The Baron at once proceeded to explain how the matter stood, and to ask Hawbury's opinion.
"Yes," said Lady Dalrymple, "I should really like to know what you think about it."
"Well, really," said Hawbury, "I have no acquaintance with the thing, you know. Never been on this road in my life. But, at the same time, I can assure you that this gentleman is a particular friend of mine, and one of the best fellows I know. I'd stake my life on his perfect truth and honor. If he says any thing, you may believe it because he says it. If he says there are brigands on the road, they must be there."
"Oh, of course," said Lady Dalrymple. "You are right to believe your friend, and I should trust his word also. But do you not see that perhaps he may believe what he says, and yet be mistaken?"
At this the Baron's face fell. Lord Hawbury's warm commendation of him had excited his hopes, but now Lady Dalrymple's answer had destroyed them.
"For my part," she added, "I don't really think any of us know much about it. I wish we could find some citizen of the town, or some reliable person, and ask him. I wonder whether the inn-keeper is a trust-worthy man."
The Baron shook his head.
"I wouldn't trust one of them. They're the greatest rascals in the country. Every man of them is in league with the Garibaldians and brigands. This man would advise you to take whatever course would benefit himself and his friends most."
"But surely we might find some one whose opinion would be reliable. What do you say to one of my drivers? The one that drove our carriage looks like a good, honest man."
"Well, perhaps so; but I wouldn't trust one of them. I don't believe there's an honest vetturino in all Italy."
Lady Dalrymple elevated her eyebrows, and threw at Hawbury a glance of despair.
"He speaks English, too," said Lady Dalrymple.
"So do some of the worst rascals in the country," said the Baron.
"Oh, I don't think he can be a very bad rascal. We had better question him, at any rate. Don't you think so, Lord Hawbury?"
"Well, yes; I suppose it won't do any harm to have a look at the beggar."
The driver alluded to was summoned, and soon made his appearance. He was a square-headed fellow, with a grizzled beard, and one of those non-committal faces which may be worn by either an honest man or a knave. Lady Dalrymple thought him the former; the Baron the latter. The result will show which of these was in the right.
The driver spoke very fair English. He had been two or three times over the road. He had not been over it later than two years before. He didn't know it was dangerous. He hadnever heard of brigands being here. He didn't know. There was a signore at the hotel who might know. He was traveling to Florence alone. He was on horseback.
As soon as Lady Dalrymple heard this she suspected that it was Count Girasole. She determined to have his advice about it. So she sent a private request to that effect.
It was Count Girasole. He entered, and threw his usual smile around. He was charmed, in his broken English, to be of any service to miladi.
To Lady Dalrymple's statement and question Girasole listened attentively. As she concluded a faint smile passed over his face. The Baron watched him attentively.
"I know no brigand on dissa road," said he.
Lady Dalrymple looked triumphantly at the others.
"I have travail dissa road many time. No dangaire—alla safe."
Another smile from Lady Dalrymple.
The Count Girasole looked at Hawbury and then at the Baron, with a slight dash of mockery in his face.
"As for dangaire," he said—"pouf! dere is none. See, I go alone—no arms, not a knife—an' yet gold in my porte-monnaie."
And he drew forth his porte-monnaie, and opened it so as to exhibit its contents.
A little further conversation followed. Girasole evidently was perfectly familiar with the road. The idea of brigands appeared to strike him as some exquisite piece of pleasantry. He looked as though it was only his respect for the company which prevented him from laughing outright. They had taken the trouble to summon him for that! And, besides, as the Count suggested, even if a brigand did appear, there would be always travelers within hearing.
Both Hawbury and the Baron felt humiliated, especially the latter; and Girasole certainly had the best of it on that occasion, whatever his lot had been at other times.
The Count withdrew. The Baron followed, in company with Hawbury. He was deeply dejected. First of all, he had hoped to see Minnie. Then he hoped to frighten the party back. As to the brigands, he was in most serious earnest. All that he said he believed. He could not understand the driver and Count Girasole. The former he might consider a scoundrel; but why should Girasole mislead? And yet he believed that he was right. As for Hawbury, he didn't believe much in the brigands, but he did believe in his friend, and he didn't think much of Girasole. He was sorry for his friend, yet didn't know whether he wanted the party to turn back or not. His one trouble was Dacres, who now was watching the Italian like a blood-hound, who had seen him, no doubt, go up to the ladies, and, of course, would suppose that Mrs. Willoughby had sent for him.
