"A Romance" (continued 3)

“No doubt. Strange, though—not a scrape of his pen since that nasty epistle from the inn—not even to acknowledge the receipt of the money. I suppose he got it all right. I’ve not looked into my bank-book since I don’t know when.”

“Oh, you may be certain of his having got it. If he hadn’t you’d have heard from him long ago. Henry isn’t one to go without money, where money can be had. You’ve good reason to know that. I should say you needn’t trouble about him, brother; he’s not been living all this time upon air.”

“I wonder where he is? He said he was going abroad. I suppose he has done so.”

“Doubtful enough,” rejoined the spinster, with a shake of her head; “London will be the place for him, so long as his money lasts. When it is spent you’ll hear from him. He’ll write for a fresh supply. Of course, brother, you’ll send it?”

The interrogatory was spoken ironically and in a taunting tone, intended to produce an effect the very opposite to what it might seem to serve.

“Not a shilling!” said the General, determinedly setting his wine-glass down on the table with an emphatic clink. “Not a single shilling. If within twelve months he has succeeded in dissipating a thousand pounds, he shall go twelve years before he gets another thousand. Not a shilling before my death; and then only enough to keep him from starvation. No, Nelly dear, I’ve made up my mind about that. Nigel shall have all except a little something which will be left to yourself. I gave Hal every chance. He should have had half. Now, after what has happened— There are wheels upon the gravel. Nigel with the dog-cart, I suppose.”

It was; and in ten seconds more Nigel, without the dog-cart, stepped softly into the room.

“You’re a little late, Nigel?”

“Yes, papa. The train was behind time.”

This was a lie. The delay was caused by stoppage nearer home—at the widow Mainwaring’s cottage.

“Well, I hope you have had a pleasant party?”

“Passable.”

“That all? And such weather. Who was there?”

“Oh, for that matter, there was company enough—half of Bucks and Berkshire, I should think, to say nothing of a score of snobs from London.”

“Any of our neighbours?”

“Well—no—not exactly.”

“It’s a wonder the widow Mainwaring—”

“Oh, yes, she was there. I didn’t think of her.”

“The daughter, of course, along with her?”

“Yes, the daughter was there, too. By the way, aunt,” continued the young man, with the design of changing the subject, “you haven’t asked me to join you in a glass of wine. And I’d like to have a morsel of something to eat. I feel as if I’d had nothing at all. I think I could eat a raw steak if I had it.”

“There was a roast duck for dinner,” suggested the aunt; “but it is cold now, dear Nigel, and so is the asparagus. Will you wait until it is warmed up, or perhaps you would prefer a slice of the cold boiled beef, with some West Indian pickles?”

“I don’t care what, so long as it’s something to eat.”

“Have a glass of port wine, Nigel,” said the General, while his sister was directing Williams as to the arrangement of the tray. “From what you say, I suppose you don’t want a nip of cognac to give you an appetite?”

“No, indeed. I’ve got that already. How late is it, father? Their clocks appear to be all wrong down the road, or else the trains are. It’s always the way with the Great Western. It’s a bad line to depend on for dining.”

“Ah, and a worse for dividends,” rejoined the General, the smile at his own pun being more than neutralised by a grin that told of his being holder of shares in the G.W.R.

With a laugh Nigel drank off his glass of port; and then sat down to his cold duck, boiled beef, and pickles.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Strange Visitor.

General Harding’s butler, with the assistance of the footman had just carried out the supper-tray when there came a ring at the hall-door bell, succeeded by a double knock. Neither were of the kind which the butler would have called “obtropolous,” but rather bashful and subdued. For all that they were heard within the room where the General sat.

“Very odd, at this hour of night,” remarked the General. “Ten o’clock,” he said, consulting his chronometer. “Who can it be?”

No one made a reply, as all were engrossed in listening. They heard the opening of the door, and then a parley between Williams upon the step, and somebody outside in the porch. It lasted some time longer than need have been necessary for a visitor who was a friend of the family. The voice, too, answering the butler’s, was evidently that of a stranger, and, as the occupants of the dining-room thought, one who spoke with a foreign accent.

The General bethought him, whether it might not be some of his old chums freshly arrived home from India, and who had come down sans cérémonie by a late train. But, then, he could think of none of them with a foreign accent.

“Who is it, Williams?” asked he, as the latter appeared in the doorway of the dining-room.

“That I can’t tell, General. The gentleman, if I may so call ’im, will neither give his name nor his card. He says he has most important business, and must see you.”

“Very odd! What does he look like?”

“Like a furraner, and a rum ’un at that. Certain, General, he arn’t a gentleman; that can be seen plain enough.”

“Very odd!” again repeated the General. “Very odd! Says he must see me?”

“Sayed it over and over, that it’s important more to you than him. Shall I show him in, General, or will you speak to him at the door?”

“Door be damned!” testily replied the old soldier. “I’m not going out there to accommodate a stranger, without either name or card. May be some begging-letter impostor. Tell him I can’t see him to-night. He may come back in the morning.”

“I’ve told him so, General, already. He says no; you must see him to-night.”

“Must! The devil!”

“Well, General, if I’d be allowed to speak my opinion, he looks a good bit like that same gentleman you’ve mentioned.”

“Who the deuce can it be, Nigel?” said the old soldier, turning to his son.

“I haven’t the slightest idea myself,” was Nigel’s reply. “It wouldn’t be that Lawyer Woolet? He answers very well to the description Williams gives of his late intruder.”

“No, no, Master Nigel, it’s not Mr Woolet. It’s an article of hoomanity even uglier than him; though certain he have got something o’ a lawyer’s look about him. But then he be a furriner; I can swear to that.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the General, using one of his mildest asseverations. “I can’t think of any foreigner that can have business with me; but whether or no, I suppose I must see him. What say you, my son?”

“Oh, as for that,” answered the latter, “there can be no harm in it. I’ll stay in the room with you; and if he becomes troublesome, I suppose, with the help of Williams here and the footman, we may be able to eject him.”

“Lor, Master Nigel, he isn’t bigger than our page-boy. I could take him up in my arms, and swing him hallway across the shrubberies. You needn’t have no fear ’bout that.”

“Come, come, Williams,” said the General, “none of this idle talking. Tell the gentleman I’ll see him. Show him in.”

Then, turning to his sister, he added—

“Nelly dear, you may as well go up to the drawing-room. Nigel and I will join you as soon as we’ve given an interview to this unexpected guest.”

The spinster, gathering up some crochet-work that she had made a commencement on, sailed out of the room—leaving her brother and nephew to receive the nocturnal caller, who would not be denied.

Chapter Twenty Five.

An Uncourteous Reception.

The old soldier and his son stood in silent expectation; for the oddity of an interview thus authoritatively demanded had summoned both to their feet. Outside they could hear the resumed exchange of speech between Williams and the stranger, and their two sets of footsteps sounding along the flagged pavement of the hall. Some seconds after, the stranger was shown inside the room, and the three were left alone—Williams retiring at a sign from the General.

A more singular specimen of the genus homo, or one less in keeping with the place, had never made appearance inside the dining-hall of an English country gentleman.

As Williams had asserted, he was not much bigger than a page-boy; but for all that, he could not be less than forty years of age. In complexion he was dark as a gipsy, with long straight hair of crow’s-wing blackness, and eyes scintillating like chips of fresh-broken coal.

His face was of the Israelitish type, while his dress, with the exception of a sort of capote, which he still kept upon his shoulders, had something of a professional cut about it, such as might be seen about men of the law in the Latinic countries of Europe. He might be an avocato, or notary. In his hand he held a hat, a sort of wide-awake, or Calabrian, which on entering the dining-room he had the courtesy to take off. Beyond this there was not much politeness shown by him, either in aspect or action; for notwithstanding his diminutive person, he appeared the very picture of pluck—of that epitomised kind seen in the terrier or weasel. It showed itself not so much in swagger as in an air of self-reliance, that seemed to say, “I have come here on an errand that will be its own excuse, and I know you won’t send me back without giving me a satisfactory answer.”

“What is it?” asked the General, as if this very thought had just passed through his own mind.

The stranger looked towards Nigel, as much as to say, “Do you wish this young gentleman to be present?”

“That is my son,” continued the old soldier. “Anything you have to say need not be kept secret from him.”

“You have another son?” asked the stranger, speaking in a foreign accent, but in English sufficiently intelligible. “I think you have another son, Signor General.”

The question caused the General to start, while Nigel turned suddenly pale. The significant glance that accompanied the interrogatory told that the stranger knew something about Henry Harding.

“I have—or should have,” replied the General. “What do you want to say of him, and why do you speak of him?”

“Do you know where your other son is, Signor General?”

“Well, not exactly, at present. Do you know where he is? Who are you? and whence do you come?”

“Signor General, I shall be most happy to answer all three of your questions, if you only allow me to do it in the order, inverse to that in which you have put them.”

“Answer them in what order you please; but do it quickly. The hour is late, and I’ve no time to stand here talking to an entire stranger.”

