though half worn out by our long march over detestable roads—a journey rendered more toilsome by the constrained position of my fettered hands—I became fresh and strong, and gathered courage from the idea. Yonder lay the Vigilante, with her latteen sail hanging; loose: and the sight of her was an additional spur to exertion: once on board of her, every hope was cut off for ever.

The detested fetters, two oval iron rings secured by a padlock and bar, were first to be disposed of: but how? The manner in which they secured the wrists crippled my strength: the iron bar was a foot long, and though defying my utmost strength to break or bend it, yet ultimately it proved the means of setting me free. The padlock was strong and new: but a happy thought struck me; I forced it between the wide and time-worn joints of the wall until it was wedged fast as in a vice, then, clasping my hands together, I wrenched round the bar, using it as a lever on the lock which passed through it; and in an instant the bolt, the wards, the plates which confined them, and all the iron-work of the once formidable little engine, fell at my feet.

"God be thanked! oh, triumph!" burst in a whisper from my lips: my heart expanded, and I could have laughed aloud, while stretching my stiffened hands. But there was no time to be lost: the fall of the broken padlock might have alarmed the escort, and I prepared for instant flight. Thrusting some of the iron pieces under the door bolts, to prevent it being readily opened, I turned to the window, and found, with joy, that there was space enough between the cross-bar and the wall for egress: but the ground was fifteen feet below. With great pain and exertion I pressed through, and, half suffocated, nearly stuck midway between the rusty bar and stone rybate. At that moment of misery and hope, the corporal thundered at the door; I burst through, fell heavily to the ground, and for a moment was stunned by the fall: but the danger of delay, and the risk of being instantly shot if retaken, compelled me to be off double-quick. I rushed up the banquette of the gun-battery, cleared the parapet at a bound, and scrambled over the stockade like a squirrel.

"Villan, hola! halte!" cried Crapaud, firing his musket: the ball whistled through my hair, and next moment I was flying like a deer with the hounds in full chase. I was closely pursued: but, after three narrow escapes from the bullets of my escort, I baffled them, and gained in safety the cork wood of Bivona.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE ALBERGO.—THE BANDIT'S REVENGE.

Seeking a thick and gloomy dingle, I flung myself under its shadow to rest; breathless with my recent exertion, the long day's march, and the excitement of the last hour. My plan was soon decided: to approach Scylla, from which I was then nearly thirty miles distant, was my principal object; but many dangerous obstacles were to be encountered and overcome, before I stood in the hall of Ruffo Sciglio. The snow melting among the Apennines had swollen the Metramo and other rivers which I had to pass; the towns, villages, and all the level country swarmed with French troops and Buonapartist sbirri or gendarmes, all closing up towards the point of attack; while the woods and mountains were infested by banditti, the most ferocious and lawless in Europe. To lie concealed in thickets by day and to travel by night, was the plan I proposed adopting; and anxious to find myself as far as possible from the place of my imprisonment, after a brief rest I set forward on my dubious and difficult journey; thinking more of the joy of embracing Bianca, than the triumph of meeting Regnier in the breach.

Many of the mountains being yet capped with snow rendered the air cold and chilly; my head was without covering, and I was destitute of every means of defence against either robbers or wolves: the last were numerous in these wilds, and I often heard their cries rising up from the depths of the moonlit forest, through which I toiled southward. So wearying, difficult and uncertain was the path, that I had only proceeded seven or eight miles when day broke, and found me in an open and desert place near Nicotera. The appearance of a body of the enemy marching down the hills was sufficient to scare me, and seeking shelter in an orange wood, I lay concealed in it for hours; not daring to venture forth, although I felt the effects of an appetite sharpened by the keen mountain air. I had heard much of the manna said to be found in the morning on the leaves of the mulberry and other trees in Calabria; but not a drop was to be seen, although I searched anxiously enough. The day seemed interminably long, and joyfully I hailed eve closing as the sun sank once more behind Sicily, and the long shadows of Nicotera fell across the plain.

Armed with a stout club, torn from a tree, I once more set forward, favoured by the dusk and refreshed by my long halt, though hungry as a hawk.

