Fifth, Uncle Moses, with his razor.
Every one held his weapon in a grasp which the excitement of the moment had rendered convulsive. Every eye was fixed upon the hatchway above, which lay concealed in the gloom. Overhead they heard, whispering, but no movement whatever.
"Let's jump out of the windows and run," whispered Bob, hurriedly.
"No," said Frank, "they are watching below—no use."
But further remarks were prevented by the sudden glimmer of a light above. It was a light in the attic, not very bright, yet sufficiently so to show the opening through which their enemies were about to come.
The brigands had lighted a lamp!
The excitement grew stronger.
Voices arose, low and hushed.
Then footsteps!
The light above the opening grew brighter!
It was an awful moment!
The suspense was terrible!
Yet in the midst of that suspense they had no thought of surrender. In fact, they did not think that surrender would be possible. These bloody-minded miscreants would show no quarter; and the besieged party felt the task imposed upon them of selling their lives as dearly as possible. And so it was, that as the brigands came nearer to the opening,—
Frank grasped his knife more firmly.
Bob do. " chair do.
David do. " knife do.
Clive do. " chair do.
While Uncle Moses held up his razor in such a way, that the first brigand who descended should fall full upon its keen edge.
The light grew brighter over the opening. The shuffling footsteps drew nearer. Then there was a pause, and low whispers arose. The brigands were immediately above them. The light shone down into the room.
The suspense was now intolerable. It was Frank who broke the silence.
"Who's there?" he cried in a loud, strong, stern, menacing voice, in which there was not the slightest tremor.
At this the whispering above ceased. Everything was perfectly still.
"WHO'S THERE?" cried Frank a second time, in a louder, stronger, sterner, and more menacing voice.
No answer.
All was still.
What did it mean?
"WHO'S THERE?" cried Frank a third time, in the loudest, strongest, sternest, and most menacing tone that he could compass, "SPEAK, OR I'LL FIRE!!!!!!!!!"
This tremendous threat could not have been carried out, of course, with the knives, chairs, and razor of the party below; but at any rate it brought a reply.
"Alla raight!" cried a voice. "O, yais. It's onalee me. Alla safe. Come up here to get some straps for de vettura. Alla raight. I haf joosta come back from Velletre. Haf brot de oder vettura. Scusa de interruption, but haf to-get de straps; dey up here. Alla raight!"
It was the voice of their driver!
At the first sound of that voice there was an instantaneous and immense revulsion of feeling. The dark terror of a moment before was suddenly transformed to an absurdity. They had been making fools of themselves. They felt this very keenly. The chairs were put quietly upon the floor; the knives were pocketed very stealthily; and Uncle Moses' razor was slipped hurriedly into the breast pocket of his coat.
"O!" said-Frank, trying to speak in an easy, careless, matter-of-fact tone. "We didn't know. Shall we leave in the morning?"
"O, yais. Alla r-r-raight," said the driver.
Soon after the party descended the ladder, and took it away. The boys and Uncle Moses made no remark whatever. They all crept silently, and rather sheepishly, back to their beds, feeling very much ashamed of themselves.
And yet there was no reason for shame, for to them the danger seemed real; and believing it to be real, they had not shrunk, but had faced it with very commendable pluck.
This was the end of their troubles on the road. For the remainder of that night they slept soundly. In the morning they awaked refreshed, and found a good breakfast waiting for them. They found also another carriage, in which they entered and resumed their journey.
A beautiful Country.—Magnificent Scenery.—The Approach to Albano.—Enthusiasm of the Boys.—Archaeology versus Appetite.—The Separation of the Boys.—The Story of the Alton Lake and the ancient subterranean Channel.
As they rolled along the road on this last stage of their eventful journey, they were all in the highest spirits. On to Rome! was the watchword. It was a glorious day; the sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky; the air was pure, and brilliant, and genial, and it also had such a wonderful transparency that distant objects seemed much nearer from the distinctness with which their outlines were revealed. The road was a magnificent one,—broad, well paved, well graded,—and though for some miles it was steadily ascending, yet the ascent was made by such an easy slope, that it was really imperceptible; and they bowled along as easily and as merrily as if on level ground. Moreover, the scenery around was of the most attractive character. They were among the mountains; and though there were no snow-clad summits, and no lofty peaks lost amid the clouds, still the lowering forms that appeared on every side were full of grandeur and sublimity. Amid these the road wound, and, at every new turn some fresh scene of beauty or of magnificence was disclosed to their admiring eyes. Now it was a sequestered valley, with a streamlet running through it, and the green of its surface diversified by one or two white cottages, or the darker hue of olive groves and vineyards; again it was some little hamlet far up the sloping mountain-side; again some mouldering tower would appear, perched upon some commanding and almost inaccessible eminence—the remains of a feudal castle, the monument of lawless power overthrown forever. Sometimes they would pass through the street of a town, and have a fresh opportunity of contrasting the lazy and easy-going life of Italy with the busy, energetic, restless, and stirring life of their own far-distant America.
On to Rome!
This day was to land them in the "Eternal City;" and though they enjoyed the drive, still they were eager to have it over, and to find themselves in that place which was once the centre of the world's rule, and continued to be so for so many ages. Their impatience to reach their destination was not, however, excessive, and did not at all prevent them from enjoying to the utmost the journey so long as it lasted. Uncle Moses was the only exception. He was most eager to have it over, and reach some place of rest. True, no accident had happened; but he had gone through enough tribulation, both in body and in mind, to furnish the working, material for a dozen very serious accidents indeed; and the general effect produced upon him was precisely what might have resulted from a really perilous journey.
At length they arrived at the town of Albano, where they intended to remain two hours, and afterwards resume their journey. The town stood on the side of a hill, and the hotel at which they drew up was so situated that it commanded a boundless view.
Few places cherish a stronger local pride than Albano. Tradition identifies this town with no less a place than Alba Longa, so famous in early Roman legends; for though, according to the old accounts, Tullus Hostilius destroyed the city proper of Alba Longa, yet afterwards another town grew on its site, and all around rose up the splendid villas of the Roman nobility. Here, too, Tiberius and Domitian had palaces, where they sought relaxation from the cares of empire in a characteristic way.