“Signor General, I shall not detain you many minutes. My business is of a simple nature, and my time, like yours, is precious. First, then, I come from the city of Rome, which I need not tell you is in Italy. Second, I am un procuratore—an attorney you call it in English. Thirdly, and lastly, I do know where your other son is.”

The General again started, Nigel growing paler.

“Where is he?”

“This, Signor General, will inform you.”

As he spoke, the procuratore drew a letter from under his capote, and presented it to the General. It was that which had been written by Henry Harding in the mountains, under the dictation of Corvino, the bandit chief.

Putting on his spectacles, and drawing the light nearer to him, General Harding read the letter with a feeling of astonishment, tinctured with incredulity.

“This is nonsense!” said he, handing the document to Nigel. “Sheer nonsense! Read it, my son.”

Nigel did as he was desired.

“What do you make of it?” asked the General, addressing himself in an undertone to his son.

“That it’s just what you say, father—nonsense; or perhaps something worse. It looks to me like a trick to extort money.”

“Ah! But do you think, Nigel, that Henry has any hand in it?”

“I hardly know what to think, father,” answered Nigel, continuing the whispered conversation. “It grieves me to say what I think; but I must confess it looks against him. If he has fallen into the hands of brigands—which I cannot believe, and I hope is not true—how should they know where to send such a letter? How could they tell he has a father capable of paying such a ransom for him, unless he has put them up to it? It is probable enough that he’s in Rome, where this fellow says he has come from. That may all be. But a captive in the keeping of brigands! The thing is too preposterous!”

“Most decidedly it is. But what am I to make of this application?”

“To my mind,” pursued the insinuating councillor, “the explanation is easy enough. He’s run through his thousand pounds, as might have been expected, and he now wants more. I am sorry to believe such a thing, father, but it looks as if this is a tale got up to work upon your feelings, and get a fresh remittance of cash. At all events, he has not stinted himself in the sum asked for.”

“Five thousand pounds!” exclaimed the General, again glancing over the letter. “He must think me crazy. He shall not have as many pence—no, not if it were even true what he says about being with brigands.”

“Of course that part of the story is all stuff—although it’s clear he has written the letter. It’s in his own hand, and that’s his signature.”

“Certainly it is. My God! to think that this is the first I should hear from him since that other letter. A pretty way of seeking a reconciliation with me! Bah! the trick won’t take. I’m too old a soldier to be deceived by it.”

“I’m sorry he should have tried it. I fear, papa, he has not yet repented of his rash disobedience. But what do you mean to do with this fellow?”

“Ay, what?” echoed the General, now remembering the man who had been the bearer of the strange missive. “What would you advise to be done? Send over for the police, and give him in charge.”

“I don’t know about that,” answered Nigel reflectively. “It seems hardly worth while, and might lead to some unpleasantness to ourselves. Better the public should not know about the unfortunate affair of poor Henry. A police case would necessarily expose some things that you, father, I’m sure, don’t wish to be made public.”

“True—true. But something should be done to punish this impudent impostor. It’s too bad to be so bearded—almost bullied in one’s own home; and by a wretch like that.”

“Threaten him, then, before dismissing him. That may bring out some more information about the scheme. At all events, it can do no harm to give him a bit of your mind. It may do good to Henry, to know how you have received his petition so cunningly contrived.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

An Unceremonious Dismissal.

The side conversation between General Harding and his son was at length suspended by the old soldier facing abruptly towards the stranger, who all the while had been standing quietly apart.

“You’re an impostor, sir!” exclaimed the General. “An impostor, I say!”

“Molte grazie, Signor General!” replied the man, without making other movement than a mock bow. “Rather an uncomplimentary epithet to apply to one who has come all the way from Italy to do you a service, or rather your son. Is this all the answer I’m to take back to him?”

“If you take any back to him, that’s it,” interposed Nigel. “Do you know, sir,” he continued in a threatening manner; “do you know that you’ve placed yourself within the power of our laws; that you can be arrested, and thrown into prison for an attempt to extort money under false pretences?”

“His excellence, the General, will not have me arrested. First, because there are no false pretences; and, second, that to do so would be certainly to seal your son’s doom. The moment the news should reach those who have him in their keeping, that I’ve been arrested or otherwise molested here in England, that moment will he be punished far more than you can punish me. You must remember that I am only a messenger, who have taken upon me the delivery of this letter. I know nothing of those who sent it, except in the way of my profession, and in the cause of humanity. I am as much your son’s messenger as theirs. I can only assure you, Signor General, that it is a serious mission; and that your son’s life depends on my safety, and the answer you may vouchsafe to send back.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the old soldier, “don’t tell a cock-and-bull tale to an Englishman. I don’t believe a word of it. If I did, I’d take a different way of delivering my son from such a danger. Our government would soon interfere on my behalf, and then instead of five thousand pounds, your beautiful brigands would get what they deserve, and what I wonder they haven’t had long ago—six feet of rope around each of their necks.”

“I fear, Signor General, you are labouring under a false delusion. Allow me to set you right on this question. Your government can be of no service to you in this affair, nor all the governments of Europe to boot. It is not the first time such threats have been used against the freebooters in question. Neither the Neapolitan Government, in whose land they live, nor that of his Holiness, upon whose territory they occasionally intrude, can coerce them, if ever so inclined. There is but one way to obtain the release of your son—by paying the ransom demanded for him.”

“Begone, wretch!” shouted the General, losing all patience at the pleading of the procuratore. “Begone! out of my house! Off my premises instantly, or I shall order my servant to drag you to the horse-pond. Begone, I say!”

“And you would rue it if you did,” spitefully rejoined the little Italian, as he edged off towards the door. “Buona notte, Signor General! Perhaps by the morning you will have recovered your temper, and think better of my errand. If you have any message to send to your son—whom it is not very likely you will ever see again—I shall take it upon myself to transmit it for you, notwithstanding the uncourteous treatment, of which, as a gentleman, I have the right to complain. I stay at the neighbouring inn all night, and will not be gone before twelve o’clock tomorrow. Buona notte! buona notte!”

So saying the swarthy little stranger backed out of the room, and, conducted by the butler, was not very courteously shown into the night.

The General stood still, his beard bristling with passion. For a time he seemed irresolute, as to whether he should have the stranger detained, and punished in some summary way. But he thought of the family scandal, and restrained himself.

“You won’t write to Henry?” asked Nigel, in a tone that said, “don’t.”

“Not a line. If he has got into a scrape for want of money, let him get out of it again, the best way he can. As to this story about brigands—”

“Oh, that’s too absurd,” insinuated Nigel; “the brigands into whose hands he has fallen are the gamblers and swindlers of Rome. They have no doubt employed this lawyer, if he be one, to carry out their scheme—certainly a cunningly-contrived one, whoever originated it.”

“Oh, my son! my wretched son!” exclaimed the General; “to think he has fallen into the hands of such associates! To think he could lend himself to a conspiracy like this, and against his own father! Oh, God!”

And the old soldier uttered a groan of agony, as he sank down upon the sofa.

“Had I not better write to him, father?” asked Nigel. “Just a line to say how much his conduct is grieving you? Perhaps a word of counsel may yet reclaim him.”

“If you like—if you like—though after such an experience as this I feel there is little hope of him. Ah, Lucy! Lucy! it is well you are not here, and that God has taken you to himself. My poor wife! my poor wife! this would have killed you!”

The apostrophe was spoken in a low, muttered tone, and after Nigel had left the room—the latter having gone out apparently with the intention of writing the letter intended to reclaim his erring brother.

It was written that night, and that night reached the hands of the strange procurator, to whom it was entrusted for delivery; and who, next day, true to his word, remained at the roadside inn till the hour of twelve, to receive any further communication. After midday he was seen driving off in the inn “fly” toward the Slough Station; thence to be transported by rail and steam to his home in the Seven-hilled City.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Brigand Domestic Life.

For several days Henry Harding was kept confined in his cell, without seeing a face, except that of the brigand who brought him his food—always the same individual.

This man was a morose wretch, and as uncommunicative as if he had been an automaton. Twice a day he would bring in the bowl of pasta—a sort of macaroni porridge boiled in bacon fat, and seasoned with salt and pepper. He would place the vessel upon the floor, take away the empty one that had contained the previous meal, and then leave the captive to himself, without saying a word to him.

The repeated attempts of the young Englishman to bring him to a parley were met either by complete inattention or rude repulse. Seeing this, they were abandoned; and the captive ate his pasta, and drank his cold water in silence.

Only at night was there quiet in his cell. All day long, through the slender-slit window, came noise enough. Just in front of it seemed to be the favourite loitering place of the brigands, where they passed most of their time. This was spent almost exclusively in gambling, except during intervals when quarrelling took the place of playing. Those intervals were not rare. Scarce an hour elapsed without some dispute, ending either in a fight between two individuals, or a general row, in which more than half the band appeared to take part. Then would be heard the voice of the capo, thundering in authoritative tones, as he delivered curses and cudgel blows right and left among the quarrellers.

