When Lorenzo awoke--and his sleep was not of such long duration as fully to outlive the darkness--he found more than one person watching him. Close by his side sat Ramiro d'Orco, and near the foot of his bed the lamplight fell upon the well-known face of his faithful follower, Antonio. He felt faint and somewhat confused, and he had a throbbing of the brow and temples, which told him he was ill; but for some moments he remembered nothing of the events which had taken place the night before.
"How feel you, my young friend?" asked Ramiro, in a far more gracious tone than he commonly used; "yet speak low and carefully, for, though the antidote has overwrought the poison, you must long be watchful of your health, and make no exertion."
"You are very kind, Signor Ramiro," replied the young man. "I believe I was wounded last night, and that the blade was poisoned--yes, it was so, and I owe you my life."
"I speak not of that, Lorenzo," replied Ramiro; "I am right glad I was here, and could wish much that I could remain to watch you in your convalescence, for a relapse might be fatal; but I will trust you to hands more delicate, if not so skilful as my own. Men make bad nurses; women are the fit attendants for a sick room, and your pretty little cousin, Bianca Maria--as gentle and sweet as an angel--and my child Leonora, whom you know, shall be your companions. I will charge them both to watch you at all moments, and, under their tender care, I warrant you will soon recover. I myself must ride hence ere noon, for I must be in Rome ere ten days are over. Ere that you will be quite well; and should it be needful that Leonora should follow me, I will trust to your noble care to bring her on through this distracted country. I know you will reverence her youth and innocence for her father's sake, who has done all he could for you in a moment of great peril."
Lorenzo's heart beat with joy at the mere thought. I would have said thrilled, but, unhappily, the misuse of good words by vulgar and ignorant men banishes them, in process of time, from the dictionary. The multitude is too strong for individual worth, and prevails.
"On my honour and my soul," replied Lorenzo, "I will guard her with all veneration and love, as if she were some sacred shrine committed to my charge."
A slight irrepressible sneer curled Ramiro's lip, for all enthusiasms are contemptible to worldly men; but he was well learned in fine words and phrases, and had sentiments enough by rote.
"The mind of a pure girl," he said, "is indeed as a saint in a shrine. Woe be to him who desecrates it. We are accustomed to think of such things too lightly in this land; but you have had foreign education amongst the chivalrous lords of France, in whom honour is an instinct, and I will fearlessly trust you to guard her on her journey through the troubled country across which she will have to pass."
"You may do so confidently, signor," replied Lorenzo, in a bold tone; but then he seemed to hesitate; and raising himself on his arm, after a moment's thought, he added, "I hope, my lord, you will not consider that I violate the trust reposed in me, if perchance I should, in all honour, plead my cause with her by the way. Already I love her with an honourable and yet a passionate love, and I must win her for my wife if she is to be won. We are both very young, it is too true; but that only gives me the more time to gain her, if you do not oppose. As for myself, I know I shall never change, and I would lose neither time nor opportunity in wooing her affections in return. I fear me, indeed," he added, "that I could not resist the occasion, were she to go forward under my guard, and therefore I speak so plainly thus early."
He paused a moment, and then continued, with an instinctive appreciation of the character of him to whom he spoke, which all Ramiro's apparent disinterested kindness had not been able to affect:
"What dower she may have, I know not, neither do I care. I have enough for both, and allied as I am to more than one royal house, were I ambitious--and for her sake I may become so--I could carve me a path which would open out to me and mine high honours and advantages, unless I be a coward or a fool."
"Well, well, good youth, we will talk more of this another time," replied Ramiro d'Orco; "you have done nobly and honestly to speak of it, and it will only make me trust you more implicitly. Coward you are none, as you have shown this night, and fool you certainly are not. You may want the guidance of some experience, and if you be willing to listen to the counsel of one who has seen more of life than you, I will show you how to turn your great advantages to good account. It might not be too vast a scope of fancy to think of a Visconti once more seated in the chair of Milan. But I have news for you, one of your comrades in arms has arrived during the night, warned, it would seem, that some harm was intended you."
"Who is he?" asked Lorenzo eagerly.
"Young Pierre de Terrail," answered Ramiro. "He seems a noble youth, and was much grieved to hear that you were suffering. He has brought some twenty men with him, whom we have lodged commodiously; but I would not suffer him to come up while you were sleeping, as undisturbed repose was most necessary to your recovery."