On reaching this place, their first care was to order dinner, and then, as there would be some time taken up in preparation for that meal, they looked about for some mode of pastime. The landlord recommended to them a visit to a convent at the top of the hill. He informed them that it stood on the site of a famous temple, and that it was visited every day by large numbers of travellers. On, referring to their guide-book, the boys learned that the temple referred to by the landlord was that of the Latian Jupiter.
As they had nothing else to do, they set out for the convent, and soon reached it. Arriving there, they found spread out before them a view which surpassed anything that they had ever seen in their lives. Far down beneath them descended the declivity of the Alban hill, till it terminated in the Roman Campagna. Then, far away before their eyes it spread for many a mile, till it was terminated by a long blue line, which it needed not the explanation of the monk at their elbow to recognize as the Mediterranean; and this blue line of distant sea spread far away, till it terminated in a projecting promontory, which their guide told them was the Cape of Terracina. But their attention was arrested by an object which was much nearer than this. Through that gray Campagna,—whose gray hue, the result of waste and barrenness, seemed also to mark its hoary age,—through this there ran a silver thread, with many a winding to and fro, now coming full into view, and gleaming in the sun, now retreating, till it was lost to sight.
"What is this?" asked David.
"The Tiber!" said the monk.
At the mention of this august historic name, a thrill involuntarily passed through them. The Tiber! What associations clustered around that word!
Along this silver thread their eyes wandered, till at length it was lost for a time in a dark, irregular mass of something. The atmosphere just now had grown slightly hazy in this direction, so that they could not make out what this was, exactly; whether a hill, or a grove, or a town; but it looked most like a town, and the irregularities and projections seemed like towers and domes. Prominent among these projections was one larger mass, which rose up above all the others, and formed the chief feature in that indistinct mass.
"What is all that?" asked David, in a hesitating way, like one who suspects the truth, but does not feel at all sure about it.
"Dat," said the guide, "dat is Rome; and dat black mass dat you see is de Church of St. Peter's. It's not clear to-day—some time we can see it all plain."
At this the boys said nothing, but stood in silence, looking upon the scene. It was one which might have stirred the souls of even the least emotional, and among this little company there were two, at least, who were quick to kindle into enthusiasm at the presence of anything connected with the storied past. These were David and Clive, who each, though from different causes, now felt himself profoundly moved by this spectacle. David's enthusiasm was that of a scholar; Clive's was that of a poet; yet each was keen in his susceptibility, and eloquent in the expression of his feelings.
As for Frank and Bob, they were far less demonstrative; and though they had plenty of enthusiasm of their own, yet it was not often excited very violently by either poetic feeling or classical reminiscences. The scene before them certainly moved their feelings also, on the present occasion; but they were not in the habit of indulging in exclamatory language, and so they looked on in quiet appreciation, without saying anything.
Not so the other two, David and Clive. Each burst forth in his own way.
"How magnificent!" cried Clive. "What a boundless scene! How fortunate we are to have our first view of Rome! I don't believe there is such another sight in all the world. But what a scene must have appeared from these heights when Rome was in its glory!"
"Yes," said David, chiming in, "such a place doesn't exist anywhere else in all the world. It's the cradle of history, and modern civilization. Here is where the mighty Roman empire began. There is the Rome of the kings and the consuls; and down there is the arena, where they fought out that long battle that arranged the course of future ages."
"Besides," said Clive; "there is the scene of all the latter part of the Aeneid, and of all the immortal legends that arose out of the early growth of Rome. What a place this would be to read Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome!—
"Hail to the great asylum!Hail to the hill-tops seven!Hail to the fire that burns for aye!And the shields that fell from heaven!"
At this moment Frank's attention was attracted to a place not very far away, where the sheen of some silver water flashed forth from amid the dark green hue of the surrounding hills.
"What is that?" he asked of the guide. "It looks like a lake."
"It is de Alban Lake."
"The Alban Lake!" cried David, in a fresh transport of enthusiasm; "the Alban Lake! What, the lake that the Romans drained at the siege of Veii?"
"It is de same," said the guide.
"Is it really? and is the canal or tunnel still in existence?
"It is."
"Is it far away?"
"Not ver far."
"Boys, we must go there. It is the greatest curiosity of the country about here."
"Well," said Frank, "I'm in for any curiosity. But how long will it take for us to see it?"
"It will take more dan one hour," said the guide.
"More than an hour!" said Frank. "Hm—that won't do—we've got to go back at once to get our dinner. It's ready by this time, and then we must leave for Rome."
"Well, it's a great pity," said David, sadly. "I think I should be willing to go without my dinner, to see that wonderful tunnel."
"I shouldn't, then," said Frank, "not for all the tunnels in the world."
"Nor should I," said Bob.
"But what a magnificent effect the lake has when embraced in our view!" said Clive. "How finely is the description in Childe Harold adapted to this scene—
'And near, Albano's scarce divided wavesShine from a sister valley; and afarThe Tiber winds, and the broad ocean lavesThe Latian coast, where sprung the Epic war,"Arms and the man," whose reascending starRose o'er an empire; but beneath thy rightFully reposed from Rome; and where yon barOf girdling mountains intercepts thy sight,The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's delight.'
"Clive," said David, who had waited patiently for him to finish his poetical quotation, "you'll come—won't you?"
"Come? Come where?"
"Why, I want to visit the tunnel of the Alban Lake, and it'll take an hour to do it. If we go, we'll lose our dinner. What do you say? You don't think a dinner's the most important thing in the world?"
"Of course not," said Clive. "Besides, we can pick up some scraps when we return, and eat them in the carriage."
"That's right," said David. "Boys," he continued, appealing toFrank and Bob, "you'd better come."
"What! and lose our dinners?" cried Frank, scornfully. "Catch us at it. No. We require more substantial food than poetry and old ruins. Don't we, Bob?"
"Certainly," said Bob. "For my part poetry and old ruins never were in my line. As for 'Arms and the man' and the 'Sabine farm,' why, all I can say is, I always hated them. I detested Virgil, and Horace, and Cicero, and the whole lot of them, at school; and why I should turn round now, and pretend to like them, I don't know, I'm sure. Horace and Virgil, indeed! Bother Horace and Virgil, I say."
At such flippancy as this both David and Clive looked too much pained to reply. They turned away in silence, and spoke to the guide.
