Born a peasant, the unhappy Camilla had, like Italy, the fatal gift of beauty. Silvio, who was, by vocation, as we have already said, a wild-boar hunter, used often, in his expeditions to the Pontine Marshes, to rest at the house of the good Marcello, the father of Camilla, whose cottage was situated a short distance from Rome. The young pair became enamored of each other. Silvio demanded her in marriage, and her father, giving a willing consent, they were betrothed.
Perfectly happy and fair to look upon were this youthful pair, as they sat, hand in hand, under the shadows of the vine, watching the gorgeous sunsets of their native clime. This happiness, however, was not of long duration, for, during one of his hunting expeditions, Silvio caught the fever so common in the Pontine Marshes, and, as he continued to suffer for some months, the marriage was indefinitely postponed.
Meanwhile Camilla, who was too lovely and too innocent to dwell in safety near this most vicious of cities, had been marked as a victim by the emissaries of his Eminence, the Cardinal Procopio. It was her custom to carry fruit for sale to the Piazza Navona. On one occasion she was addressed by an old fruit-woman, previously instructed by Gianni, who plied her with every conceivable allurement and flattery, praised her fruit, and promised her the highest price for it at the palace of the cardinal, if she would take it thither. The rest of the story may be too easily imagined. In Rome this is an oft-told tale. To hide from her father and her lover the consequences of her fall, and to suit the convenience of the prelate, Camilla was persuaded to take up her residence in the palace Corsini, where, soon after its birth, her miserable infant was slaughtered by one of its father's murderous ruffians. This so preyed upon the unhappy mother, that she lost her reason, and was secretly immured in a mad-house. On the very night when she effected her escape this meeting was being held, and, after wandering from place to place, for many hours, without any fixed direction, she entered the Colosseum at the moment it was illumined by the lightning, as we have related. That flash disclosed the sentries at the archway, and she rushed towards them, obeying some instinct of safety, or at least perceiving that they were not clothed in the garb of a priest; but they, taking her for a spy, ran forward to make her prisoner. Thereupon, seemingly possessed of supernatural strength, she glided from their hands, and finally eluded their pursuit by running rapidly into the centre of the building, where she fell exhausted in the midst of the three hundred, at the foot of her outraged and ashamed lover.
"It is, indeed, time," said Attilio, when Silvio had related the maniac's story, to purge our city from this priestly ignominy; and drawing forth his dagger, brandished it above his head, as he exclaimed, "Accursed is the Roman who does not feel the degradation of his country, and who is not willing to bathe his sword in the blood of these monsters, who humiliate it, and turn its very soil into a sink."
"Accursed! accursed be they!" echoed back from the old walls, while the sound of dagger-blades tinkling together made an ominous music dedicated to the corrupt and licentious rulers of Rome.
Then Attilio turned to Silvio, and said, "This child is more sinned against than sinning; she requires and deserves protection. You, who are so generous, will not refuse it to her."
And Silvio was, indeed, generous, for he still loved his wretched Camilla, who at sight of him had become docile as a lamb. He raised her, and, enveloping her in his mantle, led her out of the Colosseum towards her father's dwelling.
"Comrades," shouted Attilio, "meet me on the 15th at the Baths of Caracalla. Be ready to use your arms if need be."
"We will be ready! we will be ready!" responded heartily the three hundred, and in a few moments the ruins were left to their former obscure and fearful solitude.
What a wild, improbable story, methinks we hear some of our readers remark, as they sit beside their safe coal fires in free England or the United States. But Popery has not been dominant in England since James II.'s time, and they I have forgotten it. Let them hear that in the year 1848, when a Republican government was established in France, which was the signal of a general revolutionary movement throughout Europe, the present Pope was forced to escape in the disguise of a menial, and a national government granted, for the first time in Rome, religious toleration, one of the first orders of the Roman republic was that the nuns should be liberated, and the convents searched. Guiseppe Garibaldi, in 1849, then recently arrived in Rome, visited himself every convent, and was present during the whole of the investigations. In all, without an exception, he found instruments of torture; and in all, without an exception, were vaults, plainly dedicated to the reception of the bones of infants. Statistics prove that in no city is there so great a number of children born out of wedlock as in Rome; and it is in Rome also that the greatest number of infanticides take place.
This must ever be the case with a wealthy unmarried priesthood and a poor andignorantpopulation.