Once there was a report of a pistol, followed by groans. The young Englishman believed that a summary punishment had been inflicted on some offender: for after the groans there was an interval of solemn stillness, such as might be observed in the presence of death. If such were the dread impression upon the scoundrels it did not last long: for soon after they were heard resuming play, and the cries, “Cinque y cinque o capo,” and “Vinti y vinti croce!” the game being that common among the Italian peasantry called, “Croce o capo” and which differs but little from the English “Heads or tails.”

By standing on tiptoe, the prisoner could see them playing at it. The gaming-table was simply a level spot of turf in front of his cell, and nearly opposite the window. The brigands knelt or squatted in a ring: one held an old hat from which the lining had been torn out. In this were placed a number of coins, odd—usually three. These were first rattled about the hat, and then thrown down upon the turf; the hat, as a dice-box, still covering them. The bets were then made upon capo or croce (head or cross), and the raising of the hat determined who were winners or losers.

It is in this game that the bandits find their chief source of distraction, from a life that would otherwise be unendurable, even to such ruffians as they. Capo o croce, with an occasional quarrel over it; plenty of pasta, confetti, fat mutton, cheeses, roccate, and rosolio; a festa when wine and provisions are plenty; songs usually of the most vulgar kind; now and then a dance, accompanied by some coarse flirting with the half-dozen women who usually keep company with a banda—these, and long hours of listless basking in the sun, compose the joys of the Italian brigand’s domestic life.

When on a foray to the peopled plains, he finds excitement of an altogether different character. The surprise, the capture, the escape from pursuing soldiers, perhaps an occasional skirmish while retreating to his hill fortress—these are the incidents that occur to him on a plundering expedition: and they are sufficiently stirring to keep his spirit from suffering ennui.

This last only steals upon him when the divided plunder, which is generally in the shape of denaro di riscatta (ransom money), has by the inexorable chances of the capo o croce become consolidated in a few hands—the universal result of the game.

Then does the bandit become dissatisfied with listless idleness, and commences to plan new surprises; the sack of some rich villa, or what is much more to his mind, the capture of some galantuomo, or gentleman, by whose ransom his purse may be again replenished, again to be staked upon “Heads or tails.”

Unseen himself, the young Englishman had an excellent opportunity of studying the life of these lawless men.

Between them and their chief there appeared to be but slight distinction. As a general rule the spoils were shared alike, as also the chances of the game; for Corvino could at any time be seen in the ring, along with the rest, staking his piastres on the capo or croce.

His authority was only absolute in the administration of punishment. His kick and cudgel were never disputed; for, if they had been, it was well understood these modes of castigation would be instantly changed for a stab of his stiletto, or a shot from his pistol.

His chieftainship may have been derived from his being the originator of the band, but it was kept up and sustained by his being its bully. A chief of low courage, or less cruelty, would soon have been dispossessed, as not unfrequently happens among the banditi.

One thing caused Henry Harding much wonder, as, standing on tiptoe, he looked out of the little window—the women, the bandite.

In the band there was nearly a score of these ladies. He had at first taken them for boys—beardless members of the gang! There was but little in their dress to distinguish them from the men. They wore the same polka jacket, vest, and pantaloons, only with a greater profusion of ornaments around their necks, and a larger number of rings upon their fingers.

Some of them were absolutely loaded with jewels of all kinds—pearls, topazes, rubies, turquoise-stones, even diamonds sparkling among the rest—the spoils drawn from the delicate fingers of many a rich signorina.

The hair of all was close cropped, like that of the men; while several carried poignards or pistols, so that only by a certain rotundity of form could they be distinguished from their male companions, and not all of them by this. They were not allowed to take part in the gaming, as they never got share of the riscatta. For all that, most of them shared in the perils of every enterprise, accompanying the men on their expeditions.

At home they laid aside the carbine to take up the needle; though they were seldom called upon to wet their fingers in the washing-tub. That is regarded as an occupation beneath the dignity of a bandita; and is left to the wives of those peasants in communication with the band, and who are termed manutangoli, or “helpers.” These are well paid for the labour of the laundry—a clean shirt costing the bandit almost the price of a new one! It was not often that any of Corvino’s band cared to incur the expense; only its damerini or dandies, and they only upon the occasion of a festa.

Most of these observations were made by the English captive, during the first few days of his captivity. He saw many strange scenes through the little window of his cell. He might have seen more, had the window been lower in the wall; but, high up as it was, he was obliged to stand on tiptoe, and this becoming tiresome after a time, he only assumed the irksome attitude when some scene more exciting than common summoned him from his lair of dried fern-leaves.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Unpleasant Information.

Several days had elapsed without any change either in the prisoner’s prospects or situation. He had come to the conclusion that his capture was no longer a farce, nor his imprisonment likely soon to terminate. The stories of brigand life he had heard told during his short sojourn in Rome, and which like others of his incredulous countrymen he had been loth to believe, were no longer doubted. He was himself a sad example of their reality, and could almost feet angry at his friend Luigi for having given him that letter of introduction, which had introduced him to such a pitiful dilemma. It was still upon his person; for, beyond robbing him of his slender purse and other metallic movables, the brigands had left everything untouched.

By way of passing the time, he took the letter out and re-read it. One paragraph, which he had scarcely noticed before, now particularly impressed him. “I suppose my sister Lucetta will by this time be a big girl. Take good care of her till I come back, when I hope I shall be able to carry all of you out of that danger we dreaded.”

When Henry Harding first read these words on his way to Rome—for the letter of introduction was an open one—he thought nothing of their signification. He supposed it could only refer to the straitened circumstances of his family which the young artist expected at some time to relieve, by the proceeds of his successful pencil. Besides, Belle Mainwaring was too much in his mind to leave room for more than a passing thought of anything else, even for the little sister of Luigi, big as she might be at the writing of the letter—since still unknown.

Now, however, reflecting in his lone cell, with the image of that fair face first seen on the day of his captivity, and since constantly recurring to his thoughts, he began to shape out a different interpretation to the ambiguous phrase. What if the danger spoken of was less of poverty than peril—such, in short, as appeared to threaten that young girl, the daughter of the village sindico? To reflect even upon this gave the captive pain. How much more would he have been pained to think that the sister of his dear friend, Luigi Torreani was in like peril.

Sunset, declaring itself by the increasing gloom of his cell, caused him to refold the letter, and return it to his pocket. He was still pondering upon its contents, when voices outside the window attracted his attention. He listened—anything to vary the monotony of his prison life—even the idle talk of a brace of bandits; for it was two of these who were speaking outside. In less than ten seconds after he was listening with all his ears; for in the midst of their conversation he fancied he heard a name that was known to him.

He had just been thinking of Luigi Torreani. This was not the name that passed from the lips of the bandit; but one of like signification—Lucetta. He knew it was the name of Luigi’s sister, of which he had just been reminded by the letter.

Henry Harding had often heard his friend speak of this sister—his only one. It was not strange, therefore, he should listen with quickened attention; and so did he, grasping the solitary bar of his window, and placing his ear close up to the sill. True there might be scores of Lucettas in that part of the country; but, for all this, he could not help listening with eager interest.

“She’ll be our next riscatta,” said the brigand who had pronounced the name; “you may make up your mind to that.”

“E por che?” inquired the other. “The old sindico, with all his proud name and his syndicate to boot, hasn’t enough to pay ransom for a rat. What would be the object of such a capture?”

“Object! Ah, that concerns the capo, not us. All I know is that the girl has taken his fancy. I saw it as we passed through the town the other night. I believe he’d have then carried her off, only for fear of Popetta. She’s a she-devil, is the signora; and, though generally she takes kindly to her kicks and puffings, she wouldn’t if there was a woman in the case. Don’t you remember when we had the dancing-bout down in the valley of Main? What a row there was between our captain and his cara sposa!”

“I remember. What was it all about? I never heard?”

“About a bit of kissing. Our capo was inclined upon a girl; that coquettish little devil, the daughter of the old charcoal-burner Poli. The girl seemed kindly. He had slipped a charm round her neck, and I believe had kissed her. Whether he did that or no, I won’t be certain, but the charm was seen and recognised by the signora. She plucked it from the girl’s neck; as she did so almost dragging her off her feet. Then came the scene with the capo.”

“She drew a stiletto upon him, did she not?”

“Ay, and would have used it, too, if he had not made some excuse, and turned the thing into a laugh. That pacified her. What a fury she was while the fit was on her. Cospetto! Her eyes glittered like hot lava from Vesuvius.”

“The girl stole away, I think?”

“That did she, and a good thing for her she did; though if she had stayed I don’t think Corvino would have dared look at her again that night. I never saw him cowed before. He lost both his sweetheart and his gold charm; for his Cara Popetta appropriated that to herself, and wears it regularly whenever he holds festa among the peasant girls, by way of reminder, I suppose.”

“Did the captain ever see Poli’s daughter again?”

“Well, some of us think he did. But you remember, after you left us we moved away from that part of the country? The soldiers became too troublesome about there, and there was a whisper that the signora had something to do with making the place too hot for us. After all, I don’t think Corvino cared for the carbonero’s daughter. It was only a short-lived fancy, because the girl showed sweet upon him. This of the sindico’s chicken is a very different affair; for I know he’s fond of going in that direction, and shouldn’t wonder if we get into danger by it. Danger or no danger, he’ll have her sooner or later, take my word for it.”