"So you're not coming back to dinner?" said Frank.
"No," said David; "we want to see that tunnel."
"Well, you'll lose your dinner; that's all."
"Of course. We don't care."
"At any rate, don't go and forget about us. We want to leave, for Rome after dinner, and you ought to be back in one hour, at the very farthest."
"O, yes; the guide says it'll only take an hour. We don't intend to spend any more time there than we can help."
"Well, I think you ought to come back," said Bob; "you know very well how poor old Uncle Moses will fidget and worry about you."
"O, no; it's all right. Tell him that the guide is with us, you know."
After a few more words, Frank and Bob, who were ravenously hungry, hurried back to the hotel, and David and Clive, who were also, to tell the truth, equally hungry, resisted their appetites as well as they were able, and accompanied their guide to the Lake Albano.
Most boys are familiar with the story of the Alban Lake; but for the benefit of those who may not have heard of it, or who, having heard, have forgotten, it may be as well to give a brief account of the famous tunnel, which was so very attractive to Clive and David.
The city of Veii had been besieged for nine years, without success, by the Romans; and at length, in the tenth year, a great prodigy occurred, in the shape of the sudden rising of the waters of the Alban Lake to an extraordinary height, without any apparent cause. The Romans, in their bewilderment, sent a messenger to the oracle of Delphi to inquire about it. Before this messenger returned, they also captured a Verentine priest, who informed them that there were certain oracular books in Veii, which declared that Veii could never perish unless the waters of the Alban Lake should reach the sea. Not long afterwards the messenger returned from Delphi, who brought back an answer from the oracle at that place to the same effect. Upon this, the Romans resolved to draw off the waters of the lake so as to let them flow to the sea. Such an undertaking was one of the most laborious kind, especially in an age like that; but the Romans entered upon it, and worked at it with that extraordinary tenacity of purpose which always distinguished them. It was necessary to cut a tunnel through the mountain, through rock of the hardest possible description. But the same age had seen the excavation of other subterranean passages far larger than this, and in the same country, preeminently the Grotto of Posilipo, at Naples, and that of the Cumaean Sibyl, and at length it was accomplished. The people of Veii heard of it, and were filled with alarm. Ambassadors were sent to Rome, with the hope of inducing the Romans to come to some other terms less severe than the surrender of the city; but they were disappointed, and according to the legend, could only comfort themselves by announcing to the Romans a prophecy in the oracular books of Veii, to the effect that, if this siege should be carried through to the capture of the city, Rome itself should be taken by the Gauls soon after. This prophecy, however, had no effect. whatever upon the stern resolution of the Romans.
The subterranean passage to the lake was also supplemented by another, which led to the citadel of Veii. As the time approached for the final assault, the Roman Senate invited all the Roman people to participate in it, and promised them a share of the booty. This promise induced a vast multitude, old and young, to go there. The time at last came. The water of the Alban Lake was let out into the fields, and the party that entered the subterranean passage to the citadel were led by Camillus, while, at the same time, a general assault was made upon the walls by the rest of the army. At that moment the king of Veii happened to be sacrificing in the Temple of Juno, which was in the citadel, and Camillus, with his Romans, were immediately beneath, close enough to hear what he said. It happened that the attendant priest declared that whoever should bring the goddess her share of the victim should conquer. Camillus heard the words, and at once they burst forth upon the astonished Veientans, seized upon the altar, offered the sacrifice, and thus performed what had been declared to be the conditions of victory. After this they held the citadel, and sent a detachment to open the gates to the assaulting army outside. Thus Veil fell; and this is the legend which, like many others belonging to early Roman times, is more full of poetry than of truth.
The tunnel still remains, and is one of the chief curiosities left from ancient times. It is about two miles long, six feet high, and three and a half feet wide.
To this place the guide led David and Clive, and entertained them on the way with the account of its origin, which accorded in most particulars with that which is given above; and though both of the boys were familiar with the story, yet it was not unpleasant to hear it again, told by one who lived in the neighborhood of the place, and had passed his life amid these scenes. It seemed to them to give a certain degree of authenticity to the old legend.
There was not much to see, except an opening in the rock, the mouth of the tunnel, with rushes, and mosses, and grasses, and shrubbery growing around it. Having seen it, they were satisfied, and turned to go back to the hotel. After a short distance, the guide showed them where there was a path turning off through the fields, which formed a short cut back. Upon this they paid him for his trouble, and he went back to the convent, while they went along the path by which he had directed them.
The lonely Path.—The sequestered Vale.—The old House.—A FeudalCastle.—A baronial Windmill.—A mysterious Sound.—A terribleDiscovery.—At Bay.—The Wild Beasts Lair!—What is It!—A greatBore!
The path by which Clive and David returned to the hotel, went down a slope of the hill into a valley, and led over a second hill, beyond which was Albano. There were no houses visible, for the town was hidden by the hill, except, of course, the convent, which, from its conspicuous position, was never out of sight. As they descended into the valley, they came to a grove of olive trees; and beyond this there was a ruined edifice, built of stone, and apparently long since deserted. It was two stories in height, but the stories were high, and it looked as though it might once have been used, for a tower of some sort. The attention of both of the boys was at once arrested by it, and they stood and looked at it for some time.
"I wonder what it has been," said David.
"No doubt," said Clive, "it is the ruin of some mediaeval castle."
"It does not have much of the look of a castle."
"Why not?"
"O, why, there are no architectural features in it; no battlements; it has, in fact, a rather modern air."
"Not a bit of it," said Clive. "See those old stones grown over with moss; and look at the ivy."
"Yes, but look at the windows. They didn't have such large windows in castles, you know."
"Yes, but these windows were probably made afterwards. The place was once a castle; but at length, of course it became deserted, and began to fall to ruins. Then somebody fixed it tip for a dwelling-house, and made these windows in the walls."
"Well, that's not improbable."
"Not improbable! Why, I'm sure it's very natural. Look how thick the walls are!"
"They do seem pretty thick."
"O, they are real castle walls; there's no doubt at all about that," said Clive, in a positive tone. "Why, they are three feet thick, at least. And, you see, there are signs of an additional story having been above it."
"Yes, I dare say," said David, looking up. "The edges there look ragged, as though some upper portion has been knocked off."