At the hut of a poor charcoal-burner I received some refreshments and ascertained the right (or rather safest) path; the honest peasant, on partly learning the circumstances of my escape, shouldered his rifle, stuck a poniard in his girdle, and accompanied me as far as Gioja; where, after shewing me from the heights the French watch-fires at Seminara, he left me. I was pleased when he did so, for then only I became convinced that his intentions were honest. While travelling with him unarmed I was somewhat suspicious of his kindness: but I did him wrong; he was a hardy and loyal Calabrian, and my fears were groundless. Regretting having brought him so far from his hut, I gave him three crowns, nearly all the money in my possession: at first he refused it; but the temptation was too great for the poor peasant, whose only attire was a jacket of rough skin, a pair of tattered breeches, the net which confined his ample masses of hair, and the buff belt sustaining his dagger and powder-horn. Muttering something about his little ones at home, he took the reward, with many bows and protestations, and we parted.

Rejoicing in my progress, I struck into a path up the hills towards Oppido. The utmost circumspection was now necessary: every avenue to Scylla being closely guarded by Regnier's picquets and chain of advanced sentries. About midnight I lost my way among the woods and defiles. I was drenched by falling into a swampy rice plantation, and severely cut and bruised by the rocks and roots of trees: the night being so dark that I could scarcely see my hand outstretched before me. A sudden storm of rain and wind, which swept down from the hills, completed my discomfiture; and I hailed with joy a light which twinkled at the bottom of a deep and savage dell: seeming, from the eminence on which I stood, like a lantern at the bottom of a pit.

It proved to be an albergo, or lonely mountain inn; but of the most wretched description. Exhausted and weather-beaten as I was, the many unpleasant stories I had heard of those suspicious places, and the close connection of their owners with the banditti occurred to me; but this did not discourage me from knocking at the door. Close to it stood a lumbering old-fashioned Sicilian carriage; which announced a visitor of some importance; and the moment I knocked, a violent altercation ensued as to whether or not the door should be opened.

"Signor Albergatore," cried a squeaking voice, "open the door at your peril! Open it—and I shall lay the whole affair before his excellency, the president of the Grand Civil Court."

The innkeeper uttered a tremendous oath and opened the door. A blazing fire of billets and sticks roared up the opening which served for a chimney, and filled the whole albergo with a ruddy light. The host, a most forbidding-looking dog, with only one eye, a lip and nose slashed by what appeared to have been a sword-cut, and which revealed all his upper teeth, growled a sullen welcome: evidently nowise pleased with my splashed and miserable appearance. But I was resolved to make good my billet, and drawing close to the fire took a survey of the company: it consisted of an important little personage, whose face seemed the production of a cross between the rat and weasel; a jovial young fellow, whose jaunty hat and feather, green velvet jacket and breeches of striped cotton, rosy and impudent face, together with his little mandolin, declared him to be a wandering improvisatore; and an old monk of St. Christiana (the neighbouring town) who lay fast asleep in a corner, with his hands crossed on his ample paunch: his shaven scalp shining like a polished ball in the light of the fire, which made his white hair and beard glisten like silver as they flowed over his coarse brown cassock.

The little personage before mentioned was Ser Villani, the great notary of St. Eufemio; a more apt plunderer of King Ferdinand's subjects than any robber in Calabria: he was a thorough-paced lawyer, and consequently a knave. Armed with a pass, which for a certain consideration he had obtained from General Regnier, he was on his way from Gierazzo, where he had been collecting information relative to an interminable process. The Grand Civil Court of Palermo was putting every judicial instrument in operation to plunder the rich Prince of St. Agata, at the suit of a neighbouring abbey of monks, whose relicario he was bound to keep in repair: he having neglected to enclose the parings of the nails of San Gennaro in a gilt box, these inestimable reliques were lost, and his altezza was deprived of his cross of the saint's order, and became liable to swinging damages. All his notes on this most interesting case, Ser Villani carried in a legal green bag, which he grasped with legal tenacity; and he looked at me from time to time with glances of such distrust and dislike, that I concluded it contained more than mere paper.