Lorenzo expressed a strong wish to see his young comrade; and in a few minutes he, so celebrated afterwards as the Chevalier Bayard, was introduced. He was at this time a youth of about eighteen years of age, who at first sight appeared but slightly made, and formed more for activity than strength. Closer observation, however, showed in the broad shoulders and open chest, the thin flank, and long, powerful limbs, the promise of that hardy vigour which he afterwards displayed.
Lorenzo held out his hand to him with a warm smile, saying, "Welcome, welcome, De Terrail! You find me here fit for nothing, while there you are still in your armour, as a reproach to me, I suppose, for not being ready to march."
"Not so, not so, Visconti," said the young hero. "I did not know how soon you might wake, or how soon I might have occasion to go on to Pavia, and therefore I sat me down and slept in my armour, like a lobster in his shell. But how feel you now? Is the venom wholly subdued?"
"Yes, thanks to this noble lord," replied Lorenzo.
"Nevertheless," rejoined Ramiro, "you will need several days' repose before you can venture to mount your horse. Any agitation of the blood might prove fatal."
"Why, he has just been named by the king to the command of a troop in our band," answered De Terrail; "but we must manage that for you, Visconti. We will take it turn and turn about to order your company for you till you are well."
"Nay, I do not intend to have that troop," replied his young friend. "It is yours of right, Terrail. You entered full three months before me; and I will not consent to be put over your head."
"I will have none of it," answered the young Bayard. "It is the king's own will, Visconti; and we must obey without grumbling. Besides, do you think I will rob a man of his post while he is suffering on my account?"
"How am I suffering on your account?" asked Visconti. "What had you to do with my wound?"
"Do you not know that I struck this big fellow in the castle court at Milan because he was insolent?" said Bayard. "He vowed he would kill me before the week was out, and, depend upon it, he mistook you for me. He knew I was coming hither, and thought I was coming alone; for at first the king ordered me to carry you the news of your nomination, but he afterwards changed his mind, and sent it by the trumpet who was going to Pavia. He might not have killed me as easily as he thought; but he met a still worse playfellow in you, for you killed him instead. You were always exceedingly skilful with rapier and dagger, though I think I am your equal with the lance."
"O! superior far," answered Lorenzo. "So he is dead, is he? I have but a confused notion of all that took place last night. I only know that he attacked me like a wild beast, and I had not even time to draw my dagger."
"Ay! dead enough," replied De Terrail. "I had a look at him as he lies below in the hall, and a more fell visage I never saw on a corpse. Your sword went clear through him, from the right side to the left; and you only gave him what he well merited--the murderous scoundrel, to poison his weapons!"
"That is a practice which sometimes must be had resort to, when men serve great princes," observed Ramiro, with a quiet smile, "but in a private quarrel it is base."
"Ay, base enough any way," replied the young Bayard. "However, you have rid me of an enemy and the world of an assassin, Lorenzo, and I hope you will not suffer long. But there, the day is coming up in the east, and I must on to Pavia presently. I had orders last night to ride early this morning and mark out our quarters; but when your good fellow there gave us news of your danger, I came on, by De Vitry's order, to see if we could defend you."
"If you will wait but half an hour, and break your fast with us in the hall," said Ramiro d'Orco, "I will ride on with you, and take advantage of the escort of your men-at-arms, Signor de Terrail."
"Willingly," answered the other; "some breakfast were no bad thing; for, good faith! we supped lightly last night. But I will go and see that all is ready for departure when we have done our meal."
He quitted the room, and Ramiro d'Orco soon after followed, promising to see his patient again before he departed for the South.
Left alone with his young lord, Antonio drew nearer, and, bending down his head, said, "I wonder, signor, what charm you have used upon the Signor d'Orco to make his hard iron as soft as soap. Why, he is the picture of tenderness--Mercy weeping over the guilt of sinners--a lineal descendant from the good Samaritan, or of that gentleman from whom the Frangipani are descended, or some other of the charitable heroes of antiquity. He was never known to shed a tear that was not produced by something that tickled his nose, or to laugh except when he saw the grimaces of a man broken on the wheel."
"Hush, hush!" said Lorenzo; "to me he has been very kind, and I must judge of people as I find them."
"Ay, sir, judge when you know them well," answered Antonio. "Your pardon, excellent lord; but hear a word or two more. He who was more than a father to you, placed me near you to serve you, not only with my limbs, but with my tongue--in the way of counsel, I mean. This man has benefited you. Be grateful to him; but be not the less on your guard. Give him no power over you, lest he should abuse it. The smallest secret in the keeping of a wicked man is a sword over the head of him who trusted him. If we lock up our own money, how much more should we lock up our thoughts. I have seen a mountebank's pig walk upon his hind legs; but I never saw one that could do it long at a time. If you wait and watch, cunning will always show itself in its true colours. The face of a man's nature is always too big for any mask he can buy, and some feature will always be uncovered by which you can know the man. No one can cover his whole person with a veil; and if you cannot judge by the face, you can find him out by the feet."