We took leave of Manlio at the moment when Gianni had delivered his master's message. The sculptor acceded to the Cardinal's request, and, after an interview with him, proceeded to execute the order for the statuettes. For some days nothing occurred to excite suspicion, and things seemed to be going on smoothly enough. From the room which Gianni had hired Cencio watched the artist incessantly, all the while carefully maturing his plot. At last, one evening, when our sculptor was hard at work, Cencio broke into the studio, exclaiming excitedly, "For the love of God, permit me to remain here a little while! I am pursued by the police, who wish to arrest me. I assure you I am guilty of no crime, except that of being a liberal, and of having declared, in a moment of anger, that the overthrow of the Republic by the French was an assassination." So saying, Cencio made as though to conceal himself behind some statuary.
"These are hard times," soliloquized Manlio, "and little confidence can be placed in any body; yet, how can I drive out one compromised by his political opinions only—thereby, perhaps, adding to the number of those unfortunates now lingering in the priests' prisons? He looks a decent fellow, and would have a better chance of effecting his escape if he remained here till nightfall. Yes! he shall stay." Manlio, therefore, rose, and, beckoning to the supposed fugitive, bade him follow to the end of the studio, where he secreted him carefully behind some massive blocks of marble, little dreaming that he harbored a traitor.
Manlio had scarcely resumed his occupation before a patrol stopped before the door and demanded permission to make a domiciliary visit, as a suspected person had been seen to enter the house.
Poor Manlio endeavored to put aside the suspicions of the officer, so far as he could do so without compromising his veracity, and, little divining the trap into which he had fallen, attempted to lead him in a direction opposite to that in which the crafty Cencio had taken refuge. The patrol, being in league with Cencio, felt, of course, quite certain of his presence on the premises, but some few minutes elapsed before he succeeded in discovering the carefully-chosen hiding-place; and the interval would have been longer had not Cencio stealthily put out his hand and pulled him, the sbirro, gently by the coat as he passed. The functionary paused suddenly, exclaiming with an affected tone of triumph, "Ah! I have you!" then, turning upon Manlio, he seized the artist by the collar, saying, in the sternest of tones, "you must accompany me forthwith to the tribunal, and account for your crime in giving shelter to this miscreant, who is in open rebellion against the government of his Holiness."
Manlio, utterly beside himself, in the first burst of indignation, cast his eye around among the chisels, hammers, and other tools for something suitable with which to crack the skull of his insulter; but at this moment his wife, followed by the lovely Clelia, rushed into the apartment to ascertain the cause of so unwonted a disturbance. They trembled at the sight of their beloved one in the grasp of the hated police-officer, who cunningly relaxed his hold, and said, in a very different voice, as soon as he perceived them, "Be of courage, signor, and console these good ladies; your presence will be needed for a short time only. A few questions will be asked, to which undoubtedly you can give satisfactory replies."
In vain did the terrified women expostulate. Finding their tears and remonstrances of no avail, they reluctantly let go their hold of the unhappy Manlio, whom they had clasped in their terror. He, disdaining any appeal to the courtesy of such a scoundrel as he knew the patrol to be, waved them an adieu, and departed with a dignified air.
The Roman Republic, established by the unanimous and legitimate votes of the people, elected General Garibaldi, on the 30th June, legal guardian of the rights of the people, and conferred upon him the executive power of the State, which the Triumvirate resigned into his hands. This national government was overthrown by foreign bayonets, after a most heroic struggle for freedom. The first act of General Oudinot was to send a French colonel to lay the keys of the city at the feet of the Pope.
Thus was the power of the priests restored, and they returned to all their former tyranny and luxury.
These worthy teachers, when preaching to the Roman women about the glory of Heaven, impress upon them that they, and they only, have power to give free entrance into eternal bliss. To liberate these misguided beings from superstition, and rescue them from the deceit of their so-called "reverend fathers," is the question of life or death to Italy; this, in fact, is the only way in which to work out the deliverance of our country. Many will tell you there are good priests. But a priest, to become really good, must discard that wicked livery which he wears. Is it not the uniform of the promoters of brigandage over the half of Italy? Has it not marched as a pioneer-garb before every stranger that ever visited our country?
The priests, by their continual impostures and crafty abuse of the ignorance and consequent superstition of the people, have acquired great riches. Those who endeavor to retard our progress make a distinction between the temporal power, which should be combated, and the spiritual power, which should be respected; as if Antonelli, Schiatone, and Crocco, were spiritual ushers, by whom the souls of men should hope to be conducted into the presence of the Eternal. There are two chief sources of their wealth. Firstly, they exact a revenue for repentance, as the vicegerents of God upon earth, as such, claiming power to pardon all sin. A rich but credulous man may thus commit any crime he chooses with impunity, knowing that he has the means of securing absolution, and believing implicitly that, by rendering up a portion of his treasure or profit to the clergy, he will have no difficulty in escaping the wrath to come.