As for the ladies, their excitement was great. The doors were thin, and they had heard every word of the conversation. With Mrs. Willoughbythere was but one opinion as to the Baron's motive: she thought he had come to get a peep at Minnie, and also to frighten them back to Rome by silly stories. His signal failure afforded her great triumph. Minnie, as usual, sympathized with him, but said nothing. As for Ethel, the sudden arrival of Lord Hawbury was overwhelming, and brought a return of all her former excitement. The sound of his voice again vibrated through her, and at first there began to arise no end of wild hopes, which, however, were as quickly dispelled. The question arose, What brought him there? There seemed to her but one answer, and that was his infatuation for Minnie. Yet to her, as well as to Lady Dalrymple, it seemed very singular that he should be so warm a friend to Minnie's tormentor. It was a puzzling thing. Perhaps he did not know that the Baron was Minnie's lover. Perhaps he thought that his friend would give her up, and he could win her. Amidst these thoughts there came a wild hope that perhaps he did not love Minnie so very much, after all. But this hope soon was dispelled as she recalled the events of the past, and reflected on his cool and easy indifference to every thing connected with her.
Such emotions as these actuated the ladies; and when the guests had gone they joined their aunt once more, and deliberated. Minnie took no part in the debate, but sat apart, looking like an injured being. There was among them all the same opinion, and that was that it was all a clumsy device of the Baron's to frighten them back to Rome. Such being their opinion, they did not occupy much time in debating about their course on the morrow. The idea of going back did not enter their heads.
This event gave a much more agreeable feeling to Mrs. Willoughby and Lady Dalrymple than they had known since they had been aware that the Baron had followed them. They felt that they had grappled with the difficulty. They had met the enemy and defeated him. Besides, the presence of Hawbury was of itself a guarantee of peace. There could be no further danger of any unpleasant scenes while Hawbury was with him. Girasole's presence, also, was felt to be an additional guarantee of safety.
It was felt by all to be a remarkable circumstance that so many men should have followed them on what they had intended as quite a secret journey. These gentlemen who followed them were the very ones, and the only ones, from whom they wished to conceal it. Yet it had all been revealed to them, and lo! here they all were. Some debate arose as to whether it would not be better to go back to Rome now, and defy the Baron, and leave by another route. But this debate was soon given up, and they looked forward to the journey as one which might afford new and peculiar enjoyment.
On the following morning they started at an early hour. Girasole left about half an hour after them, and passed them a few miles alongthe road. The Baron and the Reverend Saul left next; and last of all came Hawbury and Dacres. The latter was, if possible, more gloomy and vengeful than ever. The visit of the Italian on the preceding evening was fully believed by him to be a scheme of his wife's. Nor could any amount of persuasion or vehement statement on Hawbury's part in any way shake his belief.
"No," he would say, "you don't understand. Depend upon it, she got him up there to feast her eyes on him. Depend upon it, she managed to get some note from him, and pass one to him in return. He had only to run it under the leaf of a table, or stick it inside of some book: no doubt they have it all arranged, and pass their infernal love-letters backward and forward. But I'll soon have a chance. My time is coming. It's near, too. I'll have my vengeance; and then for all the wrongs of all my life that demon of a woman shall pay me dear!"
To all of which Hawbury had nothing to say. He could say nothing; he could do nothing. He could only stand by his friend, go with him, and watch over him, hoping to avert the crisis which he dreaded, or, if it did come, to lessen the danger of his friend.
The morning was clear and beautiful. The road wound among the hills. The party went in the order above mentioned.
First, Girasole, on horseback.
Next, and two miles at least behind, came the two carriages with the ladies and their maids.
Third, and half a mile behind these, came the Baron and the Reverend Saul.
Last of all, and half a mile behind the Baron, came Hawbury and Scone Dacres.
These last drove along at about this distance. The scenery around grew grander, and the mountains higher. The road was smooth and well constructed, and the carriage rolled along with an easy, comfortable rumble.
They were driving up a slope which wound along the side of a hill. At the top of the hill trees appeared on each side, and the road made a sharp turn here.
Suddenly the report of a shot sounded ahead.