“I don’t wonder at his fancy; she a sweet-looking girl. One likes her all the better for being so proud upon it.”

“Her pride will have a fall, once Corvino gets her in his clutches. He’s just the man to tame such shy damsels as she.”

“Povera! it is a pity, too.”

“Bah, you’re a fool, Thomasso. Your sojourn in the Pope’s prison has spoilt you for our life, I fear. What are we poor fellows to do, if we don’t have a sweetheart now and then? Chased liked wolves, why shouldn’t we take a slice of lamb when we can get it? Who can blame the capo for liking a little bit of tender chick? And such a sweet bit as Lucetta Torreani.”

Henry Harding, who had been all this time listening with disgust to the dialogue between the two brigands, felt as if a huge stone had struck him. The presentment that had just commenced shaping itself in his mind appeared all at once to be circumstantially confirmed. The young girl spoken of was Lucetta Torreani. It could be no other than the sister of Luigi, whom he had seen standing in the balcony at Val di Orno, and who so often since had been occupying his thoughts.

It was a singular collocation or coincidence of circumstances, and painful as singular. Under the blow, he relaxed his hold of the bar, and staggering back, sank down upon the floor of his cell.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Painful Conjecturing.

For some time the young Englishman sat, where he had sunk down, in a state of mind not far removed from bewilderment. His captivity, if irksome before, was now changed to torture. Of his own misfortunes he no longer thought, nor cared. His soul was absorbed in contemplating the perils that beset the sister of his friend—that fair young girl—that although seen, but for a moment, and then looked upon in the light of a stranger, had made such an impression upon his heart; and, even without knowing that she was Luigi’s sister, what he had just heard was of itself sufficient to make him unhappy in her behalf. He knew the terrible power exercised by these bandits. He had proofs of it in his own experience. A power all the more dangerous, since to men with lives already forfeit, there can be no restraint arising from fear of the law. One crime more could not further compromise them; and to commit such crime there needed only the motive and opportunity. In this case both appeared to be present. He had himself seen something of the first, in the behaviour of the brigands on the night of their bivouac in the village. Perhaps he might have seen more, but for the presence of Popetta, who in their late maraud had made one of the band. What he had now listened to placed the thing beyond doubt. The eyes of Corvino had turned longingly on the sister of Luigi Torreani. What must be the sequel when the wolf thus looks upon the lamb? Only destruction!

About the opportunity there was not much left to conjecture. It appeared like a sheep-fold without either watch-dog or shepherd. The behaviour of the bandits, while occupying the town, told that they could re-occupy it at any moment they had the mind. They might not be allowed long to remain there; but the shortest flying visit would be sufficient for a purpose like that. Such razzia and rapine were but the ordinary incidents of their life, the tactics of their calling, and they were accustomed to execute them with the most subtle skill and celerity. Corvino and his band could at any moment carry off Lucetta Torreani with half the damsels of Val di Orno—the captive artist now knew this to be the name of the village—without danger of either resistance or interruption. After such an outrage they might be pursued by the Papal gendarmes or soldiery, and they might not. That would depend upon circumstances—or whether the manutangoli willed it. There would be a show of pursuit, perhaps; and perhaps with this it would end.

In his own land the young Englishman would not have given credit to such a state of things. He could not, nor would his country men until a late period, when it was brought home to them by testimony too substantial to be discredited. Besides, since his arrival in Rome he had become better informed about the status of Italian social life and the behaviour of these banditti. He had no doubt, therefore, about the danger in which stood the sister of Luigi Torreani. There seemed but one who could save her from the fearful fate that hung over her head, and that one a woman—if this word can be used in speaking of such a creature as Cara Popetta.

To the brigand’s wife, companion, or whatever she was, the thoughts of the captive turned as he sat reflecting, and devising schemes for the protection of Lucetta Torreani. If he were only free himself, knowing what he now did, the thing might have been easy enough, without appealing to such a protector. But his freedom was now out of the question. He felt convinced that from that prison he would never go forth, but to be carried to one equally secure—until the messenger should return from England bearing the ransom for which he had written. And now, for the first time, did he feel satisfied at having written as he had done. Had he known what he now knew, it would have needed no dictation of the bandit chief to strengthen that appeal to his father. He earnestly hoped that the appeal he had made would receive a favourable response, and the money arrive in time to make liberty worth regaining. He had fixed upon the purpose to which he would devote it.

What if it came not at all? There was too much probability in this. Formerly he had felt reckless, from the curse that had been resting upon him; that is, the remembrance of Belle Mainwaring, and the disinheritance he had deemed so cruel. And there was the still later act of paternal harshness, in his father’s refusal to advance the inconsiderable legacy he had promised to leave him. In like manner his father might refuse to pay the ransom demanded by the brigands.

All that night the captive remained in his cell without sleep. Now and then he paced the fern-covered floor, by the movement hoping to stimulate his thoughts into the conception of some plan that would ensure, less his own safety than that of Lucetta Torreani. But daylight glimmered through the little window, and he was still without any feasible scheme. He had only the slender hope, that the ransom might arrive in time; this and the equally slender expectation of assistance from “Cara Popetta.”

Chapter Thirty.

Brigandage and its Cause.

Brigandage, as it exists in the southern countries of Europe, is only beginning to receive its full measure of credence. There was always a knowledge, or supposition, that there were robbers in Spain, Italy, and Greece, who went in bands, and now and then attacked travellers, plundering them of their purses, and occasionally committing outrages on their persons. People, however, supposed these cases to be exceptional, and that the stage representations of brigand life to which in Transpontine theatres we are treated, were exaggerations, both, as regards the power and picturesqueness of these banded outlaws. There were banditti, of course, conceded every one; but these were few and far between, confined to the fastnesses of the mountains, or concealed in some pathless forest—only showing themselves by stealth and on rare occasions upon the public highways, or in the inhabited districts of the country.

Unhappily, this view of the case is not the correct one. At present, and for a long time past, the brigands of Italy, so far from skulking in mountain caves or forest lairs, openly disport themselves in the plains, even where thickly peopled; not unfrequently making themselves masters of a village, and retaining possession of it for days at a time. You may wonder at the weakness of the Italian governments, that permit such a state of things to exist. But it does exist, sometimes in spite of the governments, but sometimes also with their secret support and connivance—notably in the territories of Rome and Naples. To explain why they connive at it would be to enter upon a religio-political question which we do not care to discuss—since it might be deemed out of place in the pages of a mere romantic tale.

The motive of these governments for permitting brigandage was similar to that which elsewhere gives “comfort and support” to many an association almost as despicable as brigandage. It is the old story of despotism all over the world, Divide et impera; and prince or priest, if they cannot govern a people otherwise, will even rule them through the scourge of the robber.

Were there two forms of religion in Italy, as in Ireland, there would be no brigands. Then there would be no need of them: since in aspiring to political liberty the two parties would satisfactorily checkmate one another, as they have done and still do in Ireland—each preferring serfdom for itself rather than to share freedom with its hated rival.

Since in Italy there is but one religion, some other means was required to check and counteract the political liberty of the people. Despotism had hit upon the device of brigandage, and this is the explanation of its existence.

The nature of this hideous social sore is but imperfectly understood outside Italy. It might be supposed an irksome state of existence to dwell in a country where robbers can ramble about at will, and do pretty much as they please. And so it would be to any one of sensitive mind or educated intelligence; but where the bandits dwell, there are few of this class, the districts infected with them having been long since surrendered to small tenant-farmers and peasantry. A landed proprietor does not think of residing on his own estate. If he did, he would be in danger every day of his life—not of being assassinated, for that would be a simple act of folly on the part of the brigands—but hurried away from his home to some rendezvous in the mountains, and there held captive till his friends could raise a ransom sufficient to satisfy the cupidity of his captors. This refused—supposing it possible of being obtained—then he would certainly be assassinated—hanged or shot—without further hesitancy or equivocation.

Knowing this, from either his own or his neighbour’s experience, the owner of an Italian estate takes the precaution to reside in the towns, where there is a garrison of regular soldiers, or some other form of protection for his person. And only inside such a town is he safe. A single mile beyond the boundary of their suburbs, sometimes even within them, he runs the risk of getting picked up and carried off, before the very faces of his friends and fellow-citizens. To deny this would be to contradict facts of continual occurrence. Scores of such instances are annually reported, both in the Roman States and in the late Neapolitan territory—now happily included in a safer and better régime, though still suffering from this chronic curse.

But it may be asked of the peasantry themselves—the small farmers, shopkeepers, artificers, labourers, shepherds, and the like—how they live under such an abnormal condition of things?

That is what the world wonders at, more especially the public of England; which is not very intelligent on any foreign matter, and dull at comprehending even that which concerns itself. Have we ever heard of one of our own farmers raising his voice against a war, however cruel or unjust, against the people of another country, provided it increased the price of bacon in his own? And in this we have the explanation why the peasant people of Italy bear up so bravely against brigandage. When a village baker gets a pezzo (in value something more than a dollar) for a loaf of bread weighing less than three pounds, the real price in the nearest town being only threepence; when a labourer gets a similar sum for his brown bannock of like weight; when his wife has another pezzo for washing a brigand’s shirt—the brigandesses being above such work; when the shepherd asks and obtains a triple price for his goat, kid, or sheep; and when every other article of bandit clothing or consumption is paid for at a proportionate famine rate, one need no longer be astonished at the tolerance of the Italian peasantry towards such generous customers.