The next source of wealth is the tax upon the agonies of death.. At the bedside of the sick, by threats of purgatory and eternal perdition, they frighten their unhappy victims into bequeathing to Mother Church enormous legacies, if, indeed, they do not succeed in getting absolute possession of the whole of their estates, to the detriment of the legal heirs, who are not unfrequently in this manner reduced to beggary. Look, for instance, at the island of Sicily: one-half of that country now belongs to the priesthood, or various orders of monks.
But, to our tale. One evening, about nine o'clock, in the month of December, a thing in black might have been seen traversing the Piazza of the Rotunda—that magnificent monument of antiquity—every column a perfect work, worth its weight in silver—which the priests have perverted from sublime memories to their cunning uses. It was a figure which would have made a man shudder involuntarily, though he were one of the thousand of Calatifimi; enveloped in a black sottana—the covering of a heart still blacker, the heart of a demon, and one that contemplated the committal of a crime which only a priest would conceive or execute. A priest it was, and he made his stealthy path to the gateway of the house of Pompeo, where he paused a moment before knocking to gain admittance, casting glances around, to assure himself no one was in sight, as if he feared his guilty secret would betray itself, or as if pausing to add even to ecclesiastical wickedness a sin so cruel as he was meditating. He knocked at last. The door opened, and the porter, recognizing the "Reverend Father Ignazio," saluted him respectfully, and lighted him, as he entered, a few steps up the staircase of one of the richest residences of the city.
"Where is Sister Flavia?" demanded the priest of the first servant who came forward to meet him.
"At the bedside of my dying mistress," replied Siccio, in a constrained voice, for, being a true Roman, he had little sympathy for "the birds of ill-omen," as he profanely styled the reverend fathers.
Father Ignazio, knowing the house well, hurried on to the sick-room, at the door of which he gently tapped, requesting admittance in a peculiar tone. An elderly, sour-looking nun opened the door quickly, and with a significant expression on her evil countenance as her eyes sought those of the priest.
"Is all over?" whispered he, as he advanced towards the bed on which the expiring patient lay.
"Not yet," was the equally low reply.
Ignazio thereupon, without another word, took a small vial from under his sottana, and emptied the contents into a glass. With the assistance of the nun he raised his victim, and poured the deadly fluid down her throat, letting the head fall heavily back upon the pillows, whilst a complacent smile spread itself over his diabolical features as, after one gasp, the jaw fell. He then retired to a small table at the end of the apartment, where he seated himself, followed by Sister Flavia, who stealthily drew a paper from her dress and handed it to him.
Father Ignazio seized the paper with a trembling hand, and after perusing it with an anxious air, as if to convince himself that it was indeed the accomplishment of his desires, he thrust it into his breast, muttering, with an emphatic nod, "You shall be rewarded, my good Flavia."
That paper was the last will and testament of the Signora Virginia Pompeo, the mother of the brave Emilio Pompeo, who perished fighting on the walls of Rome, whence he fell, mortally wounded by a French bullet. His inconsolable widow did not long survive him, and committed, with her last breath, her infant son to the care of his doting grandmother, La Signora Virginia Pompeo, who tenderly cherished the orphan Muzio, the only remaining scion of the noble house of Pompeo. But, unhappily for him, Father Ignazio was her confessor. When the signora's health began to fail, and her mind to be weakened, the wily Father spared no means to convince her that she ought to make her will, and, as a sacred duty, to leave a large sum to be spent in masses for the release of souls from purgatory. The signora lingering for some time, the covetous priest felt his desires grow, and resolved to destroy this first will, and obtain another, purporting to leave the whole of her immense estates to the corporation of St. Francesco di Paola, and appoint himself as her sole executor. This document he prepared and intrusted to Sister Flavia, whom he had already recommended to the Signora Virginia as a suitable attendant. One morning she dispatched a hurried message to the confessor, reporting that the favorable time for signing the fraudulent document had arrived. He came, attended by witnesses, whom he had had no difficulty in procuring, and, after persuading the sinking and agonized lady that she ought to add a codicil to her will (which he pretended then and there to draw up) leaving a still larger sum to the Church, he guided her feeble hand as she unconsciously signed away the whole of her property, leaving her helpless grandson to beggary. As if to jeopardise his scheme, the signora rallied towards the afternoon, whereupon, fearing she might ask to see the will, and so discover his treachery, Father Ignazio resolved to make such an undesirable occurrence impossible, by administering an effective potion, which he set off to procure, wisely deferring his return till nightfall.