Three well-armed and wild-looking peasants were sleeping in a corner, and the host wore a long knife in his girdle. Forbidding as he was in aspect, his wife and daughter were still more so: their clothes exhibited a strange mixture of finery and misery—massive silver pendants and gold rings, chains, rags, and faded brocades; while their feet were shoeless. My suspicions increased, and I found I had got into a lion's den.

"Signor Albergatore," said I, "do you fear banditti, that you were so long in undoing the door?"

"'T was the Signor Scrivano who raised so many objections," he replied, sulkily.

"Had Master Villani known I was a cavalier of Malta escaping from the French, he might have been a little more hospitable," I replied; to deceive them as to my real character: for I dreaded being given up to Regnier, perhaps for the sake of a reward. "Who occupy the mountains hereabout?"

"Scarolla and Baptistello Varro," replied the host. "But they never visit so poor an albergo as this."

"I hope not," faltered the notary, who turned ghastly pale at the name of Varro; and muttering to himself, he glanced uneasily at us all, with eyes that glittered like those of a monkey. "Ah, when will that loitering scoundrel of a postilion return with a smith to repair the calesso? Hound! he contrived very opportunely that the wheel should come off close by the albergo: but let him beware; his neck shall pay the forfeit, if worse comes of this."

A quiet laugh spread over the host's face, like sunshine over a field.

"Ser," said the improvisatore, "your postilion is probably only away to the next hill; and when he returns, a score of riflemen will be at his back."

The little notary quaked; and although the cunning minstrel merely spoke in jest, his suppositions were indeed too correct. The secret understanding which existed between the brigands, postilions, and innkeepers of south Italy, was notorious: it has formed the machinery of innumerable tales of fiction. But since the campaign of Manhes and the close of the war, Italy has been quite regenerated.

The improvisatore received a furious glance from the host, that confirmed my suspicions: but to retire now was almost impossible.

After a miserable supper had been washed down by a caraffa of tart country wine, we drew closer to the smoky fire, and composed ourselves round it for the night. The wife and daughter of the host retired to a kind of loft above; resigning the only bed in the house,—viz., a bag of leaves and a blanket or two, to the priest. The notary nodded over his green bag, and, though he started at every sound, pretended to be fast asleep.

Notwithstanding my fatigue, thoughts stole over me and kept me awake; and more than once I saw the dark glassy eye of the host observing me intently, from the gloomy corner where he lay on the tiled floor. In short, not to keep the reader any longer behind the curtain, we were in one of those infamous dens which were the resort of the brigands: to whom the keepers conveyed information of all travellers who passed the night with them; stating whether they were armed or escorted by soldiers or sbirri. The suspicious improvisatore again whispered to me that he had no doubt the notary's postilion was only away to summon his comrades, the banditti. Reflecting that I was unarmed, I felt the utmost anxiety; but retiring might only anticipate matters: the fellows asleep in the corner were well armed, and I saw the hilts of their knives and pistol butts shining in the light of the fire.

"I am glad we have a cavalier of Malta here to-night," whispered the lad with the guitar. "You may save us all from Baptistello if he pays us a visit—all, one excepted: but, signor, you have very much the air of an Englishman."

"I served with the English fleet when it assisted the knights at the siege of Valetta. But I hope the rogues will not carry me off in expectation of a ransom."

"Madonna forbid! But Heaven help poor Villani, if he fall into the clutches of Baptistello!"

"Why so?"

"Signor, it is quite a story!" said he, drawing closer and lowering his voice. "Baptistello was a soldier of the Cardinal Ruffo, and served in his army when it defeated the French in the battle of Naples, on the happy 5th of June. His father, Baptiste, was a famous bravo and capo-bandito, who infested the mountains above St. Agata, and was the terror of the province from Scylla to La Bianca. He boasted that he had slain a hundred men; and it is said that in order to rival the frightful Mammone, he once quaffed human blood. He was deemed bullet-proof: a charm worn round his left wrist made him invulnerable; and he escaped so often and so narrowly that he soon thought so himself. His presence inspired terror, and no man dared to travel within twenty miles of his district without a numerous escort. The Prince of St. Agata, lord of that territory, alone treated his name with contempt, and daily drove his carriage through the wildest haunt of Baptiste, without attendants.