But how about the insults, the annoyances, the dangers to which they are subject at the hands of these outlaws?

All nonsense. They are not in any danger. They have little to lose, but their lives; and these the brigands do not care to take. It would be to kill the goose, and get no more eggs. In the way of annoyances the English labourer has to submit to quite as many, if not more, in the shape of heavy taxation, or the interference of a prying policeman; and when it comes to the question of insult, supposing it to be offered to a wife or pretty daughter, the Italian peasant is in this respect not much worse off than the tradesman of many an English town annually abandoned to the tender mercies of a maudlin militia.

Brigandage, therefore, in the belief of the Italian peasant, is not, at all times, so very unendurable.

Notwithstanding, there are occasions when it is so, and people suffer from it grievously. Scenes of cruelty are often witnessed—episodes and incidents absolutely agonising. These usually occur in places that have either hitherto escaped the curse of brigandage, or have been for a long time relieved from it; where owners of estates, deeming themselves safe, have ventured to reside on their properties, in hopes of realising an income—more than a moiety of which, under the robber régime, goes into the pockets of their tenantry, the peasant cultivators. And to prevent this residence of the proprietors on their estates is the very thing desired by their proletarian retainers, who benefit by their absence—this begetting another motive, perhaps the strongest of all, for the toleration of the bandits.

When, in districts for a time abandoned by them, the brigands once more make appearance, either on a running raid or for permanent occupation, then scenes are enacted that are truly deplorable. Owners for a time remain, either hating to break up their households, or unable to dispose of the property in hand, such as stock or chattels, without ruinous sacrifice. They live on, trusting to chance, sometimes to favour, and not unfrequently to a periodical bleeding by black mail, that gains them the simple indulgence of non-molestation. It is at best but a precarious position, painful as uncertain.

In just such a dilemma was the father of Luigi Torreani, sindico, or chief magistrate, of the town in which he dwelt, owning considerable property in the district. Up to a late period he had felt secure from the incursions of the bandits. He had even gone so far as to gain ill-will from these outlaws, by the prosecution of two of their number at a time when there was some safety in the just administration of the laws. But times had changed. The Pope, occupied with his heretical enemies outside his sacred dominions, gave little heed to interior disturbances; and as for Cardinal Antonelli, what cared he for complaints of brigand outrages daily poured into his ears? Rather, had he reason for encouraging them—this true descendant of the Caesars and type of the Caesar Borgias.

It was to this peril in which his father was placed that the paragraph in Luigi’s letter referred. Henry Harding, reflecting within his prison cell, had hit upon its correct interpretation.

Chapter Thirty One.

The Torreanis.

On that same night in which the brigands had strayed into the town of Val di Orno, the sindico had learned something which caused him more than ever to fear for the future. The bold, bullying behaviour of the men was itself sufficient to tell him of his own impotence, in case they had chosen to violate the laws of hospitality. But he had been told of something more, something personal to himself, or rather to his family—that family consisting solely of his daughter Lucetta. She and Luigi were his only children, and they had been motherless for many years.

What he had learned is already known to the reader—that Corvino had been seen to cast longing looks upon his child. This is the Italian parlance when speaking of a preference of the kind supposed to exist in the bosom of a brigand. Francesco Torreani knew its significance. He was well aware of the personal attractions possessed by his daughter. Her great beauty had long been the theme, not only of the village of Val di Orno, but of the surrounding country. Even in the city itself had she been spoken of; and once, while on a visit there with her father, she had been beset by blandishments in which counts and cardinals had taken part; for these red-legged gentry of the Church are not callous to the smiles of witching woman.

It was the second time Corvino had seen Lucetta Torreani; and her father was admonished that he had perhaps seen her twice too often, as that once more he might bring misery to his house, leaving it with a desolate hearth. There was no insinuation against the girl—no hint that she had in any way encouraged the bold advances of the brigand chief. On the contrary, it was known that she hated the sight of him, as she should do. It had been simply a warning, whispered in the father’s ear, that it would be well for her to be kept out of Corvino’s way. But how was this to be done?

On the day after the visit of the band, Francesco Torreani noticed something strange in his daughter’s manner. There was an air of dejection not usual to her, for the pretty Lucetta was not given to gravity. Why should she be low-spirited at such a crisis? Her father inquired the cause.

“You are not yourself to-day, my child,” he said, observing her dejected air.

“I am not, papa; I confess it.”

“Has anything occurred to vex you?”

“To vex me! No, not quite that. It is thinking of another that gives me unhappiness.”

“Of another! Who, cara figlia?”

“Well, papa, I’ve been thinking of that poor young Inglese, who was carried away by those infamous men. Suppose it had been brother Luigi?”

“Ay, indeed!”

“What do you think they will do with him? Is his life in danger?”

“No, not his life—that is, if his friends will only send the money that will be demanded for his ransom.”

“But if he have no friends? He might not. His dress was not rich; and yet for all that he looked a galantuomo. Did he not?”

“I did not take much notice of him, my child. I was too busy with the affairs of the town while the ruffians were here.”

“Do you know, papa, what our girl Annetta has heard? Some one told her this morning.”

“What?”

“That the young Inglese is an artist, just like our Luigi. How strange if it be so?”

“’Tis probable enough. Many of these English residents in Rome are artists by profession. They come here to study our old paintings and sculptures. He may be one, and very likely is. ’Tis a pity, poor fellow, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps if he were a great milord it would be all the worse for him. His captors would require a much larger sum for his ransom. If they find he can’t pay, they’ll be likely to let him go.”

“I do hope they will; I do indeed.”

“But why, child? Why are you so much interested in this young man? There have been others. Corvino’s band took three with them, the last time they passed through. You said nothing about them.”

“I did not notice them, papa: and he—think of his being a pittore! Suppose brother Luigi was treated so in his country?”

“There is no danger of that. I wish we had such a country to live in; under a government where everything is secure, life, property, and—”

The sindico did not say what besides. He was thinking of the admonition he had recently received.

“And why should we not go to England? Go there and live with Luigi. He said in his last letter, he has been successful in his profession, and would like to have us with him. Perhaps this young Inglese on his return may stop at the inn; and, if you would question him, he could tell us all about his country. If it be true what you say of it, why should we not go there to live?”

“There, or somewhere else. Italy is no longer a home for us. The Holy Pontiff is too much occupied with his foreign affairs to find time for the protection of his people. Yes, cara figlia, I’ve been thinking of leaving Val di Orno—this day more than ever. I’ve almost made up my mind to accept the offer Signor Bardoni has made for my estate. It’s far below its value; but in these times—what’s all that noise in the street?”

Lucetta ran to the window, and looked out.

“Che vedette?” inquired her father.

“Soldiers,” she replied. “There’s a great long string of them coming up the street. I suppose they’re after the brigands?”

“Yes. They won’t catch them for all that. They never do. They’re always just in time to be too late! Come away from the window, child. I must go down to receive them. They’ll want quartering for the night, and plenty to eat and drink. What’s more, they won’t want to pay for it. No wonder our people prefer extending their hospitality to the brigands, who pay well for everything. Ah, me! it’s no sinecure to be the sindico of such a town. If old Bardoni wishes it, he can have both my property and place. No doubt he can manage better than I. He’s better fitted to deal with banditti.”

Saying this, the sindico took up his official staff; and, putting on his hat, descended to the street, to give official reception to the soldiers of the Pope.

“A grand officer!” said Lucetta, glancing slyly through the window-bars. “If he were only bravo enough to go after those brutes of brigands, and rescue that handsome young Inglese. Ah! if he’d only do that. I’d give him a smile for his pains. Povero pittore! Just like brother Luigi. I wonder now if he has a sister thinking of him. Perhaps he may have a—”

The girl hesitated to pronounce the word “sweetheart,” though, as the thought suggested itself, there came a slight shadow over her countenance, as if she would have preferred knowing he had none.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, once more looking out of the window. “The grand officer is coming home with papa; and there’s another—a younger one—with him. No doubt they will dine here; and I suppose I must go and dress to receive them.”

Saying this, she glided out of the room; which was soon after occupied by the sindico, and his two soldier-guests.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Captain Count Guardioli.

The town of Val di Orno was now in military possession, and there was no longer any fear of a revisit from the bandits.

The soldiers, in all about a hundred, were distributed by billet into the best houses while the officers took possession of the inn.

The captain, however, not contented with such shelter as the humble hostelry afforded contrived to insinuate himself into more comfortable quarters, in the house of the chief magistrate of the town, who, as already known, was the sindico himself.

It was a hospitality somewhat reluctantly offered; and, under other circumstances, the offer might not have been made. But the times were troublous, the brigands were “abroad,” and people could not well act with churlishness towards their professed protectors.