The result has been already disclosed; and while the false priest wrought this murder, the unconscious orphan, Muzio, slept peacefully in his little bed, still adorned with hangings wrought by a loving mother's hands, to awake on the morrow ignorant of his injury, but robbed of his guardian and goods together—stripped of all, and forthwith dependent on chance—a friendless and beggared boy.
Eighteen years had rolled by since the horrible murder of La Signora Virginia related in the last chapter. On the same piazza which Father Ignazio had traversed that dark night stood a mendicant, leaning moodily, yet not without a certain grace, against a column. It was February, and the beggar lad was apparently watching the setting sun. The lower part of his face was carefully concealed in his cloak, but from the little that could be discerned of it, it seemed decidedly handsome; one of those noble countenances, in fact, that once seen, impresses its features indelibly on the beholder's memory. A well-formed Roman nose was well set between two eyes of dazzling blue; eyes that could look tender or stem, according to the possessor's mood. The shoulders, even under the cloak, showed grandly, and could belong only to a strength which it would be dangerous to insult, or rashly attack. Poor as its garb was, such a figure would be eagerly desired by a sculptor who sought to portray a young Latin athlete.
A slight touch upon the shoulder caused the young mendicant to turn sharply; but his brow cleared as he welcomed, with a beaming smile, Attilio's familiar face, and heard him saying, in a lively tone, "Ah! art thou here, brother?" And although no tie of blood was between them, Attilio and Muzio might, indeed, have been mistaken for brothers, their nobility of feature and brave young Roman bearing being so much alike.
"Art thou armed?" inquired Attilio.
"Armed!" repeated Muzio, somewhat disdainfully. "Assuredly; is not my poniard my inheritance, my only patrimony? I love it as well as thou lov'st thy Clelia, or I mine own. But love, forsooth," continued he, more bitterly; "what right to love has a beggar—an outcast from society? Who would believe that rags could cover a heart bursting with the pangs of a true passion?"
"Still," replied Attilio, confidently, "I think that pretty stranger does, in truth, love thee."
Muzio remained silent, and his former gloomy expression returned; but Attilio, seeing a storm arising in his friend's soul, and wishing to avert it, took him by the hand, saying gently, "Come."
The young outcast followed without proffering a word. Night was rapidly closing in, the foot passengers were gradually decreasing in number, and few footfalls, except those of the foreign patrols, broke the silence that was stealing over the city.
The priests are always early to leave the streets—they love to enjoy the goods of this world at home after preaching about the glories of the next, and care little to trust their skins in Rome after dark. May the day soon come when these mercenary cut-throats are dispensed with!
"We shall be quit of them, and that before long," answered Attilio hopefully, as they descended the Quirinal, now called Monte Cavallo, the site of the famous horses in stone,chefs-d'ouvreof Grecian art.
Pausing between two of these gigantic effigies, the young artist took from his pocket a flint and steel and struck a light, the signal agreed upon between him and the three hundred, some of whom had agreed to help him in a bold attempt to release Manlio from his unlawful imprisonment.
The signal was answered immediately from the extreme end of the Piazza; the two young men advanced towards it, and were met by a soldier belonging to a detachment on guard at the palace, who conducted them through a half-concealed doorway near the principal entrance, up a narrow flight of stairs into a small room generally used by the commander of the guard; here he left them, and another soldier stepped forward to receive the pair, who, after placing chairs for them at a table, on which burned an oil-lamp, flanked by two or three bottles and some glasses, seated himself.
"Let us drink a glass of Orvieto, my friends," said the soldier; "it will do us more good on a bitter night like this than the Holy Father's blessing," handing them each, as he spoke, a goblet filled to the brim.
"Success to your enterprise!" cried Muzio.
"Amen," responded Attilio, as he took a deep draught. "So Manlio has been brought here," said he, addressing Dentato, the sergeant of dragoons, for such was the name of their military friend..
"Yes; he was locked up last night in one of our secret cells, as if he had been the most dangerous of criminals, poor innocent! I hear he is to be removed shortly," added Dentato, "to the Castle of St. Angelo."
"Do you know by whose order he was arrested?" inquired Attilio.