Then a scream.
"Good Lord! Dacres, did you hear that?" cried Hawbury. "The Baron was right, after all."
The driver here tried to stop his horses, but Hawbury would not let him.
"Have you a pistol, Dacres?"
"No."
"Get out!" he shouted to the driver; and, kicking him out of the seat, he seized the reins himself, and drove the horses straight forward to where the noise arose.
"It's the brigands, Dacres. The ladies are there."
"My wife! O God! my wife!" groaned Dacres. But a minute before he had been cursing her.
"Get a knife! Get something, man! Have a fight for it!"
Dacres murmured something.
Hawbury lashed the horses, and drove them straight toward the wood.
Theladies had been driving on, quite unconscious of the neighborhood of any danger, admiring the beauty of the scenery, and calling one another's attention to the various objects of interest which from time to time became visible. Thus engaged, they slowly ascended the incline already spoken of, and began to enter the forest. They had not gone far when the road took a sudden turn, and here a startling spectacle burst upon their view.
The road on turning descended slightly into a hollow. On the right arose a steep acclivity, covered with the dense forest. On the other side the ground rose more gradually, and was covered over by a forest much less dense. Some distance in front the road took another turn, and was lost to view among the trees. About a hundred yards in front of them a tree had been felled, and lay across the way, barring their progress.
About twenty armed men stood before them close by the place where the turn was. Among them was a man on horseback. To their amazement, it was Girasole.
Before the ladies could recover from their astonishment two of the armed men advanced, and the driver at once stopped the carriage.
Girasole then came forward.
"Miladi," said he, "I haf de honore of to invitar you to descend."
"Pray what is the meaning of this?" inquired Lady Dalrymple, with much agitation.
"It means dat I war wrong. Dere are brigand on dis road."
Lady Dalrymple said not another word.
The Count approached, and politely offered his hand to assist the ladies out, but they rejected it, and got out themselves. First Mrs. Willoughby, then Ethel, then Lady Dalrymple, then Minnie. Three of the ladies were white with utter horror, and looked around in sickening fear upon the armed men; but Minnie showed not even the slightest particle of fear.
"How horrid!" she exclaimed. "And now some one will come and save my life again. It'salwaysthe way. I'm surethisisn't my fault, Kitty darling."
Before her sister could say any thing Girasole approached.
"Pardon, mees," he said; "but I haf made dis recepzion for you. You sall be well treat. Do not fear. I lay down my life."
"Villain!" cried Lady Dalrymple. "Arrest her at your peril. Remember who she is. She has friends powerful enough to avenge her if you dare to injure her."
"You arra mistake," said Girasole, politely. "Se is mine, not yours. I am her best fren. Se is fiancée to me. I save her life—tell her my love—make a proposezion. Se accept me. Se is my fiancée. I was oppose by you. What else sall I do? I mus haf her. Se is mine. I am an Italiano nobile, an' I love her. Dere is no harm for any. You mus see dat I haf de right. But for me se would be dead."
Lady Dalrymple was not usually excitable, but now her whole nature was aroused; her eyes flashed with indignation; her face turned red; she gasped for breath, and fell to the ground. Ethel rushed to assist her, and two of the maids came up. Lady Dalrymple lay senseless.
With Mrs. Willoughby the result was different. She burst into tears.
"Count Girasole," she cried, "oh, spare her! If you love her, spare her. She is only a child. If we opposed you, it was not from any objection to you; it was because she is such a child."
"You mistake," said the Count, shrugging his shoulders. "I love her better than life. Se love me. It will make her happy. You come too. You sall see se is happy. Come. Be my sistaire. It is love—"
Mrs. Willoughby burst into fresh tears at this, and flung her arms around Minnie, and moaned and wept.
"Well, now, Kitty darling, I think it's horrid. You'reneversatisfied. You're always finding fault. I'm sure if you don't like Rufus K. Gunn, you—"
But Minnie's voice was interrupted by the sound of approaching wheels. It was the carriage of the Baron and his friend. The Baron had feared brigands, but he was certainly not expecting to come upon them so suddenly. The brigands had been prepared, and as the carriage turned it was suddenly stopped by the two carriages in front, and at once was surrounded.