Besides, Francesco Torreani, on his own account, had need to show courtesy, or pretend it, to the soldiers of the Pope. It was suspected that he sympathised with that party of liberal views, fast growing in influence, and who, under the inspiration of Mazzini, was threatening an Italian republic.

Compromised by this suspicion, the sindico of Val di Orno required to act with circumspection in the presence of the Pope’s officer.

The proposal for quarters in his house had come from the latter. It was made deferentially, and under some trifling excuse, but in a way to make refusal a delicate and difficult matter. The sindico was constrained to give consent; and the officer brought his luggage, along with his body servant, from the inn, leaving more room for his subalterns.

The sindico thought it strange, but said nothing. The explanation he gave to himself was not very consolatory. “To act as a spy upon me, I suppose. No doubt he has his orders from Antonelli.”

Though plausible to him who made it, the conjecture was not true. Captain Count Guardioli had received no orders of the kind; though, likely enough, he had given the Vatican some hints of the political proclivities of the sindico of Val di Orno.

His desire to share the hospitality of the magistrate’s mansion was a thought that came, after his entering the house on that first merely official visit. The cause was simple enough. He had caught sight of the sindico’s fair daughter as she was crossing one of the corridors, and Captain Count Guardioli was not the man to close his eyes against such attractions as Lucetta possessed.

Poor girl! To be assailed on every side—on one by a capo of bandits, on the other a captain of Papal soldiers. In truth, was she in danger? Fortunately for her peace of mind, she knew nothing of the designs of Corvino; though she was not long in discovering the inclinations of Captain Count Guardioli.

His countship was one of those men who believe themselves irresistible—a true Italian lady-killer, with a semi-piratical aspect, eyes filled with intellectual fire, teeth of snowy whiteness, and coal-black moustaches, turning spirally along his cheeks. A maiden must have her mind powerfully preoccupied who could withstand his amorous assaults. So was he accustomed to declare in the ears of his military associates—boasting his irresistibility.

No doubt, in the corrupt circles of the Apostolic city, he had had his successes. Count, captain, and cavalier, above all, an ardent pursuer of love adventures, it could scarce be otherwise.

At first sight of Lucetta Torreani the Captain Count experienced a sensation akin to ecstasy. It was like one who has discovered a treasure, hitherto unseen by the eyes of man. What a triumph there would be in revealing it! To obtain it could be no great difficulty. A village damsel, a simple country girl, she would not be likely to resist the fascinations of one who brought along with him the accomplishments of the court, backed by the prestige of title and position.

So reasoned Captain Count Guardioli; and, from that moment, commenced to lay siege to the heart of Lucetta Torreani. But, although from the city of Caesars, he could not say, as the first Caesar had done, “Veni—vidi—vici!” he came, and saw; but, after residing a week under the same roof with the “simple village damsel,” he was so far from having subdued her heart, that he had not made the slightest impression upon it; on the contrary, he had himself become enslaved by her charms. He had grown so enamoured of the beautiful Lucetta, that his passion was apparent to every one in the place, his own soldiers and subalterns included.

Blinded by his ill-starred idolatry, he had abandoned even the dignity of concealing it; and followed his ignis fatuus about—constantly forcing his company upon her in a manner that rendered him ridiculous.

All this the father saw with chagrin, but could not help it. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that Lucetta was safe, so far as her heart was concerned. And yet every one did not believe this. In the character of the sindico’s daughter there was nothing that could be called coquetry. It was rather an amiability, that hesitated about giving pain; and, influenced by this, she listened to the solicitations and flatteries of the Captain Count almost as if she relished them. It was only her father who thought otherwise. Perhaps he might be mistaken.

As usual, the soldiers did but little service—none at all that was of any avail towards clearing the country of the bandits. They made occasional excursions to the neighbouring valleys, where the outlaws had been heard of, but where they could never be found. In these expeditions they were never accompanied by their commandante. He could not tear himself away from the side of Lucetta Torreani, and the field duty was left to his lieutenants. By night the soldiers strayed about the town, got drunk in the liquor-shops, insulted the townsmen, took liberties with their women, and made themselves so generally disagreeable, that before a week had elapsed, the citizens of Val di Orno would have gladly exchanged their military guests for Corvino and his cut-throats.

About ten days after their entry into the place, there came a report, which by the townspeople was received with secret satisfaction, not the less from their having heard a whisper as to the cause. The soldiers were to be recalled to Rome, to protect the Holy See from the approaches of the Republic.

Even to that secluded spot had rumours reached, that a change was coming, and there were men in Val di Orno—where it might be supposed such an idea could scarce have penetrated—men ready to vociferate, “Eviva la Republica!” Its sindico would have been among the foremost to have raised this regenerating cry.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Improved Prison Fare.

A week elapsed from the day the brigands had got back to their mountain den. The plunder had all been appropriated by three or four, to whom fortune had been most favourable. These were already the richest individuals in the band; for amid the mountains of Italy, as in the towns of Homburg and Baden, the banker in the end is sure to sweep in the stakes of the outsiders. Dame Fortune may give luck for a run; but he who can afford to lose longest will outrun her in the end.

Among the winners was the brigand chief, and Cara Popetta put fresh rings upon her fingers, new brooches upon her breast, and additional chains around her neck.

Another expedition began to be talked about, to provide fresh stakes for the game of capo or croce. It was not to be either a grand or distant one—only a little spurt into one of the neighbouring valleys—the capture, if chance allowed it, of some petty proprietor, who might have ventured from the great city to have a look at his estates, or the seizure of such chattels as might be found in a country village. It was chiefly intended to fill up the time, until the return of that secret messenger who had been despatched to England, and from whose mission much was expected.

Their English confrère had given the brigands a hint of the great wealth of their captive’s father, and all were hopeful of receiving the grand ransom that had been demanded by the capo. With five thousand pounds (nearly thirty thousand pezzos), they might play for a month, and go to sleep for another, without troubling themselves about the soldiers in pursuit.

The little expedition, that was to form the interlude while this was being waited for, was soon organised—only about three-fourths of the band being permitted to take part in it. On this occasion the women were also left behind, Cara Popetta among the rest.

The captive, inside his cell, only knew of its having started by the greater tranquillity that reigned around the place. There were still quarrels occurring at short intervals; but these appeared to be between the women, whose voices, less sonorous, were not less energetic in their accents of anger, or more refined in their mode of expressing it. Like their short-cropped hair, their vocabulary appeared to have been shorn of all its elegance—both, perhaps, having been parted with at the same time. Had Henry Harding been in a mind for amusement, he might have found it in witnessing their disputes, that oft occurred right under his window. But he was not. On the contrary, it but disgusted him to think of the degradation to which the angel woman may reach, when once she has strayed from the path of virtue.

And many of these women were beautiful, or had been before they became vicious. No doubt more than one had been the fond hope of some doting parent, perhaps the stay of an aged mother, and the solace of her declining days, and who, having one day strayed beyond the confines of her native village, like the daughter of Pietro, returned “home sad and slow,” or never returned at all!

The heart of the young Englishman was lacerated as he reflected upon their fate. It was torture, when he thought of them in connection with Lucetta Torreani. To think of that pure, innocent girl—the glance he had had of her convinced him that she was this—becoming as one of those feminine fiends who daily jarred and warred outside his window! Surely it could never be. And yet what was there to hinder it? This was the inquiry that now occupied his attention, and filled him with dread forebodings.

Since the departure of the expedition a ray of hope had shone into his cell. It was bright as the sunbeam that there entered. For the mind of the captive, quickened by captivity, like a drowning man, will catch even at straws; and one seemed to offer itself to the imprisoned artist.

In the first place, he perceived that there was a chance of corrupting his gaoler. This was no longer the morose, taciturn fellow, who had hitherto attended upon him, but one who, if not cheerful, was at least talkative. On hearing his voice the prisoner could at once recognise it as that of one of the brigands who had held conversation under his window. It was the one whose sentiments showed him the less hardened of the two, and whom the other had called Tommaso. The captive fancied something might be done with this man. From what he had heard him say, Tommaso did not appear altogether dead to the dictates of humanity. True, he had made confession to having spent some time in a Papal prison. But many a martyr had done that—political and otherwise. The worst against him was his being where he now was; but this might have come from a like cause.

So reflected Henry Harding; and the more did he think of it, after his new gaoler had held converse with him. But he had found something else to reflect upon, also of a hopeful character. The breakfast brought by Tommaso—which was his first meal after the departure of the band—was altogether different from those of former days. Instead of the macaroni pasta, often unseasoned and insipid, there were broiled mutton, sausages, confetti, and a bottle of rosolio!

“Who sent these delicacies?” was the interrogatory of him who received them. He did not put it until after eating his dinner, which in a like way differed from the dinners of previous days. Then he asked the question of his new attendant.

“La signora,” was the answer of Tommaso, speaking in such a courteous tone, that but for the small chamber and the absence of furniture the captive might have fancied himself in an hotel, and especially cared for by one of its waiters.

Throughout the day did this solicitude show itself; and at night the signora herself brought him his supper, without either the intervention or attendance of Tommaso. Shortly after the sun had gone down the young Englishman started at seeing a woman make her way inside his cell; for it was an apparition strange as unexpected.