"By the order of ins Eminence the Cardinal Procopio, it is said, who is anxious, doubtless, to remove all impediments likely to frustrate his designs upon the Pearl of Trastevere."
As Dentato uttered these words, a sudden tremor shook the frame of Attilio. "And at what hour shall we make the attempt to liberate him?" he hissed, as his hand clenched his dagger.
"Liberate him! Why, we are too few," the soldier replied.
"Not so," continued Attilio. "Silvio has given his word that he will be here shortly with ten of our own, and then we shall have no difficulty in dealing with these sbirri and monks." After a pause, Dentato responded, "Well, as you are, then, determined to attempt his release to-night, we had better wait a few hours, when jailers and director will be asleep, or under the influence of their liquor. My lieutenant is, fortunately, detained by a delicate affair at a distance, so we will try it if your friend turns up." Before he could well finish his speech, however, Dentato was interrupted by the entrance of the guard left at the gate, announcing the arrival of Silvio.
Before continuing my story I must remark upon one of the most striking facts in Rome—viz., the conduct and bravery of the Roman soldiery.
Even the Papal troops have a robust and martial air, and retain an individual worth of character to an astonishing degree. In the defense of Rome, all the Roman artillerymen (observe, all) were killed at their guns, and a reserve of the wounded, a thing unheard of before, bleeding though they were, continued to fight manfully until cut down by the sabres of their foes. On the 3d of June the streets were choked with mutilated men, and amongst the many combats after the city was taken, between the Roman soldiery and the foreigners, there did not occur one example where the Romans had the worst of it in any thing like fair fight.
Of one point, therefore, the priesthood is certain—that in every case of general insurrection the Roman army will go with the people. This is the reason they are compelled to hire foreign mercenaries, and why the revenues of the "Vicegerent of Heaven" are spent upon Zouaves, Remington rifles, cartridges, and kilos of gunpowder.
Silvio was received by the triad with exclamations of joy. After saluting them, he turned to Attilio, saying, "Our men are at hand. I have left them hidden in the shadows cast by the marble horses. They but await our signal."
Then Attilio sprang up, saying, "Muzio and I will go at once to the jailer, and secure the keys. You, Dentato, guide Silvia and his men to the door of the cell, and overpower the guard stationed before it."
"So be it," replied Dentato; "Scipio (the dragoon who had introduced Silvio) shall lead you to the jailer's room; but beware Signor Pancaldo, he is a devil of a fellow to handle."
"Leave me to manage him," replied Attilio, and he hastily left the apartment, preceded by Scipio and Muzio. Such an attempt as they were about to make would be a more difficult, if not an incredible thing, in any other country, where more respect is attached to Government and its officers. In Rome little obedience is due to a Government which, alas, is opposed to all that is pure and true.
Dentato, after summoning Silvio's men, led them to the guards stationed at the entrance to the cells. Silvio waited until the sentinel turned his back upon them, then, springing forward with the agility that made him so successful when pursuing the wild boar, he hurled the sentinel to the ground, covering his mouth with his hand to stifle any cry of alarm. The slight scuffle aroused the sleepy questor-guard, but before they could even rub their eyes, Silvio's men had gagged and bound them. As they accomplished this, Attilio appeared with Muzio, convoying the reluctant jailer and his bunch of keys between them.
"Open!" commanded Attilio.
The jailer obeyed with forced alacrity, whereupon they entered a large vaulted room, out of which opened, on every side, doors leading to separate cells. At sight of them, a soldier, the only inmate visible, approached with a perplexed air.
"Where is Signor Manlio?" demanded Antilio; and Pancaldo felt the grip of the young artist clutch his wrist like iron, and noticed his right hand playing terribly with the dagger-hilt.
"Manlio is here," said he.
"Then release him," cried Attilio.
The terrified jailer attempted to turn the key, but some minutes passed before his trembling hands allowed him to effect this. Attilio, pushing him aside as the bolts shot back, dashed open the door, and called to Manlio to come forth.
Picture the sculptor's astonishment and joy when he beheld Attilio, and realized that he had come to release him from his cruel and unjust incarceration. Attilio, knowing they ought to lose no time in leaving the palace, after returning his friend's embrace, bade Muzio lock up the guard in the cell. As soon as this was accomplished, they led the jailer between them through the passages, passing on their way the soldiers whom they had previously bound, who glared upon them with impotent rage, till they gained the outer door in silence and safety. Dividing into groups, they set off at a quick pace, in different directions. Attilio, Muzio, and Manlio, however, retained possession a little while of the jailer, whom they made to promenade, gagged and blindfolded, until they thought their companions were at a safe distance. They then left him, and proceeded in the direction of the Porta Salaria, which leads into the open country.