"One day they met: it was in a lonely valley near the Alece.

"'Stand!' cried the gigantic robber, kneeling behind a rock, over which he levelled his rifle. The reins fell from the hands of the driver.

"'Villain! fire, if you dare!' cried the prince.

"The robber fired, and his bullet passed through the hat of the prince; who, levelling a double-barrelled pistol, shot four balls through the heart of his assailant. Before the arrival of the banditti, who with shouts were rushing down from the mountains, the Prince was driving at full gallop through the valley, with the body of Varro lashed to the hind axle-bar and trailing along the dusty road. Thus he entered Reggio in triumph, like Achilles dragging Hector round the walls of Troy. The body was gibbeted, and the head placed in an iron cage and sent over to Messina; when it was stuck on the summit of the Zizi palace, where it yet remains, bleached by the dew by night and the sun by day: I saw it three days ago.

"One night soon after this, a ragged little urchin presented himself in an apartment of the palace, just before the prince retired to rest.

"'Who are you, Messerino?' he asked.

"'Baptistello, the son of old Baptiste Varro.'

"'Ah! and what do you want?' said the prince, looking round him for a whip or cane.

"'My father's head.'

"'Away, you little villain, ere you are tossed over the window! I would not give it for a thousand scudi.'

"'For two thousand, serenissimo?'

"'Yes, rogue, for so many I might.'

"'On your word of honour?'

"'An impudent little dog! Yes. Away!—when you fetch me such a sum, per Baccho! you shall have your father's head: but not till then.'

"'Enough, excellency: I will redeem it, and keep my word. San Gennaro judge between us, and curse the wretch who fails!'

"'A bold little rogue, and deserves the old villain's head for nothing,' muttered the prince. 'Two thousand scudi! Ah, poor boy! where will he ever get such a sum?'

"The prince soon forgot all about it; but Baptistello, inspired by that intense filial veneration for which our Calabrian youth are so famous, worked incessantly to raise the two thousand scudi—a mighty sum for him: but he did not despair. He dug in the vineyards and rice-fields by day, in the iron mines of Stilo by night, and begged in cities when he had nothing else to do; and slowly the required sum began to accumulate. When old enough to level the rifle, by his mother's advice he took to his father's haunts, and turned bandit. Then the gold increased rapidly; and, regularly as he acquired it, he transmitted the ill-gotten ransom to Ser Villani, of St. Eufemio: leaving the gold in the hollow of a certain tree, where the notary found it and left a full receipt for each amount.

"When the two thousand pieces were numbered, Baptistello presented himself before Villani in the disguise of a Basilian, requesting him to pay Prince St. Agata the money and redeem the bare-bleached skull, which grins so horribly from the battlements of the Palazzo Zizi. They met at the porch of the great church, where the notary had just been hearing mass. He denied ever having received a quattrino of the money: not a single piece had he ever seen—'No, by the miraculous blood of Gennaro!'

"'Behold your signed receipts, Master Scrivano.'

"'Via! they are forgeries. Away, or I will summon the officers of justice.'

"'My two thousand scudi!—my hard-won money, earned at peril of my soul! Return it, thou most infamous of robbers!' cried the infuriated Varro, grasping the notary's throat and unsheathing his poniard.

"'Help, in the name of the Grand Court!' shrieked Villani. Baptistello was arrested, imprisoned in the fearful Damusi, and kept there for months; he was then scourged with rods, and thrust forth, naked and bleeding, to perish in the streets; while the money, earned with so much toil and danger, went to enrich the dishonest notary. Baptistello is on the mountains above us; and if Villani falls into his hands this night, Signor Cavaliere, thou mayest imagine the sequel."

The improvisatore ceased, and I saw the keen twinkling eyes of the notary watching me: he must have heard the whole story, while affecting to sleep; and, trembling violently, he clutched his legal green bag. Suddenly some one tapped at the casement; and I saw a large, fierce and grim face peering in.

"Ha!" cried the notary, springing up; "'t is the calessiero returned at last. Thou loitering villain! I will teach you how to respect a member of the Grand Civil court of Sicily."