"And I dare say it's been a great place for brigands," said Clive.
"O, bother brigands," said David. "For my part, I begin to think not only that there are no brigands now, but even that there never have been any such people at all.
"Well, I won't go as far as that," said Clive, "but I certainly begin to have my doubts about them."
"They're all humbugs," said David.
"All of our brigands have been total failures," said Clive.
"Yes," said David; "they all turned out to be the most amiable people in the world. But come; suppose we go inside, and explore this old ruin. It may be something famous. I wish the guide were, here."
"O, well look at it first all over, and then ask at the hotel."
"Yes, that's the way."
"But have we time?"
"O, of course; it won't take us five minutes."
Upon this Clive started off for the ruined structure, followed by David.
It was, as has been said, two stories in height. In the lower story was a small, narrow doorway. The door was gone. There were no windows, and it was quite dark inside. It was about twelve feet wide, and fifteen feet long. At one end were some piles of fagots heaped together. The height was about fifteen feet. Before them they saw a rude ladder, running up to the story above. Its feet rested near the back of the room. There was no floor to the house, but only the hard-packed earth.
"There's nothing here," said David, looking around.
"Let's go into the upper story," said Clive.
To this proposal David assented quite readily; and accordingly they both entered, and walked towards the ladder. Clive ascended first, and David followed. In a few moments they were in the upper story.
Here it was light, for there were two windows in front. There was a floor, and the walls were plastered. Fragments of straw lay about, intermingled with chaff, as though the place had been used for some sort of a store-house.
Overhead there were a number of heavy beams, which seemed too numerous and complicated to serve merely for the support of a roof; and among them was one large, round beam, which ran across. At this both of the boys stared very curiously.
"I wonder what all that can be for," asked David.
"O, no doubt," said Clive, "it's some of the massive wood-work of the old castle."
"But what was the good of it?"
"Why, to support the roof, of course," said Clive.
"Yes, but there is too much. They would never have needed all that to support so small a roof. It's a waste of timber."
"O, well, you know you mustn't expect the same ingenuity in anItalian builder that you would in an American."
"I don't know about that. Why not? Do you mean to say that the Italians are inferior to the Americans in architecture? Pooh, man! in America there is no architecture at all; while here, in every little town, they have some edifice that in America would be considered something wonderful."
"O, well, you know they are very clumsy in practical matters, in spite of their Artistic superiority. But apart from that I've just been thinking that this is only a part of some large castle, and this lumber work was, perhaps, once the main support of a massive roof. So, after all, it would have its use."
David said nothing for some time. He was looking earnestly at the wood-work.
"I'll tell you what it is," said he, at last. "I've got it. It isn't a castle at all. It's a windmill."
"A windmill!" exclaimed Clive, contemptuously. "What nonsense!It's an old tower—the keep of some mediaeval castle."
"It's a windmill!" persisted David. "Look at that big beam. It's round. See in one corner those projecting pieces. They were once part of some projecting wheel. Why, of course, it's a windmill. The other end of that cross-beam goes outside for the fans to be attached to it. This big cross-beam was the shaft. Of course that's it."
Clive looked very much crest-fallen at this. He was unable to disprove a fact of which the evidences were now so plain; but he struggled to maintain a little longer the respectability of his feudal castle.
"Well," said he, "I dare say it may have been used afterwards for a windmill; but I am sure it was originally built as a baronial hall, some time during the middle ages. Afterwards it began to go to ruin; and then, I dare say, some miller fellow has taken possession of the keep, and torn off the turrets and battlements, and rigged up this roof with the beams, and thus turned it into a windmill."
"O, well, you may be right," said David. "Of course it's impossible to tell."
"O, but I'm sure of it," said Clive, positively.
David laughed.
"O, then," said he, "in that case, I've got nothing to say about it at all."
In spite of his reiterated conviction in the baronial castle, Clive was unable to prevent an expression of disgust from being discernible on his fine face, and without another word, he turned to go down.
David followed close after him.
As Clive put his feet down on the nearest rung of the ladder, he was startled by a noise below. It came from the pile of fagots, and was of the most extraordinary character. It was a shuffling, scraping, growling, snapping noise; an indescribable medley of peculiar sounds.
Clive instantly drew back his foot, as though he had trodden on a snake.
"What's the matter?" cried David, in amazement.
"Didn't you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"Why, that noise!"
"Noise?"
"Yes."
"What noise?"
Clive's eyes opened wide, and he said in a low, agitated whisper,—
"Something's down there!"
At this David's face turned pale. He knelt down at the opening, and bent his head over.
The sounds, which had ceased for a moment, became once more audible. There was a quick, beating, rustling, rubbing noise among the fagots, and he could occasionally hear the rap of footfalls on the floor. It was too dark to see anything, for the narrow door was the only opening, and the end of the chamber where the fagots lay was wrapped in deep gloom.
Clive knelt down too, and then both boys, kneeling there, listened eagerly and intently with all their ears.
"What is it?" asked Clive.
"I'm rare I don't know," said David, gloomily.
"Is it a brigand?" whispered Clive, dismally.
"I don't know, I'm sore," said poor David, who, in spite of his recent declaration of his belief that all brigands were humbugs, felt something like his old trepidation at Clive's suggestion.
They listened a little longer.
The noise subsided for a time, and then began again. This time it was much louder than before. There was the same rustling, rubbing, cracking, snapping sound made by something among the fagots; there was a clatter as of feet on the hard ground; then there was a quick, reiterated rubbing; then another peculiar noise, which sounded exactly like that which a dog makes when shaking himself violently after coming out of the water. After this there was a low, deep sound, midway between a yawn and a growl; then all was still.
David and Clive raised themselves softly, and looked at one another.
"Well?" said Clive.
"Well?" said David.
"I don't know," said Clive.
"I don't know," said David.
"What shall we do?" said Clive.
David shook his head. Then, looking down the opening once more, he again raised his eyes, and fixing them with an awful look on Clive, he said, in a dismal tone,—
"It's not a brigand!"
"No," said Clive, "I don't think it is, either."
David looked down again; then he looked up at Clive with the same expression, and said in the same dismal tone as before,—
"Clive!"
"Well?"
"It's a wild beast!"
Clive looked back at David with eyes that expressed equal horror, and said not a word.