At the hour when Silvio, with despair in his soul, led the unhappy Camilla out of the Colosseum towards her father's house, not a word passed between them. He regarded her with tender pity, having loved her ardently, and feeling that she was comparatively innocent, being, as she was, the victim of deception and violence.
Onward they went in silence and sadness. Silvio had abstained from visiting her home since it was so suddenly deserted by Camilla, and as they neared it a presentiment of new sorrowing took possession of him. Turning out of the high road into a lane, their meditations were broken in upon by the barking of a dog. "Fido! Fido!" cried Camilla, with more joyousness than she had experienced for many many months; but, as if remembering suddenly her abasement, she checked her quickened step, and, casting down her eyes, stood motionless, overwhelmed with shame. Silvio had loved her too dearly even to hate her for her guilt. Or if he had ever felt bitterly against her, her sudden appearance that night, wild with remorse and misery, had brought back something of the old feeling, and he would have defended her against a whole army. He had therefore sustained her very tenderly through the walk from the Colosseum, and had been full of generous thoughts, although silent; while she, timidly leaning on his strong arm, had now and then learned by a timid glance, that he was pitying and not abominating her by that silence.
But when she stopped and trembled at the sound of the house-dog's bark, Silvio, fearing a return of a paroxysm of madness, touched her arm, saying, for the first time, "Come, Camilla, it is your little Fido welcoming you; he has recognized your footstep."
Scarcely had he uttered these words before the dog itself appeared. After pausing a moment in his rush, as if uncertain, he sprang towards Camilla, barking, and jumping, and making frantic efforts to lick her face and hands. Such a reception would have touched a heart of stone.
Camilla burst into tears as she stooped to caress the affectionate animal; but nature was exhausted, and she fell senseless on the damp ground. Silvio, after covering her with his mantle, to protect her from the cold morning air—for the dawn had already begun to break—went to seek her father.
The barking of the dog had aroused the household, so that the young hunter perceived, as he approached, a boy standing on the threshold, looking cautiously around, as if distrusting so early a visitor.
"Marcellino," he shouted; whereat the boy, recognizing the friendly familiar voice, ran to him, and threw his arms around his neck.
"Where is your godfather, my boy?" Silvio asked; but receiving no response save tears, he said again, "Where is Marcello?"
"He is dead," replied the sobbing child. "Dead!" exclaimed Silvio, sinking upon a stone, overcome with surprise and emotion. Very soon the tears rolled down his masculine cheeks, and mingled with those of the child, who lay upon his bosom.
"O God!" he cried aloud; "canst thou permit the desires of a monster to cause such suffering to so many and to such precious human creatures? Did I not feel the hope that the day of my beloved country's release from priestly tyranny is at hand I would plunge my dagger into my breast, and not endure to see this daylight break!" Recovering himself with a violent effort, he returned, accompanied by Marcellino, to Camilla, whom he found in an uneasy sleep. "Poor girl, poor ruined orphan," murmured Silvio, as he gazed upon her pale and wasted beauty; "why should I arouse you? You will but awake too soon to a life of tears, misery, and vain repentance!"
We left Attilio, Silvio, and Manlio on their way to the suburbs. Attilio had determined that the house lately tenanted by poor Marcello, and still inhabited by Camilla, would be a safe hiding-place for the liberated sculptor, who could scarcely be prevailed upon not to return at once to his own home, so great was his desire to behold his cherished wife and daughter.
As they trudged on, each busy with his own thoughts, Attilio turned over in his mind the visit of Gianni to the studio, for the information Sergeant Dentato had given him relative to the arrest confirmed his suspicion that the Cardinal was plotting villainy against his Clelia. After some reflection, he concluded to impart his suspicion to Manlio, who, when he had recovered from his first surprise and horror, declared his belief that Attilio's surmises were correct, and that it was necessary at once to hasten home in order to preserve his darling from infamy.
Attilio, however, aided by Muzio, at last prevailed upon him to conceal himself, promising to go and inform the ladies of the designs against them as soon as he had placed the father in safety.
Attilio, in truth, though so young, had the talent of influencing and guiding those with whom he came in contact, and the soundness of his judgment was frequently acknowledged, even by men advanced in years. Reluctantly, Manlio felt that he could not do better than to intrust the care of his dear ones to this generous youth.