"Well, well," said Lorenzo, somewhat impatiently; "open that window wide, Antonio. My head aches, and I feel half suffocated. Then just smooth my bed, and put out that winking lamp. I should not have my chamber look like the room of an hospital."
Quick to comprehend, Antonio did not only what Lorenzo ordered, but much more, and set himself busily to give an air of trim neatness to the apartment, removing his master's bloody clothing which was lying on the ground, and placing on a stool clean linen and a new suit, but taking care to move neither the sword nor the arms, which had been cast negligently on the table. There was something picturesque in their arrangement that suited his fancy, and he let them remain. But in the course of his perquisitions he came to the silver flagon which had been brought by the page, and, after smelling to it, he asked, "Why, what is this?"
"Nay, I only know that it kept up my strength when I felt as if each moment I should die," answered Lorenzo. "I do not think even the antidote he applied to my arm would have been sufficient to save me but for its aid; the poison was so potent."
"Doubtless," replied Antonio; "but it gives me a secret how to accelerate your cure, my good lord--A wet napkin round his head will take off the head-ache, at all events," he muttered to himself; "but not just yet. Better let these men depart first.
"Now, Antonio, sit down and tell me all that has befallen since I sent you to Milan," said Lorenzo. "Did you find the small picture of my mother where old Beatrice told me it would be found?"
"Yes, my lord; but the case was much broken," replied Antonio. "Here it is."
As he spoke, he produced one of those miniature portraits which sometimes even the most celebrated artists of the day were pleased to paint, and handed it to Lorenzo. It was fixed in an embossed case of gilded brass; but as the man had said, the back of the case had been apparently forced sharply open, so as to break the spring lock and one of the hinges.
Lorenzo took it, and, raising himself on his elbow, gazed at the features of a very lovely woman which the picture represented.
"And this was my mother!" he murmured, after looking at it for a long time; and then he added, in a still lower tone, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!"
He then turned the portrait, drew off the dilapidated back of the case, and read some words which were written round a small oval box forming part of the frame, but concealed by the case when it was closed.
"A cure for the ills of life!" were the words; and, lifting the lid of the box, he beheld several small papers, containing some substance within them, discoloured by age.
"Know you what these are?" he asked of Antonio.
"No, my lord," replied the man; "poison, I suppose, as death is 'the only cure for all the ills of life.'"
"Right!" replied Lorenzo, musing, "right! He told me she had only escaped dishonour by death."
"Ay, my good young lord, I can tell you more of it," answered Antonio. "You were a baby then; but I am well-nigh fifteen years older, and I remember it all right well. I was then in Milan, and----"
He had not time to finish the sentence ere Ramiro d'Orco entered the room, followed by Bianca Maria and Leonora. The expression of the countenance of each of the two girls was somewhat significant of their characters, Blanche Marie gazed, shrinking and timid, round the room, as if she expected to behold some ghastly spectacle, till her eyes lighted upon Lorenzo, and then a glad smile spread over her whole face. Leonora looked straight on, her eyes fixing upon her wounded lover at once, as if divining rather than seeing where he lay; and, walking straight to his bedside, she took the chair nearest, as if of right.
"I have brought you two nurses, Lorenzo," said Ramiro; "they will give their whole care to you, and you will soon be well. But you must promise me, in honour of the skill which has saved your life, that you will not hazard it by attempting any exercise for several days."
"I will not," answered Lorenzo, "unless the king's orders especially require my service. Of course if they do, his orders must be obeyed."
"Certainly, certainly," replied the other; "but those orders will not come. He shall hear how near death you have been, and of course will be considerate. But now farewell. I must go join Monsieur de Terrail. You shall hear from me, when I reach Bologna, concerning what was spoken of. Till then, I leave you in kind and tender hands."
Thus saying, he bade him adieu and left him; and Antonio followed, judging perhaps that Lorenzo's two fair companions would afford attendance enough.
"Who times gallops withal!" Alas! dear Rosalind, you might have found a sweeter illustration than that which you give. Doubtless "he gallops with a thief to the gallows," but I fear me, impatient joy and reluctant fear, like most opposites in the circle of all things, meet and blend into each other. Time gallops full as fast when he carries along two lovers, and between the hours of meeting and parting his pace is certainly of the quickest.