"Don't you think so?" asked David.
"Yes," said Clive.
Then:—
"How can we get down?" said David.do. said Clive.
"I, don't know!" said David.do. said Clive.
Once more the boys put their heads down to the hole and listened.The noises were soon renewed—such noises as,—Snapping, with variations.cracking, " do.deep-breathing, " do.scratching, " do.sighing, " do.yawning, " do.growling, " do.grunting, " do.smacking, " do.thumping, " do.jerking, " do.rattling, " do.pushing, with variations,sliding, " do.shaking, " do.jerking, " do.twitching, " do.groaning, " do.pattering, " do.rolling, " do.rubbing, " do.together with many more of a similar character, all of which wentto indicate to the minds of both of the boys the presence in thatlower chamber, and close by that pile of fagots, of some animal,in a state of wakefulness, restlessness, and, as they believed, ofvigilant watchfulness and ferocity.
"I wonder how it got there," said David. "That olive grove—that's it—O, that's it. He saw us come in here, and followed us."
"I don't know," said Clive. "He may have been among the fagots when we came in, and our coming has waked him."
"I wonder that the guide didn't warn us."
"O, he never thought, I suppose."
"No; he thought we would keep by the path, and go straight to the hotel."
"What fools we were!"
"Well, it can't be helped now."
"I wonder what it is," said Clive, after another anxious pause.
"A wild beast," said David, dismally.
"Of course; but what kind of a one?"
"It may be a wolf."
"I wonder if there are many wolves about here."
"Wolves? Of course. All Italy is fall of them."
"Yes, but this beast has hard feet. Don't you hear what a noise he makes sometimes with his feet? A wolf's feet are like a dog's. I'm afraid it's something even worse than a wolf."
"Something worse?"
"Yes."
"What can be worse?"
"Why, a wild boar. Italy is the greatest country in the world for wild boars."
After this there followed a long period of silence and despondency.
Suddenly Clive grasped the upper part of the ladder, and began to pull at it with all his might.
"What are you trying to do?" asked David.
"Why, we might draw up the ladder, and put it out of one of the windows, you know, and get out that way—mightn't we?"
"I don't know," said David. "We might try."
Upon this both boys seized the ladder, and tried to pull it from its place. But their efforts were entirely in vain. The ladder was clumsily made out of heavy timbers, and their puny efforts did not avail to move it one single inch from its place. So they soon desisted, and turned away in despair. Clive then went to one of the windows, and looked down. David followed him. They looked out for some time in silence.
"Couldn't we let ourselves drop somehow?" asked Clive.
David shook his head.
"It's nearly twenty feet from the window ledge," said he, "and I'm afraid one of us might break some of our bones."
"O, it's not so very far," said Clive. "Yes, but if we were to drop, that wild boar would hear us, and rush out in a moment."
At this terrible suggestion, Clive turned away, and regarded David with his old look of horror.
"It's no use trying," said David; "that horrible wild boar waked up when we entered his den. He saw us going up, and has been watching ever since for us to come down. They are the most ferocious, most pitiless, and most cruel of all wild beasts. Why; if we had the ladder down from the window, and could get to the ground, he'd pounce upon us before we could get even as far as the path."
Clive left the window, and sat down in despair, leaning against the wall, while David stood staring blankly out into vacancy. Their position was now not merely an embarrassing one. It seemed dangerous in the extreme. From this place they saw no sign of any human habitation. They could not see the convent. Albano was hidden by the hill already spoken of; nor had they any idea how far away it might be. This path over which they had gone had not appeared like one which was much used; and how long it might be before any passers-by would approach was more than they could tell.
"Well," said Clive, "we've lost our dinner, and it's my firm belief that we'll lose our tea, too."
David made no reply.
Clive arose, and walked over to him.
"Dave," said he, "look here. I'm getting desperate. I've a great mind to go down the ladder as quietly as possible, and then run for it."
"No, don't—don't," cried David, earnestly.
"Well, I'm not going to stay here and starve to death," said Clive.
"Pooh! don't be impatient," said David. "Of course they'll hunt us up, and rescue us. Only wait a little longer."
"Well, I don't know. If they don't come soon, I'll certainly venture down."
After an hour or so, during which no help came, Clive did as he said, and, in spite of David's remonstrances, ventured down. He went about half way. Then there was a noise of so peculiar a character that he suddenly retreated up again, and remarked to David, who all the time had been watching him in intense anxiety, and begging him to come back,—
"Well, Dave, perhaps I'd better wait They ought to be here before long."
So the two prisoners waited.
Despair of Uncle Moses.—Frank and Bob endeavor to offer Consolation.—The Search.—The Discovery at the Convent.—The Guide.—The old House.—The Captives.—The Alarm given.—Flight of Uncle Moses and his Party.—Albans! to the Rescue!—The Delivering Host!
On leaving the convent, Frank and Bob had hurried back to Albano, where they found dinner ready, and Uncle Moses waiting for them in anxious impatience. This anxious impatience was not by any means diminished when he saw only two out of the four coming back to him, nor was it alleviated one whit when they informed him that David and Clive had gone to see some subterranean passage, of the nature or location of which they had but the vaguest possible conception. His first impulse was to go forth at once in search of them, and bring them back with him by main force; and it was only with extreme difficulty that Frank and Bob dissuaded him from this.
"Why, they're perfectly safe—as safe as if they were here," saidFrank. "It isn't possible for anything at all to happen to them.The convent guide—a monk—is with them, and a very fine fellow heis, too. He knows all about the country."
"O, yes; but these monks ain't to my taste. I don't like 'em," said Uncle Moses.
"It'll take them an hour to get back here from the place. There's no use for you to try to go there, for you don't know the way; and if you did go, why, they might come back and find you gone, and then we'd have to wait for you. So, you see, the best thing to do, Uncle Moses, is for us all to set quietly down, get our dinner, and wait for them to come back."