He opened the door, and—horror!—instead of the humble and apologizing postilion, there stood the tall athletic form of Baptistello Varro, clad in his glittering bandit costume. Had the notary encountered thus the great head of his profession, face to face, he could not have been more overwhelmed with dismay: he seemed absolutely to shrink in size before the stern gaze of the formidable robber; whose entrance scarcely less alarmed the old priest, the poor improvisatore, and myself. But, remembering my former adventures with Varro, I was not without hope of escape. The albergo was crowded with his savage followers, and we were all dragged roughly forth as prisoners. The notary's hired calesso was undergoing a thorough search: the lining was all torn out, and every pannel and cushion were pierced and slashed; while the contents of his trunks and mails were scattered in every direction, and flying on the breeze. In his green bag were found a thousand ducats.

"Villain!" exclaimed Baptistello, as he threw the gold pieces on the sward, "there is more than we would deem sufficient to ransom ten such earth-worms as thee: yet this is but a half of the sum I deposited in the hollow tree at St. Eufemio. I am a robber—true: but I gain my desperate living bravely in the wilderness, by perilling my life hourly; while thou, too, art a thief, but of the most despicable and cowardly description—a legalized plunderer of widows and orphans—a vampire who preys on the very vitals of the community—a smooth-faced masterpiece of villany: in short, wretch, thou art a notary. Remember the ransom of my father's head—the dungeons—the chains and the scourge. Ha! remember, too, that thou art alone with me on the wild mountains of Calabria: so, kneel to the God above us; for the last sands of thy life are ebbing fast." And he dashed him to the earth.

"O, signor—O, excellency—mercy!" craved the notary, grovelling in the dust; but the fierce robber only grinned, showing his pearl-white teeth; as leaning on his rifle he surveyed him with an air of triumphant malice and supreme contempt. "Mercy! I implore you, by the blood of Gennaro the blessed! Mercy, as you hope for it at your dying day! I will repay the money. I will no longer be a notary, but an honest man."

"Wretch! such mercy will be given as tigers give," cried the ferocious Baptistello, spurning the poor man with his foot, and holding aloft his crucifix. "By this holy symbol of our salvation, I have sworn that thy head shall pay the forfeit for my father's!" The brigand kissed it. Though all hope died away in the heart of the notary, he still poured forth a jargon of alternate prayers, threats, and entreaties: his agony was terrible; for at that moment forty of the "sharpest practice" were about to be accounted for.

"God! I dare not address myself to thee. O, holy father pray for me in this great peril!" he cried to the old monk of St. Christiana. "Supplicate him for a sinner that has forgotten how to pray for himself."

"Buono!" said Baptistello; "let the priest pray while the notary swings."

Lancelotti approached and surveyed me with an insolent leer: he held a rope—the reins of the lawyer's mules; in a moment it was looped round the notary's neck, and the other end thrown over the arm of a beech-tree. The monk, kneeling on the sod, prayed with fervour: increased probably by anxiety for himself. The struggles of the poor wretch were horrible to behold: overcome with the terror of death, he fought like a wild beast; scratching, biting, and howling: but in the strong grasp of his powerful destroyers his efforts were like those of an infant. In a minute he swung from the branch of the beech, while, with a stern smile of grim satisfaction, the robber watched the plunges of his victim writhing in the death agony: the sharp withered features growing ghastly, as the pale light of the dawning day fell on their distorted lines. But enough.

"Signor Canonico," said Varro, "you may go; the mountains are before you—we meddle not with monks." The priest retired instantly, without bestowing a thought on his companions in trouble. "And who are you, signor, with the mandolin?" continued Baptistello.

"An improvisatore, from Sicily last, excellency," replied the lad, doffing his hat with all humility; "I have come to rouse my countrymen, by the song and guitar, to battle against the legions of Massena, as they did of old against the Saracen and Goth. I am but a poor lad, and have no ransom to offer save a song of the glorious Marco Sciarra; not a paola can I give your excellencies: my sole inheritance is this guitar, which my father gave me with his dying hand (for he, too, was an improvisatore), when he fell in battle under the banner of Cardinal Ruffo."

"Where, boy?"