Never, perhaps, did he travel so fast as with Leonora and Lorenzo. Their feelings were so new; they were so eager and so warm; they were so full of youth and youth's impetuous fire, that----smouldering as love had been for the last ten days, unseen even by their own eyes, and only lighted into a blaze by the events of the night before--we might pursue the image of a great conflagration, and say, both were confused and dazzled by the light, and hardly felt or knew the rapid passing of the quick-winged moments.
Blanche Marie might perhaps have estimated the passage of time more justly; for the unhappy third person--however he may love the two others, and whatever interests he may feel in their happiness--has, after all, but a sorry and a tedious part to play; and although the fairer and the milder of the two girls was not yet more than fourteen, she might long--while she sat there, silent, and striving not to listen to the murmured words of the two lovers--she might long for the day when her happy hour would come, and when the whole heart's treasury would be opened for her to pick out its brightest gems. Nay, perhaps, I might go even a little farther, and remind the reader that life's earlier stage is shorter in Italy than in most other European countries; that the olive and the orange ripen fast; and that the fruits of the heart soon reach maturity in that land. Juliet--all Italian, impassioned Juliet--was not yet fourteen--not till "Lammas Eve"--when the consuming fire took possession of her heart, and Lady Capulet herself was a mother almost at the years of Blanche Marie.
But it is an hour----that at which she had now arrived in life's short day--it is an hour of dreams and fairy forms, in the faint, vapoury twilight which lies between the dawn and the full day, when the rising sun paints every mist with gold and rose-colour, and through the very air of your existence spreads a purple light. The tears of that sweet time are but as early dew-drops brightened into jewels by the light of youthful hope, and the onward look of coming years, though kindled with the first beams of passion, knows not the fiery heat of noon, nor can conceive the arid dryness of satiety.
Blanche Marie sat and dreamed near her two cousins. At first, she heard some of the words they spoke; but then she listened more to the speakers in her own heart; and then she gave herself up to visions of the future; and the outward creature remained but a fair, motionless statue, unconscious of aught that passed around her, but full of light and ever-varying fancies.
How passed the time none of the three knew, but it passed rapidly, and Bianca was awakened from her reveries by the sound of a strange voice, saying, "Pardon, sweet lady," as some one passed her, brushing lightly against her garments, which he could not avoid touching, on his way to Lorenzo's bedside.
"Why, how now, Visconti!" exclaimed the new-comer, "What! made a leader, assaulted by an assassin, wounded with a poisoned weapon, vanquisher in the fight, saved by a miracle, and nursed by two beautiful ladies--all in twenty-four hours? By my fay, thou art a favoured child of chivalry indeed!"
Blanche Marie looked round at the speaker, roused from her reverie suddenly, but not unpleasantly. There was something joyous, light-hearted, and musical in the voice that spoke, which won favour by its very tone. Oh! there is a magic in the voice, of which we take not account enough. Have you not often marked, reader, how one man in a mixed company will win attention in an instant, not by the matter of his words, not by the manner, but by the mere tone in which they are spoken? Have you not sometimes seen two men striving to gain the ear of a fair lady, and eloquence, and sense, and wit all fail, while sweet tones only have prevailed? The eye and the ear are but sentries on guard, and the fair form and the sweet tone are but as passwords to the camp. Nay, more: some voices have their peculiar harmonies with the hearts of individuals. One will have no sweetness in its tone to many, while to another it will be all melody; and all this is no strange phenomenon; it is quite natural that it should be so. Where is the man to whom the owlet is as sweet a songster as the lark! and who can pass the nightingale on his spray, though he may not pause a moment by the gaudy paroquet? The blackbird's sweet, round pipe, the thrush's evening welcome to the approaching spring, the lark's rejoicing fugue in the blue sky, are all sweet to well-tuned ears; but each finds readier access to some hearts than to others.
The voice which awoke Bianca Maria from her reverie was very pleasant to her ear. There was an unaffected frankness in it--as if welling up clear from the heart-which was prepossessing to a pure, young, innocent mind like hers.
"Ah! Signor De Vitry," replied Lorenzo, "I have, indeed, had good fortune in many ways; and I suppose I ought in common gratitude to Heaven, to think it all unmixed good. But I have somewhat suffered in body, and now I am troubled to think what is to become of my troop while I lie here useless. I would the king would bestow it upon De Terrail, and let me have another chance."