The numerous frights which Uncle Moses had already been called on to experience about his precious but too troublesome charges had always turned out to be groundless; and the result had invariably been a happy one; yet this did not at all prevent Uncle Moses from feeling as anxious, as worried, and as unsettled, on this occasion, as he had ever been before. He sat down to the table, therefore, because Frank urged it, and he hardly knew how to move without his cooperation. He said nothing. He was silenced, but not convinced. He ate nothing. He merely dallied with his knife and fork, and played listlessly with the viands upon his plate. Frank and Bob were both as hungry as hunters, and for some time had no eyes but for their food. At last, however, they saw that Uncle Moses was eating nothing; whereupon they began to remonstrate with him, and tried very earnestly to induce him to take something. In vain. Uncle Moses was beyond the reach of persuasion. His appetite was gone with his wandering boys, and would not come back until they should come also. The dinner ended, and then Uncle Moses grew more restless than ever. He walked out, and paced the street up and down, every little while coming back to the hotel, and looking anxiously in to see if the wanderers had returned. Frank and Bob felt sorry that he should feel so much unnecessary anxiety, but they did not know what to do, or to say. They had done and said all that they possibly could. Uncle Moses refused to be comforted, and so there was nothing more for them to do.
At length the hour passed which Frank had allotted as the time of their absence, and still they did not come. Uncle Moses now came, and stared at them with a disturbed face and trembling frame. He said not a word. The situation was one which, to his mind, rendered words useless.
"O, come now, Uncle Moses," said Frank; "they're all right. What's the use of imagining all sorts of nonsense? Suppose they are delayed a few minutes longer—what of that? They couldn't reckon upon being back in exactly an hour. The guide said, 'about an hour.' You'll have to make some allowance."
Uncle Moses tried to wait longer, and succeeded in controlling himself for about half an hour more. Then he found inaction intolerable, and insisted on Frank and Bob accompanying him on a search for the lost ones. Frank suggested the necessity of going to the convent first, and getting another guide. He left word at the hotel where they had gone, and why, so that David and Clive might follow them, or send word; and then they all three set forth for the convent.
On reaching the place, the first man that they saw was no other than the guide himself. At this sight even Frank was amazed, and a little disturbed. He asked him hurriedly where the boys were.
"De boys?" said the guide. "Haf dey not come to de hotel?"
"No."
"But I did leave dem on de road to go back, and dey did go. Dey must be back."
"But they're not back. And I want to hunt them up," said Frank."Where was the road where you say you left them?"
"I will go myself and show you de ver place," said the guide. "Do not fear. Dere can come no harm. It is not possibile."
With these words the guide set forth to take them', to the place. These words of the guide added; if possible, to the deep distress and dismay of Uncle Moses. He was only conscious now that the boys were without any guide in some unknown, perhaps dangerous place. If he feared while he supposed that they had a guide, his fears under these new and worse circumstances were far greater.
On the way the guide explained all about it. He told about the tunnel, about the path which he had recommended as a short cut. He declared that it was perfectly straight, and that it was impossible for any one to get lost between Albano and the place where he left them. There was no place, he declared, for them to get lost in. It was quite open—a little valley—that was all.
But this gave no comfort to poor Uncle Moses. He walked along looking ten years older, with his face full of grief. At length the guide came to the path along which he had sent David and Clive, and turning into this, he walked along in the direction where he had seen them go.
"We haf now," he said, "to walk to de hotel at Albano, and you sall find dey did come back, and will be dere at dis moments."
"What a joke it would be," cried Frank, "if they have got back, and have started off after us! I wonder whether they would. Not they. I don't believe it. They're starving, and will think of nothing but their dinners."
But poor Uncle Moses refused to see any "joke" at all. It was a deeply solemn reality to his poor, distracted breast.
At length they came within sight of the house.
As they walked on, there came to their ears a long, shrill yell. All of them started. At first they did not detect the source of the sound. Then it was repeated.
"Hallo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!"
They looked all around. Frank saw two figures, one at each window of the old house.
"Hallo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!"
The cry was repeated. It came from these two figures. Those must be David and Clive; but how in the name of wonder had they got there, and what were they doing? But he said not a word. He merely pointed, and then started off at a full run, followed first by Bob, then by the guide, and last by Uncle Moses, who did not yet comprehend why Frank was running, or where.
A smart run of only a few minutes brought them to the place. There they saw David at one window, and Clive at the other. Both of them appeared to be tremendously excited, and were shouting to them most vociferously, both together, in an utterly confused an unintelligible manner. At length some words in the midst of their outcries became distinguishable.
"Keep back! O, keep back! The wild boar! The wild boar! Run for help! Keep back! You'll be torn to pieces! Keep back! Run for help."
At this Uncle Moses shrank back in spite of himself, and the guide looked much disturbed; but Frank and Bob stubbornly stood their ground.
"What do you mean?" cried Frank. "Don't kick up such a row. What wild boar? Where is he?"
"Underneath!" bawled Clive.
"He's watching us," shouted David.
"He was hid in there, and we came in and waked him. We got up here, and he won't let us out!"
"He'll spring at you if you come any nearer," shouted David.
"Keep back! O, keep back! I hear him now," bawled Clive.
"Go and get help!" cried David. "Get a gun—or something!"
"Help us out soon," cried Clive; "we're starving!"
"Keep back!" cried Clive.do. cried David.
"Go and get help!" cried Clive.do. cried David.
"Get a gun!" cried Clive.do. cried David.
"Help!" cried Clive.do. cried David.
"Take care!" cried Clive.do. cried David.
"He'll tear you to pieces!" cried Clive.do. cried David.
Etc., etc., etc.!
"Come back," said the guide, in evident anxiety. "We are too near.We can do notin', We mas get arm."
"But do you think there really is a wild boar there?" asked Frank.
The guide said nothing, but shook his head solemnly, and looked unutterable things. Mean while he continued to retreat, watching the small door of the old house, and the rest followed him, as they thought he knew better what ought to be done than they did. The guide took up that line of retreat which led towards Albano, and as he did so he watched the door of the house with evident anxiety, as though fearful of seeing at any moment the formidable beast bound forth to rush upon them. But at length, after he had placed a considerable distance between himself and the old house, he began to breathe more freely, and to think about what ought next to be done.
"Do you think it really is a wild boar?" asked Frank once more of the guide.
"Dey did say dat, dey did see him," said he.
"Yes; but how do they know? They never saw a wild boar," objectedFrank.
"Any man dat sees a wild boar will know him," said the guide.
"I didn't know that there—were any about here."
"About here?"
"Yes; so near the town, and public roads. I thought that an animal like the wild boar prefers the moat solitary places, and will never come near where men are living."