The small chamber in which he was imprisoned was but the adjunct of a larger apartment—a sort of storeroom, where the brigands kept the bulkier articles of their plunder, as also provisions. In this last was a large window, through which the moon was shining; and it was only on the door of his cell being thrown open that he perceived his feminine visitor. Though she was but dimly seen in the borrowed light of the outer chamber, he could tell that it was a woman.

Who was she?

Only for a second was he in doubt; her large form, as she stood outlined in the doorway, as also the drapery of her dress, told him it was the wife of the chief. He had observed that only she, of all the women belonging to the band, affected female habiliments.

Yes, his visitor was Cara Popetta. He wondered what she could want with him; all the more as she came stealing in apparently in fear of being watched, or followed by some one outside. She had noiselessly opened the outer door, as noiselessly closed it behind her, and in the same way opened and closed that communicating with his cell.

End of Volume One.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Popetta.

The prisoner had started up, and was standing in the centre of his cell.

“Don’t be alarmed, Signor Inglese,” said his strange visitor, in a half whisper.

While speaking she had groped her way through the gloom, and was now so near that he felt her breath upon his cheek, while her hand was laid gently upon his shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked, starting at her touch, and slightly recoiling, though not through fear.

“Do not be alarmed,” she said soothingly: “I am not a man come to do you an injury. Only a woman. It is I, Popetta,—you remember me?”

“I do, signora; you are the wife of the chief Corvino.”

“Wife! Ah! if you’d said slave, it would be nearer the truth. No matter about that. It can signify nothing to you.”

A sigh, distinctly audible in the still darkness, accompanied the speech.

The captive remained silent, wondering what was to come next. She had taken her hand from off his shoulder, or rather it had slipped from it as he drew back.

“You’ll be surprised at my coming here,” she continued, speaking in the tongue and tone of a lady. “From what you have seen you will think there can be no compassion in a heart like mine. You may well think so.”

“No, no,” asseverated the captive, now really feeling surprise; “no doubt, you have been unfortunate.”

“That’s true,” she hurriedly rejoined, as if not caring to dwell upon some recollection called up by his speech. “Signore, I am here, not to talk of the past—my past—but of your future.”

“Mine!”

“Yes, yours. Oh, it is fearful!”

“In what way fearful?” asked the young Englishman. “Surely, I shall soon be set free? Why need I care for a few days, or even weeks, of imprisonment?”

“Caro signore, you deceive yourself! It is not imprisonment, though you may find that hard enough; and harder still when he comes back again—brute that he is!”

Strange language for a wife to use towards her husband, thought Henry Harding.

“Yes, harder,” continued she, “if the letter you have written receive no response—I mean if it bring no ransom. Tell me, signore, what did you say in that letter? Tell me all.”

“I thought you were acquainted with its contents. It was dictated in your hearing, and penned in your presence.”

“I know, I know; but was that all? I saw that you were unwilling to sign it. You had a reason?”

“I had.”

“Some difference with your family? You are not friends with your father—am I right?”

“Something of that,” answered the young Englishman, knowing no reason why he should conceal a quarrel—so far away from those whom it might concern.

“I thought so,” said the woman. “And this,” she continued, changing her tone to one of greater earnestness, “this quarrel may prevent your father from sending the riscatta.”

“Possibly it may.”

“Possibly it may! You treat the matter lightly; you have done so all along. I have noticed it. One cannot help admiring your courage; I cannot. Perhaps that is why I am here.”

Again there was something like a sigh, which added to the surprise of the captive, something of embarrassment.

“You know not,” continued Popetta, “the fate that is before you if the riscatta should not come.”

“What fate, signora?”

“As I have said, a fearful one.”

“Tell me what it is. By your words it seems to be already determined upon.”

“It is determined—always determined. It is the decree of Corvino.”

“Explain yourself, signora.”

“First, your ears will be cut off; they will be enclosed in a letter, and sent to your father. The letter will be a renewed demand for money. And then—”

“Then?” demanded the captive, with some impatience—for the first time giving credence to the threat that had already been twice spoken by Corvino himself.

“If the money be not sent, you will be still further mutilated.”

“How?”

“Signore, I cannot tell you. There are many ways. I may not mention them. Better for you if your father’s answer leave no hope of a ransom. You would then escape torture, by being immediately shot!”

“Surely, signora, you are jesting with me?”

“Jesting! Ah! it is no jest. I have witnessed it once—twice—often. It is the invariable custom among these wretches with whom I have the misfortune to be associated. It is one of their laws; and will be carried out to a certainty!”

“You come to me as a friend?” inquired the captive, as if to test the sincerity of his visitor.

“I do! You may believe me.”

“You have some advice to give me, signora? What is it?”

“It is that you should write again—write to your friends. You must have some friends—you the son of a great galantuomo, as your countryman, Ricardo, tells us you are. Write to these friends—tell them to see your father, and urge upon him the necessity of sending the ransom demanded. It is your only chance of escaping from the fate I have told you of—that is, from being fearfully mutilated, first tortured and then shot.”

“Surely, there is another?” said the captive, for the first time speaking in—a tone of appeal to his strange counsellor.

“Another! If you think so, tell me what it is.”

“Your favour, signora!”

“How?”

“You can find me the means of escaping from this prison.”

“Ah! that is just possible, but not so easy. If I succeeded, it could only be by giving my life for yours! Would you wish me to do that, signore?”

“No—no!”

“Such a sacrifice would be certain. You know not how I am watched. ’Tis only by stealth, and a bribe to Tommaso, I’ve been able to enter here. Corvino’s jealousy—ah, Signor Inglese, I have been deemed handsome!—you may not think so.”

Her hand once more rested on the young Englishman’s shoulder—once more to be repelled, but this time with greater gentleness. He feared to wound her self-esteem, and stir the tigress that slumbered in that darkened Italian heart. He made reply as he best could, without committing himself.

“Even were he to know of this interview,” she continued, still speaking of Corvino, “by the law of our band my life would be forfeited. You see that I am ready to serve you!”

“You would have me write, then? How is it to be done? Can a letter be sent?”

“Leave that to me. Here are some sheets of paper, ink, and a pen. I have brought them with me. You can have no light now; I dare not give it you. Corvino’s captives must not be made too comfortable—else they would be less urgent for their friends to set them free. When the morning sun shines in through your window, then write. Tommaso will bring you your breakfast, and take your letter in exchange. It will be my care to see that it be sent.”

“Oh, thanks, signora!” exclaimed the grateful captive, seizing hold of the offered gift with an eagerness he had not hitherto shown. A new idea had come suddenly into his mind. “A thousand thanks!” he repeated; “I shall do as you say.”

“Buono notte!” said the brigandess, putting the writing materials into his hand, at the same time pressing it with a fervour that betrayed something more than pity. “Buono notte, galantuomo!” she added. “Sleep without fear. If it should come to that, you may command even the life of her you have heard called Cara Popetta.”

Henry Harding was but too happy when she permitted him to disengage himself from her clasp; which, though scarce understood, filled him with a feeling somewhat akin to repulsion. He was happier still, when she stole silently out of his cell, and he heard the door, closing behind her.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Writing under Difficulties.

As soon as the captive became convinced that his visitor was gone for good, he lay down upon the fern leaves and gave way to profound reflection—the subject, of course, being what had just passed between him and Popetta. What could be her motive for the advice thus voluntarily given? Was it a trap to betray him? It could hardly bear this construction—for what was there to betray? He was already in the power of the bandits, for life as for death. What more could they want?

“Ah!” thought he, “I see through it now! After all, it may be Corvino’s doing. He may have put her up to this, to make more sure of getting the money for my ransom. He thinks that her counsel, given in this side way, will terrify me, and make me write in stronger terms to my father.”

But the answer to these self-asked questions did not quite satisfy him. What need was there for any scheme of the kind on the part of the bandit chief? He had dictated the letter sent. If stronger terms had seemed necessary, he would have insisted on their insertion. The former conjecture fell through.

Then, supposing Popetta’s counsel to him had been loyal, what could be her motive?

Henry Harding was yet young, and but little experienced in the ways of woman’s heart. He could count but one experience, and that of a different kind. Only by some ill-understood whisperings of Nature was he guided to a suspicion of what this strange woman meant; and he cared not to continue the reflection.

For all that he eagerly seized at her suggestion. It promised to assist him in a design he had already half conceived, though without much prospect of being able to carry it into execution. It was to write to Luigi Torreani in London, and warn him of the peril in which his sister was placed. He could write to his own father all the same, and in more pressing terms—as he had been counselled; for he had now become sensible of a dread impending danger.

The behaviour of the brigands—which for more than a week he had been witnessing—had produced upon him a serious impression—altogether effacing that imbibed by contemplating the stage bandit of picturesque habiliments and courteous carriage. However he might have felt about the representative robber looking at him from the stall of a theatre, he could see there would be no trifling with the real personage, when contemplated by one completely in his power upon the summit of an Italian mountain. Everything around proclaimed the seriousness of his situation. It had become too critical for him to affect further indifference, or feel in any way contented. No longer able to sleep, he watched anxiously for the light of morning.