"Think not of it," answered De Vitry; "we will arrange all things for you. Bayard is a noble fellow, who will win high fame some day, but we must obey the king. I find De Terrail has been here, and suppose you have seen him, for they tell me he went on two hours ago."
"Two hours!" exclaimed Lorenzo; "hardly so much, I think."
"Ay! time flies fast under bright eyes," answered De Vitry, with a laugh. "Two hours the servants below tell me, and no less. However, I must on my way. I only stopped to inquire what had happened, for no news had reached me when I marched; and I found a prisoner below whom Bayard left for me--a man who waited without, it seems, while Monsieur Buondoni busied himself with you within. I had three others of the villains in my power before, but they do not seem to be as deep in their master's secrets as this gentleman. But my provost must have finished the work I gave him by this time, and so I must on. Your pardon, sweet young lady, will you give me leave just to look forth from this window?"
He passed Blanche Marie with a courteous inclination of the head, and gazed forth toward the high road, and then, turning to Lorenzo, added:
"Ay, it is all right. Farewell for the present, Visconti. Rest quietly till you are quite well. We shall halt at Pavia for two or three days till the king comes on, and then probably for some days more. But I will come and see you from time to time, and we will make all needful arrangements. Shall I be welcome, sweet lady?"
"Oh, right welcome, noble sir," replied Bianca Maria, to whom his words were addressed; "but you must not go without tasting some refreshment, and you must see the Count Rovera, my grandsire."
"Nay, I have but little time," answered De Vitry; "and yet a cup of wine from such fair hands were mightily refreshing after a dusty ride. Your grandsire I will see when I am in a more fitting attire. 'Tis but six miles to Pavia, I am told; and I will soon ride over again, were it but to make excuse to the old count for hanging an assassin just before his gates. However, it may chance to warn others of the same cloth to venture here no more."
Bianca Maria's cheek turned somewhat pale, and she suddenly turned her eyes in the direction toward which De Vitry had been looking from the window a moment or two before. There was a dark object hanging among the bare branches of a mulberry-tree long divested of its leaves. She could not exactly distinguish what that object was, but she divined; and, turning away with a shudder, she murmured:
"For Heaven's sake, my lord, have him cut down."
"Certainly, if you wish it," replied De Vitry; "but, dear lady, it is needful to punish such villains, or we should soon have but few of our French nobles, or those who hold with us, left alive. However, there can be no great harm in cutting him down now, for my provost does not do any such things by halves."
He took a step toward the door, and then paused for a moment, as if not quite certain of the fair young girl's wishes.
"You know, I suppose," he said, in a tone of inquiry, "that this man whom they have just hanged, is one of those who came to assassinate Signor Visconti here?"
"My cousin has avenged himself in defending himself," answered Bianca Maria. "I am sure he does not wish any others to suffer."
"Well," answered De Vitry, with a laugh; "I thought myself mightily compassionate that I did not hang the other three, as, I dare say, they all well deserved; but this fellow was caught waiting for Buondoni, and was, we found, in the whole secret. However, we will have him cut down, if such be your pleasure."
"Oh, pray do, my lord--pray do, at once!" cried Bianca; "perhaps there may be life in him yet."
"Now Heaven forbid!" cried De Vitry; "but come with me, sweet lady, and you shall hear the order given instantly. Adieu, Visconti! Farewell, beautiful lady with the dark eyes! You have not bestowed one word upon me; but, nevertheless, I kiss your hand."
Thus saying, he left the room with Blanche Marie, who led him by a staircase somewhat distant from that which conducted to the great hall, where the body of Buondoni still lay, to a vestibule, where several of the marquis's attendants were waiting. There the orders which De Vitry had promised were soon given, and a cup of wine was brought for his refreshment. He lingered over it for a longer space of time than he had intended, and while he did so, he contrived to wile Bianca Maria's thoughts away from the event that had saddened them. Indeed, though the young girl was less light and volatile than she seemed to be, and many of her age really were, he effected his object--if it was an object--far more readily than could have been supposed. There was something in his manner toward her which amused and yet teased her, which pleased but did not frighten her. There was a certain touch of gallantry in it, and evidently no small portion of admiration; and yet it was clear he looked upon her as a child, and that in all his civil speeches there was at least as much jest as earnest. Nevertheless, every now and then there was a serious tone which fell pleasantly upon the young girl's ear, and was thought of in after hours.
"I trust the count will soon be here," she said, at length; "you had better stay, Signor de Vitry, and see him. He sat up during the greater part of the night, I am told, anxious about my cousin. But he must rise soon."