"Dat is right," said the guide. "Dat is so. Bot sommataime dey go wild—dey lose der young—or sommatin like dat, so dey go wild, and wander, an if dey happen to come near a villa, dey are terrible."
"But how could this one have come here?"
"Italia is full of dem—dey wander about like dis."
"But they live so far off."
"O, no; dis one come from de mountain—not far—dat old house in de valley, just de place for his den."
After this Frank could doubt no longer, although he had been so obstinate in his disbelief. The affair of the previous night had produced a powerful effect on his mind; and he was exceedingly unwilling to allow himself again to be beguiled into a belief in any danger that was not real. Had the guide not believed this so firmly, and insisted on it so strongly, he would have felt certain that the animal in the house was some commonplace one—a goat—a dog—anything, rather than a wild boar. However, as it was, he had nothing left but to believe what was said.
As for Uncle Moses, he was now quite himself again. The boys were safe, at any rate. True, they were confined in the loft of an old house, with a ferocious wild beast barring the way to liberty; but then he reflected that this ferocious wild beast could not get near them. Had it been a bear, the affair would have been most serious; but a wild boar, as he knew, could not climb into a loft. For among the intelligence which David and Clive had managed to communicate, was the very reassuring fact that the boar could not get at them, as the loft was only reached by a ladder. The return to Albano was in every way satisfactory to his feelings, for he saw that this was the only way of delivering the boys, who could not be rescued without some more formidable arms than their own unassisted strength.
In a short time they were back in Albano, and soon the news flew about the town. In accordance with the invariable rule, the story was considerably enlarged as it passed from mouth to mouth, so that by the time it reached the last person that heard it,—a poor old bed-ridden priest, by the way,—it had grown to the following highly respectable dimensions:—
Two wealthy English milors had gone into the Alban tunnel in search of adventures. While down there they had discovered the lair of a wild boar, and had killed the young, the old ones being away. They had then made good their retreat, carrying their slaughtered victims with them. The wild boar had returned with the wild sow, and both, scenting their young pigs' blood in the air, had given chase to the murderers. These last had fled in frantic haste, and had just succeeded in finding a refuge in the old windmill, and in climbing into the upper loft as the infuriated animals came up. Seeing the legs of the murderers just vanishing up into the hole, one of the beasts had leaped madly upward, and had bitten off a portion of the calf of the leg of one of them. Then, in sullen vengeance, the two fierce animals took up their station there, one in the chamber below, the other in front of the door, to guard their prey, and effect their destruction. They had already been there a week. One of the prisoners had died from the effects of his terrible wound, and the other was now dying of starvation. Fortunately, Brother Antonio (the guide) had been told about this in a vision the night before, had visited the surviving milor, had talked with him from a safe distance, had seen the terrible animals, and had now come to Albano to get help towards releasing the unhappy survivor.
From the above it may readily be conjectured that the call for help was not made in vain. The sufferings of the imprisoned captive excited universal sympathy, and the presence of the wild boars in so close proximity, filled all men with a desire to capture them or slay them. The story that was generally believed was one which may be briefly described as occupying a position somewhere about midway between the above startling fiction and the truth. Such as it was, it had the effect of drawing forth the population of Albano as it bad never been drawn forth before; and as they went forth they presented a scene such as those of which the mediaeval legends tell us, where the whole population of some town which had been desolated by a dragon, went forth en masse to do battle with the monster.
So they now marched forth,— Men with scythes. do. " hoes. do. " rakes. do. " shovels. do. " tongs. do. " brooms. do. " bean-poles. do. " carving-knives. do. " umbrellas. do. " stones. do. " earthen pans. do. " bricks. do. " charcoal. do. " chairs. do. " spits. do. " bed-posts. do. " crowbars. do. " augers. do. " spades. do. " stakes. do. " clubs. Men with staves, do. " opera-glasses. do. " sickles. do. " colters. do. " ploughshares. do. " wheelbarrows. do. " pitchforks. do. " posts. do. " beams. do. " bolts. do. " bars. do. " hinges. do. " pokers. do. " saucepans. do. " mallets. do. " hammers. do. " saws. do. " chisels. do. " ropes. do. " chains. do. " grappling irons. together with a miscellaneous collection of articles snatched up at a moment's warning by an excited multitude, men, women, and children, headed by Frank, who wielded triumphantly an old fowling-piece, loaded with a double charge, that could do no damage to any one save the daring individual that might venture to discharge it.
Arma Virumque cano!—The Chase of the Wild Boar!—The Prisoners at the Window.—The Alban Army.—Wild Uproar.—Three hundred and sixty-five Pocket Handkerchiefs.—Flame.—Smoking out the Monster.—A Salamander.
Arma puerosque cano!
Sing, O muse, the immortal Albanian Boar Hunt!
How outside the doomed town of Albano lurked the mighty monster in his lair.
How the frightened messengers roused the people to action.
How the whole population, stimulated to deeds of bold emprise, grasped each the weapon that lay nearest, whether bolt, or bar, or tool of mechanic, or implement of husbandry, and then, joining their forces, went forth to do battle against the Fell Destroyer.
How the pallid victims, imprisoned in the topmost tower, gazed with staring eyes upon the mighty delivering host, and shouted out blessings upon their heads.
How the sight of the pallid victims cheered the bold deliverers, and drew them nearer to the lair of the monster.
And so forth.
Very well.
To resume.
Stationed at the window, David and Clive saw their friends vanish in the direction of Albano, and knew that they had gone for help. This thought so cheered them, that in spite of a somewhat protracted absence, they bore up well, and diversified the time between watchings at the window, and listenings at the head of the ladder. From the window nothing was visible for a long time; but from the head of the ladder there came up at intervals such sounds as indicated that the fierce wild boar was still as restless, as ruthless, as hungry, and as vigilant as ever.
Then came up to their listening ears the same sounds already described, together with hoarser tones of a more pronouncedly grunting description, which showed more truly that the beast was in very truth a wild boar. But Clive did not venture down again, nor did he even mention the subject. His former attempt had been most satisfactory, since it satisfied him that no other attempt could be thought of. In spite of this, however, both the boys had risen to a more cheerful frame of mind. Their future began to look brighter, and the prospect of a rescue served to put them both. into comparative good humor, the only drawback to which was their now ravenous hunger.