No sooner did daybreak show itself through the window of his cell, than he spread out the paper with which Popetta had provided him, and commenced writing his letters. His table was the stone-paved floor; his chair the same. He wrote lying flat along the flags. There were two separate epistles. When finished they were as follows—the first to his father:—

“Dear Father,—

“By this time, I presume, you will have received a letter, which I wrote to you eight days ago, and which I have reason to believe was carried to you by special messenger. I have no doubt that its contents will have surprised and perhaps pained you. It was an appeal which, I must confess, I was very little inclined to make; but it was done at the dictation of a brigand, with a pistol held to my head, so there was no help for it. I am writing this one under different circumstances—on the floor of the cell where I am imprisoned; and without being overlooked by my jailers. I can add little to what I have said before—only that I am not now speaking under compulsion. From what I’ve lately learnt, I can assure you that my former communication—though I thought so at the time—contained no idle words. The threat made in it by the brigand chief, he means most surely to execute; and if the sum named be not sent to him, he will. The first part of his performance is to be the cropping off my ears, and forwarding them to your address. The latter he has learned from a strange source, of which I may as well inform you—from our old discharged gamekeeper, Doggy Dick, who happens to be one of his band. How the scoundrel came to be here, I cannot tell. I only know that he is here; and the most hostile to me of the whole fraternity. He remembers the thrashing I gave him, and takes care to keep me constantly in mind of it.

“Now, dear father, I have told you all about how I am situated; and if you deem it worth while to extract your unworthy son from his dangerous dilemma, send on the money. You may think 5,000 pounds rather a high figure to pay for such a life as mine. So do I; but unfortunately I am not permitted to name my own price. If it appear too much, perhaps you would not object to send the 1,000 pounds you promised I should have at your death. Then I shall make the best bargain I can with the rogues who’ve got me in pawn.

“Hoping to hear from you by return of post—this, I believe, is to go by post—I remain your closely guarded son,—

“Henry Harding.

“To General Harding,

“Beechwood Park, Bucks, England.”

Such was the letter from Henry Harding to his father. That to his friend Luigi was shorter, though perhaps more impressive in its suggestions. It ran as follows:—

“Dear Luigi,

“I have only time to say three words to you. I am a prisoner to a band of brigands—the band of Corvino, of whom, if I mistake not, I have heard you speak. The place is in the Neapolitan mountains, about forty miles from Rome, and twenty from your native town. I saw your sister while on my way through it as a captive. I did not know her at the time; but I have since learnt something I almost hesitate to tell you. It must be told, however; and it is for that I write you this letter. Lucetta is in danger—the brigand chief has designs upon her! I learnt it by a conversation between two of the band, whom I chanced to overhear. I need not add more. You will best know how to act; and there is no time to be lost. God speed and guide you!

“Yours,

“Henry Harding.”

The letters were ready for the post, long before Tommaso brought in the breakfast.

Without saying a word he slipped them into the breast pocket of his coat, and carried them away with him.

That same night they were on board the mail steamer on the way from Civita Vecchia to Marseilles.

Chapter Thirty Six.

A Short Trial.

The brigands returned from their raid two days earlier than they had been expected.

The captive became aware of their arrival by the increased clamour outside. On peering through his cell window, he saw the men who had been upon the expedition. They were all in ill-humour, looking sulky, and cursing beyond their usual quantity. They had been unsuccessful in the raid—having found soldiers in the district into which it had been made. They had, moreover, heard a rumour, that a combined force, both from the Roman and Neapolitan territory, was marching upon their mountain retreat.

The captive could hear them talking of treason. He caught sight of Corvino in front of his window. Something special seemed to have enraged the chief. He was swearing at Popetta, and calling her foul names in presence of his followers.

One of the other women—a sort of rival in the regards of the ruffian—was standing by, and appearing to act as instigator. She talked as if she was bringing some accusation against the sposa of the capo.

The prisoner could see that Popetta was in trouble, though he had no clue to the cause. They talked so fast—several clamouring at the same time—that it was impossible for him, with his slight knowledge of Italian, to make out much of what was said.

Soon the colloquy assumed a different phase, Corvino separating from the crowd, and, along with two or three others, coming towards the cell. In an instant the door was dashed open, and the brigand chief stepped inside the dismal apartment.

“So, signore,” he cried, hissing the words through his teeth, “I understand you’ve been very comfortable during my absence—plenty to eat and drink—rocatti, confetti, cordials—the best of everything! Ah! and a companion, too, in your solitude! No doubt, a pleasant companion? I hope you both enjoyed yourselves. Ha, ha, ha!”

The laugh fell upon the ears of the captive with a fearful significance. It boded evil either to himself, or Popetta, or both.

“May I ask what do you mean, Captain Corvino?” coolly inquired the young Englishman.

“Oh! how innocent you are, my beardless lamb—my smooth-faced Adonis. What do I mean? Ha, ha, ha!”

And again the cell resounded with his fierce, exultant laughter.

“Cospetto!” cried the chief, suddenly changing tone, as his eye fell upon a white object lying in the corner of the cell; “what’s this? Una lettera! And carta bianca! And here, pen and ink! So, so, signore! you’ve been carrying on a correspondence? Bring him out to the light!” he vociferated. “Bring everything!”

And with a fierce oath he rushed into the open air, one of his followers dragging the captive after him. Another carried the sheet of paper—surplus of the supply left by Popetta—as also the ink-horn and pen.

The whole band had by this time gathered upon the ground.

“Comrades!” cried the capo, “there’s been treason in our absence. See what we’ve found. Paper, pen, and ink, in the cell of our prisoner. And, look—on his fingers the stain! He’s been writing letters! What could they have been about but to betray us? Examine him. See if they be still upon his person!”

The search was instantly made—extending to every pocket of the prisoner’s dress, every fold where a letter might be concealed. One was brought to light, but evidently not of recent writing. It was the letter of introduction to the father of Luigi Torreani.

“To whom is it addressed?” asked the chief, snatching it from the hands of his satellite.

“Diavolo!” he exclaimed, on reading the superscription. “Here’s a correspondence unexpected!”

Without further delay he pulled the epistle out of its envelope, and commenced making himself master of the contents. He did not communicate them to the bystanders; but the expression that passed over his countenance told them that the letter contained something that strangely interested him. It was like the grim smile of the tiger, who feels that the prey has been already secured, and lies helpless within reach of his claws.

“So, signore!” he exclaimed, once more bending his eyes upon the young Englishman. “You told me you had no friends in Italy. Una menzogna that was. Rich friends you have—powerful friends. The chief magistrate of a town, with,” he satirically whispered, placing his lips close to the captive’s ear, “with a very pretty daughter! What a pity you did not have an opportunity to present your letter of introduction. Never mind; you may make her acquaintance yet—soon, perhaps, and here among the mountains. That will be all the more romantic, signor pittore.”

The whispered insinuation, as also the satirical tone in which it was made, passed like a poisoned shaft through the heart of Henry Harding. Every hour, since the first of his captivity, his interest conceived for the sister of Luigi Torreani had been growing stronger, while that hitherto felt for Belle Mainwaring had passed altogether out of his mind.

Stung by the speeches of the brigand, he made no reply. Anything he could have said would have served no purpose, even had there been opportunity to say it. But there was not. The tormentor thought not of listening to any response from his prisoner; and, without waiting for one, he continued:—

“Compagnos!” cried he, addressing himself to his band, “you have here before you the proofs of treason. No wonder the soldiers are gathering upon our track. It remains for you to discover who have been the traitors.”

“Yes, yes!” cried a score of voices. “The traitors! Who are they? Let us know that, and we’ll settle the score with them!”

“Our prisoner here,” continued the chief, “has written a letter—as you can all see for yourselves. It has been despatched, too: since it is not upon his person. To whom has it been sent? Who carried it? Who supplied him with pen, ink, and paper? These are the questions to be considered.”

“Who was left to keep guard over him?” inquired one of the men.

“Tommaso!” answered several.

“Where is Tommaso?” shouted a score of voices.

“I am here!” responded the brigand who bore that name.

“Answer us then. Did you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Furnish the writing materials to our prisoner?”

“No,” firmly replied Tommaso.

“You need not waste your time questioning him,” interposed a voice, recognised as that of Popetta. “It was I who furnished them.”

“Yes,” said the rival brigandess, speaking aside to several members of the band, “not only found them, but carried them to the cell herself.”

“Tutti!” cried the chief, in a voice of thunder, that stilled the murmurs produced by this communication. “For what purpose did you supply them, Cara Popetta?”

“For the common good,” replied the woman, seemingly with the intent to give justification for what she had done.

“How?” shouted a score of voices.

“Cospetto!” exclaimed the accused, “the thing is simple enough.”

“Explain it! Explain it!”

“Buono! buono! Listen, and I will. Well, like yourselves, I want to procure the riscatta. I didn’t think the Inglese would get it for us. The letter directed by him wasn’t strong enough. While you were gone, having nothing else to think of, I prevailed upon the galantuomo to write another. What harm was there in that?”