"My sweet lady," answered the soldier, "I must not stay. I have two--nay, three good reasons for going: first that a beautiful young lady has already beguiled me to stay longer than I should; secondly, that a pleasant old gentleman might beguile me to stay still longer; and, thirdly, that, as I intend to come back again often, I must husband excuses for my visits, and one shall be to see the count, and to apologize in person for acting high justiciary upon his lands. You have forgiven me already, I think, else there in no truth is those blue eyes; and so I kiss your hand, and promise to behave better when next I come."
Blanche Marie had ample matter for meditation during the rest of that day, at least.
In those days, as in the present, there was situated, somewhere or other in the garden, farm, or podere of every Italian villa, sometimes hid among the fig-trees, olives, or mulberries, sometimes planted close to one of the gates of the inclosing walls, a neat farm-house, the abode of the contadino, who dwelt there usually in much more happiness and security than attended his lords and masters in their more magnificent abodes. It is true that occasionally a little violence might be brought down upon the heads of the family, by any extraordinary beauty in a daughter or a niece, or any very ferocious virtue upon the parents' part; but, sooth to say, I fear me much that, since the times of Virginius, Italian fathers have not looked with very severe eyes upon affairs of gallantry between their daughters and men of elevated station, nor have the young ladies themselves been very scrupulous in accepting the attentions of well-born cavaliers. The inconveniences resulting from such adventures apart, the life of an Italian peasant was far more safe and far more happy in those days than the life of a noble or a citizen, and Sismondi has justly pointed out that they were more contented with their lot, and had more cause for content, than any other class in the land. No very heavy exactions pressed upon them; their lords were generally just, and even generous; and it rarely happened that they saw their harvests wasted even by the wandering bands, whose leaders wisely remembered that they and their soldiers must depend upon those harvests for support.
The house of a contadino has less changed than almost any other building in Italy. There was always a certain degree of taste displayed in its construction, and there was always one room a good deal larger than any of the rest, with plenty of air blowing through it, to which, when the sun shone too strongly under the porch, any of the family could retireper pigliar la fresca. It was in this large room at the farm, in the gardens of the villa, that, at an early hour of the day which succeeded the death of Buondoni, a strange sight might be seen. The door was locked and barred, and from time to time each of those within--and there were several--turned a somewhat anxious, fearful look towards it or to the windows, as if they were engaged in some act for which they desired no witnesses. Two women, an old and a young one, stood at the head of a long table; a second girl was seen at the side; a young man was near the other end, holding a large, heavy bucket in his hand; and at some distance from all the rest, with his arms folded on his chest and somewhat gloomy disapproving brow, was the contadino himself, gazing at what the others were about, but taking no part therein himself.
The object, however, of most interest lay upon the table. It was apparently the corpse of a man from thirty-five to forty years of age, dressed in the garb of a retainer of some noble house. His long black hair flowed wildly from his head, partly soiled with dust, partly steeped with water. His dress also was wet, and the collar of his coat as well as that of his vest seemed to have been torn rudely open. He had apparently died a violent death: the face was of a dark waxen yellow, and the tongue, which protruded from the mouth, had been bitten in violent agony between the teeth. Round his neck, and extending upwards towards the left ear, was a dark red mark, significant of the manner of his death.
"Here, Giulo, here!" cried the elder woman, "pour the water over him again. His eyes roll in his head. He is coming to!"
"Ah, Marie! what a face he makes," exclaimed one of the girls, shutting out the sight with her hands.
"Poor fools! you will do more harm than good," murmured the contadino; "let the man pass in peace! I would sooner spend twenty lire in masses for his soul than bring him back to trouble the world any more."
"Would you have us act like tigers or devils, you old iniquity?" asked his wife, shaking three fingers at him. "The life is in the poor man yet. Shall we let him go out of the world without unction or confession, for fear of what these French heretics may do to us?"
"Besides, Madonna Bianca had him cut down to save his life," cried the girl who stood nearest his head. "You would fain please her, I trow, father. I heard her myself pray for him to be cut down, and she will be glad to hear we have recovered him. It was that which made me run away for Giulio as soon as the order was given."
While this dialogue was going on, the young man, Giulio, had poured the whole bucket of water over the recumbent body on the table, dashing it on with a force which might well have driven the soul out of a living man, but which, on this occasion, seemed to have the very opposite effect of bringing spirit into a dead one. Suddenly the eyelids closed over the staring eyes; there was a shudder passed over the whole frame; the fingers seemed to grasp at some fancied object on the table, and at length respiration returned, at first in fitful gasps, but soon with regular and even quiet action. The eyes then opened again, and turned from face to face with some degree of consciousness; but they closed again after a momentary glance around, and he fell into what seemed a heavy sleep, distinguished from that still heavier sleep into which he had lately lain by the equable heaving of the chest.