At length the army of their deliverers appeared, and David, who was watching at the window, shouted to Clive, who was listening at the opening, whereupon the latter rushed to the other window.
The delivering host drew nigh, and then at a respectable distance halted and surveyed the scene of action.
Frank and Bob came on, however, without stopping, followed by Uncle Moses, after whom came the guide. Frank with his old fowling-piece, Bob with a pitchfork, Uncle Moses with a scythe, and the guide with a rope. What each one proposed to do was doubtful; but our travellers had never been strong on weapons of war, and the generous Alban people seemed to be in the same situation.
As Frank and his companions moved nearer, the rest of the multitude took courage and followed, though in an irregular fashion.
Soon Frank came near enough to speak.
"Is he there yet?" was his first remark.
"Yes," said Clive.
"Where?"
"At the left end of the lower room, under a pile of fagots."
"Can't you manage to drive him out, so that I can get a shot at him?" asked Frank, proudly brandishing his weapon.
"O, no. We can't do anything."
"I wish you could," said Frank.
"I wish we could too." said David, fervently.
Upon this Frank talked with the guide. The question was, what should they do now? The most desirable thing was, to draw the wild beast out of his lair, so that they might have a fair chance with him; but, unfortunately, the wild beast utterly refused to move from his lair.
After some talk with his guide, Frank suggested that a large number of the crowd should go to the rear, and the left end of the house, and strike at it, and utter appalling cries, so as to frighten the wild boar and drive him out. This proposal the guide explained to the crowd, who at once proceeded with the very greatest alacrity to act upon it. Most of them were delighted at the idea, of fighting the enemy in that fashion; and so it happened that the entire crowd took up their station in a dense mass at the rear of the building; and then they proceeded to beat upon the walls of the house, to shout, to yell, and to utter such hideous sounds, that any ordinary animal would simply have gone mad with fright, and died on the spot. But this animal proved to be no ordinary one in this respect. Either he was accustomed to strange noises, or else he had such nerves of steel, that the present uproar affected him no more than the sighing of the gentlest summer breeze; indeed, David and Clive were far more affected, for at the first outbreak of that tumultuous uproar, they actually jumped from the floor, and thought that the rickety old house was tumbling about their ears.
During this proceeding, Frank stood bravely in front of the door, about a dozen yards off, with his rusty fowling-piece; and close beside him stood Bob with his pitchfork, Uncle Moses with his scythe, and the guide with his rope.
"He doesn't care for this at all," said Frank, in a dejected tone."We must try something else. What shall we do?"
And saying this, he turned once more and talked with the guide.
Meanwhile David and Clive, who had recovered their equanimity, rushed to the opening, and began to assist their friends by doing what they could to frighten the wild boar.
"Shoo-o-o-o-o-o!" said David.
"Hs-s-s-s-s-s-s!" said Clive.
"Bo-o-o-o-o-o-o!" said David.
"Gr-r-r-r-r-r-r!" cried Clive.
But the wild boar did not move, even though the uproar without still continued.
Then Clive went down the ladder a little distance, far enough down so that by bending, his head was below the upper floor. Then he took his hat and hurled it with all his might and main at the pile of fagots.
Then he went up again.
But the wild boar did not move.
Thereupon David went down, and he went a little lower. He took his hat, and uttering a hideous yell, he threw it with all his force at the fagots.
But even this failed to alarm the wild boar. David stood for a moment after this bold deed and listened. The only satisfaction that he had was the sound of a low, comfortable grunt, that seemed to show that the present situation was one which was rather enjoyed than otherwise by this formidable, this indomitable, this invincible beast.
They came back to the windows in despair, and by this time Frank had finished his discussion with the guide. He was looking up anxiously towards them.
"Look here," said he; "that miserable wild boar won't come out. The guide thinks the only way to get at him is to smoke him out. The only trouble is about you. Will the smoke bother yon, do you think?"
"I don't know," said Clive.
"Can you stop up the opening?"
"No."
"Can you keep your heads oat of the windows?"
"We'll try. But I wish you'd only thought of bringing a ladder, so as to get us out first, before smoking him."
"Yes, I wish we had," said Frank, thoughtfully. "But never mind," he added, cheerily, "there's no use going back for one, because, you see, we'll have you out of that long before a ladder could be brought here."
It was only by yelling at the top of their voices that they were able to make themselves heard by one another, for the crowd behind the house still kept up their yells, and knockings, and thumpings, and waited to hear that the wild boar had fled. As the time passed without any such news, they were only stimulated to fresh efforts, and howled more fearfully and yelled more deafeningly.
"There's an awful waste of energy and power about here, somehow," said Frank. "There ought to be some way of getting at that wretched beast, without all this nonsense. Here we are,—I don't know how many of us, but the whole population of a town, at any rate, against one,—and what's worse, we don't seem to make any impression."
Meanwhile the guide had gone off among the crowd, and while Frank was grumbling, he was busying himself among them, and was engaged in carrying out a very brilliant idea that had just suggested itself to him. In a short time he returned with an armful of something, the nature of which Frank could not quite make out.
"What have you got there?" he asked. "What are you going to do?"
"Dey are all handkerchiefs."
"Handkerchiefs?"
"Yes; de handkerchiefs of de population of Albano. Dey are as many as de days of de year."
"I should think so," cried Frank, in amazement. "But what are you going to do with them?"
"Do wit dem? I am going to make a smoke."
"A smoke? What? Are you going to burn them up?"
"Dere is notin else to burn; so I must burn what I can. See, I make a bundle of dese. I set fire to dem. Dey burn—dey smoke—and de boar smoke out. Aha! he suffocate—he expire—he run!"
"Well, if that isn't the greatest idea I ever heard of!" cried Frank. "Handkerchiefs! Why, you must have hundreds of them in that bundle."
The guide smiled, and made no answer. It was a brilliant idea. It was all his own. He was proud of it. He was pleased to think that the number of them was equal to the number of days in the year. Three hundred and sixty-five handkerchiefs collected from the good, the virtuous, the self-sacrificing people of Albano, who were now yelling and howling as before, at the rear of the house, and diversifying the uproar by loud calls and inquiries about the wild boar.