The day was beginning to dawn as they neared the cottage at the end of the lane, and, just as on the occasion of Camilla's return on the night of the meeting, Fido barked furiously at their approach. At Silvio's voice, the dog was quieted instantly, and again Marcellino met him at the door. Silvio, after saluting the lad, asked where Camilla was. "I will show you," was the answer, and leading the way, he took them to an eminence near the cottage, from which they beheld, at a little distance, a cemetery. "She is there," said Marcellino, pointing with his finger; "she passes all her time, from morn till eve, at her father's grave, praying and weeping. You will find her there, at all hours, now." Silvio, without a word to his companions, who followed slowly, strode on towards the spot indicated, which was close by, and soon came in view of Camilla, clad in deep mourning, kneeling beside a mound of newly-turned earth.
She was so absorbed, that the approach of the three friends was unperceived. Silvio, deeply moved, watched her, without daring to speak, and neither of the others broke the silence. Presently she rose, and clasping her hands in agony, cried bitterly, "Oh, my father, my father, I was the cause of your death!" "Camilla," whispered Silvio, coming close up. She turned, and gazing at them with a sweet but vacant smile, as if her lover's face brought her sin-comprehended comfort, passed on in the direction of her home, for the poor girl had not yet regained her reason.
Silvio touched her on the arm, as he overtook her, saying, "See Camilla, I have brought you a visitor, and if any one should ask who this gentleman is, tell them he is an antiquary who is studying the ruins around Rome." This was the rôle which Attilio had persuaded Manlio to play, until some plan for the future had been formed. After a short consultation, as to the precautions they were to observe, Attilio bade them farewell, and returned to the city alone, leaving behind him, with many a thought of pity and stern indignation, this father's humble household, devastated by the devices of the foul priest.
We must return to the sculptor's domicile, where two days had elapsed after the arrest of Manlio, nor had Attilio who was gone in search of him, as yet appeared, so that the family were reduced to the greatest anxiety.
"What can they be doing with your good father?" repeated constantly the weeping mother to her daughter. "He has never mixed with any one whose principles would compromise him, although a Liberal. He hates the priests, I know, and they deserve to be hated for their vices, but he has never talked about it to any one but me."
Clelia shed no tears, but her grief at her father's detention was almost deeper than that of her mother, and at last, saddened by these plaints, she said, with energy, "Weep no more, mother, tears are of no avail; we must act We must discover where my father is concealed, and, as Monna Aurelia has advised, we must endeavor to procure his release. Besides, Attilio is in search of him, and I know he will not desist until he has helped him and us, if he have not already done so."
A knock interrupted Clelia's consolatory words. She ran to the door, and opening it, admitted a neighbor, whose name has been mentioned, Monna Aurelia, and old and tried friend.
"Good day," said she, as she entered the sitting-room with a cheerful countenance.
"Good day," answered Silvia, with a faint smile, wiping her eyes.
"I bring you something, neighbor; our friend Cassio, whom I consulted about your husband's affairs, has drawn up this petition on stamped paper, supplicating the cardinal minister to set Manlio at liberty. He says you must sign it, and had better present it in person to his Eminence."
Silvia took the paper, and looked at it doubtfully. She felt a strong aversion to this proposition. Could she throw herself at the feet of a person whom she despised to implore his mercy? Yet perhaps her husband's life was at stake; he might even now be suffering insults, privations, even torture. This thought struck a chill to the heart of the wife, and, rising, she said decidedly, "I will go with it."
Aurelia offered to accompany her, and in less than half an hour the three women were on the road to the palace.
At nine o'clock that same morning, as it happened, the Cardinal Procopio, Minister of State, had been informed by the questor of the Quirinal of Manlio's escape.
Great was the fury of the prelate at the unwelcome news, and he commanded the immediate arrest and confinement of the directors, officers on guard, dragoons, and of all, in fact, who had been in charge of the prison on the previous night.
Dispatching the questor with this order, he summoned Gianni to his presence.
"Why, in the devil's name, was that accursed sculptor confined in the Quirinal, instead of being sent to the Castle of St. Angelo?" he inquired.
"Your Eminence," replied Gianni, conceitedly, "should have intrusted such important affairs to me, and not to a set of idiots and rascals who are open to corruption."
"Dost thou come here to annoy me by reflections, sirrah?" blustered the priest. "Search in that turnip head of thine for means to bring the girl to me, or the palace cellars shall hear thee squeak thy self-praise to the tune of the cord or the pincers."