The mother and the two girls looked on rejoicing, and Giulio, too, had a well-satisfied look, for such are the powers of that wonderful quality called vanity, that as it was under his hand the man recovered, he attributed his resuscitation entirely to his own skill; and had his patient been the devil himself come to plague him and all the world, good Giulio would have glorified himself upon the triumph of his exertions. And well he might; for, unfortunately, as this world goes, men glory as much over their success in bad as in good actions, judging not the merit of deeds by their consequences, even where those consequences are self-evident. Success, success is all that the world esteems. It is the gold that will not tarnish--the diamond whose lustre no breath can dim.
The old contadino, however, was even less pleased with the result of his family's efforts than he had been with the efforts themselves.
"Satan will owe us something," he muttered, "for snatching from him one of his own, and he is a gentleman who always pays his debts. By my faith, I will go up and tell the count what has chanced. I do not choose to be blamed for these women's mad folly. Better let him know at once, while the fellow is in such a state that a pillow over his mouth will soon put out the lighted flame they have lighted in him--if my lord pleases."
"What are you murmuring there, you old hyena?" asked his gentle wife.
"Oh, nothing, nothing, good dame," replied the husband; "'twas only the fellow's grimaces made me sick, and I must out into the podere. C--e! I did not think you would have succeeded so well with the poor devil. I hope he'll soon be able to jog away from here; for, though he may move and talk again--and I dare say he will--I shall always look upon him as a dead man, notwithstanding. Suppose, now, that it should not be his own soul that has come back into him, wife, but some bad spirit, that all your working and water--I am sure it was not holy water--has brought back into his poor, miserable corpse!"
"Jesu Maria! do not put such thoughts into my head, Giovanozzo," exclaimed the old lady with a look of horror; "but that cannot be, either, for I made Giulio put some salt into the water, and the devil can never stand that; so go along with you. You cannot frighten me. Go and try to get back your senses, for you seem to have lost them, good man."
The contadino was glad to get away unquestioned; and, unlocking the door, he issued forth from his house. At first he did not turn his steps toward the villa, but took a path which led down to the river. At the distance of some hundred or hundred and fifty yards, however, where the trees screened him from his own dwelling, he looked round to see that none of his family followed, and then turned directly up the little rise. When near the terrace he saw a man coming down the steps toward him, and suddenly paused; but a moment's observation showed him that he need have no alarm. The person who approached was no other than Antonio, between whom and the good peasant a considerable intimacy had sprung up since Lorenzo Visconti had been at the Villa Rovera. Would you taste the best wine on an estate, or eat the sweetest fig of the season, make friends with the contadino and his family; and, perhaps acting on this maxim, Antonio had often been down to pass an hour or two with Giovanozzo, and enliven the whole household with his jests.
"The very man," said the contadino to himself; "he'll tell me just what I ought to do. He has travelled, and seen all manner of things. He is just the person. Signor Antonio, good morning to your excellency! What is in the wind to-day?"
"Nothing but a strong scent of dead carrion that I can smell," answered Antonio.
"Well," said the contadino, with a grin, "I do not wonder, for there's carrion down at our house, and the worst carrion a man think of, for it's not only dead carrion, but live carrion, too."
"Alive with maggots. I take you," answered Antonio; "that is a shallow conceit, Giovanozzo. It hardly needs an ell yard to plumb that."
"Nay, nay you are not at the bottom of it yet," replied the peasant; "it is alive and dead, and yet no maggots in it."
"Then the maggots are in thy brain," answered Antonio. "But speak plainly, man, speak plainly. If you keep hammering my head with enigmas, I shall have no brains left to understand your real meaning."
"Well, then, signor," said the contadino, gravely, "I want advice."
"And, like a wise man, come to me," replied his companion; "mine is the very shop to find it; I have plenty always on hand for my customers, never using any of it myself, and receiving it fresh daily from those who have it to spare. What sort of advice will you have, Giovanozzo? the advice interested or disinterested--the advice fraternal or paternal--the advice minatory, or monitory, or consolatory--the advice cynical or philosophical?"
"Nay, but this is a serious matter, signor," answered the contadino.