"On the plains of Apulia—I was a little child then," said the lad, shedding tears. "See, the mandolin is stained with his blood."

"Benissimo!" exclaimed the band, who crowded round us.

"Thou, too, art free; for we war not with the poor. Away! follow the monk, and the virgin speed thee." But the minstrel bestowed an anxious glance on me, and drew near; scorning to imitate the selfish priest, who had now disappeared from the path which wound over the brightening mountains.

"Your name, signor?" asked Varro, surveying me with a glance of surprise, and seeming puzzled what to think of me.

"Dundas, captain in the British service, and commandant of Scylla," I replied, with haughty brevity.

"The friend of Castelermo, and who so bravely avenged his death on the renegade Navarro—is it not so?"

"The same, Signor Capo: for two days past I have undergone great misery, and last night made a most miraculous escape from the troops of General Regnier."

"Who has offered a hundred gold Napoleons for you dead or alive: a sum quite sufficient to excite the avarice and cupidity of a Calabrian outlaw."

My spirit sank—I made no reply, but cursed the French general in my heart.

"Courage, signor," said Baptistello, laying his hand familiarly on my shoulder; "think not so hardly of us: we all love the British soldiers, and would not yield you to Regnier for all the gold in France. We have not forgotten Maida—eh, comrades?"

"Viva il Re d'Inghilterra!" answered the band with one voice. (It was the cry of the loyalists as often as "Viva Ferdinando IV.")

"You hear the sentiments of my followers," said Varro; "truly, signor, as the Husband of the Signora d'Alfieri, your name is dear to the whole Calabrians; and I believe the wildest rogue in these provinces would not touch a hair of your head. Corpo di Baccho! you must breakfast with us among the mountains: we trust to your honour for not revealing our fastness to our disadvantage—to our own hands for avenging it, if you do. Enough, signor: we know each other."

I was in the hands of men with whom it would have been rash to trifle; and, accepting the rough invitation, I accompanied them across the hills. The sun rose above the highest peak of Bova, and poured its fiery lustre into the dark green valleys; gilding the convent vanes and little spires of St. Christiana and Oppido, and exhaling the mist from the black glittering rocks, the sable pines, and verdant slopes of the Apennines.

CHAPTER XX.

THE BANDIT'S CAVERN.—RECAPTURE AND DELIVERANCE.

Through a long deep gorge, winding between basaltic cliffs, the production of volcanic fire, or formed by some great convulsion which had rent the massive hills, we scrambled along for nearly half a mile; at the end rose a wall of rock, on ascending which, by means of a ladder, I found myself in the den of the banditti. The ladder being drawn up when the last man ascended, all communication with the chasm below was thus cut off.

A fire burned brightly in a recess of the cavern, revealing its ghastly rocks and hollow depths, the long stalactites, the crystals, and various sparkling stones which glimmered in the flames as they shot upward through the cranny that served for a chimney. Several females, grouped round it, were engaged in chatting, quarrelling, and cooking; and their picturesque costumes, olive complexions, and graceful figures, were brought forward in strong warm light by the flickering flames: some had still the sad remains of beauty, and their Greco-Italian features still wore the soft Madonna-like expression of the southern provinces: though, alas! their innocence had fled; others were sullen, forbidding, or melancholy, and all were laden with tawdry finery and massive jewels.

The aspect of the cavern; one part glaring with lurid light, the other half involved in gloom, where its mysterious recesses pierced into the bowels of the mountain; the women, with their full bosoms, large black eyes, and sandalled feet, their glossy hair braided into tails, or flowing in dishevelled ringlets; the bearded banditti, some in their well-known costume, others in a garb of rough skins, showing their bare legs and arms—their rifles, knives, pistols, and horns, sparkling when they moved; formed a striking scene. Looking outward, also, a view of the distant sea, the smoke of Stromboli piercing the infinity of space above it, the spire of Fiumara, the vine-clad ruins of a Grecian temple, and the long bright river that wound between the hills towards it, formed a subject for the pencil, such as would have raised the enthusiasm of Salvator Rosa; who, in pursuit of the savagely romantic, sojourned for a time among the wilds, the beauties, the terrors, and the banditti of Calabria.