Gianni, knowing that these fearful threats were not vain ones, and that, incredible as it may appear to outsiders, tortures too horrible to describe daily take place in the Rome of the present day, meekly submitted to the storm. With downcast head, the mutilated wretch—for he was one of those maimed from their youth to sing falsettos in the choir of St. Peter—pondered how to act.
"Lift up thine eyes, knave, if thou darest, and tell me whether or no, after causing me to spend such pains and money in this attempt, thou hast the hope to succeed?"
Tremblingly Gianni raised his eyes to his master's face as he articulated with difficulty the words, "I hope to succeed."
But just as he spoke, to his considerable relief, a bell rang, announcing the arrival of a visitor. 'A servant in the Cardinal's colors entered, and inquired if his Eminence would be pleased to see three women who wished to present a petition.
The Cardinal, waving his dismissal to the still agitated Gianni, gave a nod of assent, and assumed an unctuous expression, as the three women were ushered into his presence.
Rome is the museum of the fine arts, the curiosity-shop of the world. There are collected the ruins of the ancient societies, temples, columns, statues, the remains of Italian and Grecian genius,chefs-d'ouvreof Praxiteles, Phidias, Raphael, Michael Angelo, and a hundred masters. Fountains, from which arise marine colossi, chiefly, alas, in ruins, meet the eye on all sides. The stranger is struck with amazement and admiration at the sight of these gigantic works of art, upon many of which are engraved the mighty battles of a wonderful by-gone age. It is not the fault of the priest if their beauty is not marred by endless mitres and superstitious signs. But they are still marvellous and beautiful, and it was among them that Julia, the beautiful daughter of Albion, was constantly to be found. She had resided for several years in this city of sublime memorials, and daily passed the greater part of her time in sketching all that to her cultivated taste appeared most worthy of imitation and study. Michael Angelo was her especially favoredmaestro, and she might frequently be seen sitting for hours before his colossal statue of Moses, rapt in the labor of depicting that brow, upon which, to her vivid imagination, sat an air of majestic greatness that appeared almost supernatural. Born and bred in free and noble England, she had separated herself voluntarily from loving and beloved friends, that she might thus wander undisturbed among the objects of her idolatry. Unexpectedly, her pursuits had been interrupted by a stronger feeling than art. She had encountered Muzio many times in the studio of the sculptor Manlio, and, poor and apparently low as he was, Julia had found under the ragged garb of a mendicant her ideal of the proud race of the Quirites.
Yes, obscure though he was, Muzio was beloved by this strange English girl. He was poor, but what cared she for his poverty.
And Muzio, did he know and return this generous love?
Yes, in truth; but, although he would have given his life to save hers, he concealed all consciousness of her interest, and allowed not a single action to betray it, though he longed fervently for occasion to render her some trifling service, and the opportunity came. As Julia was returning from Manlio's studio, some few days before his arrest, accompanied by her faithful old nurse, two drunken soldiers rushed upon her from a by-way, and dragged her between them some little distance, before Muzio, who secretly kept her in view during such transits, could come to her succor. No sooner had he reached them, than he struck one ruffian to the earth, seeing which, his fellow ran away. The terrified Julia thanked him with natural emotion, and besought him not to leave them until they reached their own door. Muzio gladly accepted the delicious honor of the escort, and felt supremely happy when, at their parting, Julia gave him the favor of her hand, and rewarded him with a priceless smile. From this evening Muzio's dagger was consecrated to her safety, and he vowed that never again should she be insulted in the streets of Rome.
It befell that the same day upon which Silvia went to the palace Corsini to present her petition, Julia was paying one of her visits to the studio. Arriving there, she was informed by a lad in attendance of all that had occurred. Whilst pondering over the ominous tale, Attilio entered in quest of the ladies, and from him the English girl learned the particulars of Manlio's escape. His narration finished, Julia, in turn, recounted to him the views that the youth had imparted to her concerning the presentation of the petition.
Attilio was much distressed, and could with difficulty be restrained from going directly to the palace in search of Silvia and her daughter. This would have been very imprudent, and therefore Julia offered, as she had access at all times to the palace, to go to the Cardinal's house, and ascertain the cause of the now prolonged absence of the mother and daughter, promising to return and tell him the result.
Attilio, thoroughly spent with excitement and fatigue, yielded to Spartaco's invitation to take some rest, whilst the boy related to him the particulars of what had passed since he left them to carry out the rescue of his friend.