"Then you shall have serious advice," answered Antonio. "Proceed. Lay the case before me in such figures as may best suit its condition, and I will try and fit my advice thereunto as tight as a jerkin made by a tailor who loves cabbage more than may consist with the ease of his customers."
"Well, let us sit down on this bank," said Giovanozzo, "for it is a matter which requires much consideration and--"
"Like a hen's egg, requires to be sat upon," interrupted Antonio. "Well, in this also I will gratify you, signor. Now to your tale."
"Why, you must know," proceeded the contadino, "that this morning, an hour or two ago, just when I was coming up from the well, I saw Judita and Margarita, with Giulio, carrying something heavy into the house. It took all their strength, I can tell you, though the man was not a big man, after all."
"A man!" exclaimed Antonio; "was it a man they were carrying?"
"Nothing short of a man," replied Giovanozzo.
"And yet a short man too," said Antonio. "Was he a dead man?"
"Yes and no," replied the peasant; "he was dead then, but he is alive now. But just listen, signor. It seems that a whole troop of these Frenchmen came down this way at an early hour, on their way to Pavia, and that they halted at the gates; but before they halted, they saw a man on horseback, standing at the little turn-down to Signor Manini's podere; and that, as soon as he saw them, he tried to spur away, but their spurs were sharper than his; so they caught him and brought him back. Then, some hours after, up comes another party, and they held a sort of council over him, and confronted him with two or three other prisoners, and then strung him up to the branch of the great mulberry-tree. But presently some one came out of the villa and ordered him to be cut down, and as soon as that was done they all rode away, leaving him there lying on the road. That is what Giulio told me, for he was looking over the wall all the time."
"Dangerous peeping, Signor Giovanozzo," said Antonio solemnly; "but what did the lad do, then?"
"Why, he would have let him lie quiet enough, if he had had his own way," replied the contadino, "for Giulio is a discreet youth. He takes after me in the main, and knows when to let well enough alone, when his mother and his sisters are not at his heels; but the goodmadreyou know--" and here he added a significant grimace, which finished the sentence. "However," he continued, "Margarita, who is tiring-woman to the young contessa, came running out of the villa, and told Giulio that it was Bianca Maria's orders to see if there was any life in the man, and try to save him. So they looked at him together, and fancied they saw his face twitch, and then they called Judita and carried him down into the house."
"And then?" asked Antonio.
"Why, then they sluiced him with cold water, and poured Heaven knows what all down his throat, or into his mouth, at least."
"And then?" said Antonio, again.
"Why, then he began to wake up," replied the contadino, "and now he is snoring on a table down below, and I dare say he will be all the better for his hanging."
"He might have been so, if Giulio had not been too near," answered Antonio, drily, and then fell into a fit of thought.
"I am sure the devil has something to do with it," said Giovanozzo, in an inquiring tone.
"Beyond doubt," replied Antonio, solemnly; "but whether in the hanging or the resuscitation, who shall say? However, I will go down and see the gentleman. Do you know who he is?"
"One of Signor Buondoni's men, I fancy," replied the peasant. "We hear the signor was killed last night on the terrace, and I was thinking to come up and see the corpse. He must lay out handsomely, for he was a fine-looking man. I saw him by the moonlight just when he came to the gates yester-evening. I hope you do not think our people will be blamed by the old count for whatever we have done."
"Oh, no," replied Antonio, "you have done right well; though, if you had killed the one and not saved the other, you might have done better. Now let us go down to your house."
They walked some hundred yards in silence, and then Antonio said abruptly, "I wonder what is the good man's name. One of my old playfellows was in Buondoni's service, I hear. What like is he, Giovan'?"
"Why he is little and thin," answered the contadino, "with a big beard like a German's, and a sharp face. His muzzle is much like a hedgehog's, only he is as yellow as a lemon."
"That has to do with the hanging," answered Antonio. "I have seen many a man hanged when I was in France. The late king, who was no way tender, did a good deal in that way, and most of those he strung up were very yellow when they were cut down. I should have thought it would have turned them blue, but it was not so. However, I think I know this gentleman, and if so, must have a talk with him before he goes forth into the wicked world again. I would fain warn him, as a friend, against bad courses, which, though (as he must have found) they often lead to elevated places, are sure to end in a fall, and sometimes in a broken neck. But here we are before your house, Giovanozzo, and there goes Giulio, seeking you, I expect. Let him go, man--let him go. I wish you would send Margarita one way after him and Judita the other, and then get up a little quarrel with your amiable wife, for I must positively speak with this gentleman alone, and may bestow some time upon him."