The Baron gave one lightning glance, and surveyed the whole situation. He did not move, but his form was rigid, and every nerve was braced, and his eyes gleamed fiercely. He saw it all—the crowd of women, the calm face of Minnie, and the uncontrollable agitation of Mrs. Willoughby.
"Well, by thunder!" he exclaimed.
Girasole rode up and called out:
"Surrender! You arra my prisoner."
"What! it's you, is it?" said the Baron; and he glared for a moment with a vengeful look at Girasole.
"Descend," said Girasole. "You mus be bound."
"Bound? All right. Here, parson, you jump down, and let them tie your hands."
The Baron stood up. The Reverend Saul stood up too. The Reverend Saul began to step down very carefully. The brigands gathered around, most of them being on the side on which the two were about to descend. The Reverend Saul had just stepped to the ground.The Baron was just preparing to follow. The brigands were impatient to secure them, when suddenly, with a quick movement, the Baron gave a spring out of the opposite side of the carriage, and leaped to the ground. The brigands were taken completely by surprise, and before they could prepare to follow him, he had sprung into the forest, and, with long bounds, was rushing up the steep hill and out of sight.
One shot was fired after him, and that was the shot that Hawbury and Dacres heard. Two men sprang after him with the hope of catching him.
In a few moments a loud cry was heard from the woods.
"MIN!"
Minnie heard it; a gleam of light flashed from her eyes, a smile of triumph came over her lips.
"Wha-a-a-a-t?" she called in reply.
"Wa-a-a-a-a-a-it!" was the cry that came back—and this was the cry that Hawbury and Dacres had heard.
"Sacr-r-r-r-r-r-remento!" growled Girasole.
"I'm sureIdon't know what he means by telling me that," said Minnie. "How canIwait if this horrid Italian won't let me? I'm sure he might be more considerate."
Poor Mrs. Willoughby, who had for a moment been roused to hope by the escape of the Baron, now fell again into despair, and wept and moaned and clung to Minnie. Lady Dalrymple still lay senseless, in spite of the efforts of Ethel and the maids. The occurrence had been more to her than a mere encounter with brigands. It was the thought of her own carelessness that overwhelmed her. In an instant the thought of the Baron's warning and his solemn entreaties flashed across her memory. She recollected how Hawbury had commended his friend, and how she had turned from these to put her trust in the driver and Girasole, the very men who had betrayed her. These were the thoughts that overwhelmed her.
But now there arose once more the noise of rolling wheels, advancing more swiftly than the last, accompanied by the lash of a whip and shouts of a human voice. Girasole spoke to his men, and they moved up nearer to the bend, and stood in readiness there.
What Hawbury's motive was it is not difficult to tell. He was not armed, and therefore could not hope to do much; but he had in an instant resolved to rush thus into the midst of the danger. First of all he thought that a struggle might be going on between the drivers, the other travelers, and the brigands; in which event his assistance would be of great value. Though unarmed, he thought he might snatch or wrest a weapon from some one of the enemy. In addition to this, he wished to strike a blow to save the ladies from captivity, even if his blow should be unavailing. Even if he had known how matters were, he would probably have acted in precisely the same way. As for Dacres, he had but one idea. He was sure itwas some trick concocted by his wife and the Italian, though why they should do so he did not stop, in his mad mood, to inquire. A vague idea that a communication had passed between them on the preceding evening with reference to this was now in his mind, and his vengeful feeling was stimulated by this thought to the utmost pitch of intensity.
Hawbury thus lashed his horses, and they flew along the road. After the first cry and the shot that they had heard there was no further noise. The stillness was mysterious. It showed Hawbury that the struggle, if there had been any, was over. But the first idea still remained both in his own mind and in that of Dacres. On they went, and now they came to the turn in the road. Round this they whirled, and in an instant the scene revealed itself.
Three carriages stopped; some drivers standing and staring indifferently; a group of women crowding around a prostrate form that lay in the road; a pale, beautiful girl, to whom a beautiful woman was clinging passionately; a crowd of armed brigands with leveled pieces; and immediately before them a horseman—the Italian, Girasole.
One glance showed all this. Hawbury could not distinguish any face among the crowd of women that bent over Lady Dalrymple, and Ethel's face was thus still unrevealed; but he saw Minnie and Mrs. Willoughby and Girasole.
"What the devil's all this about?" asked Hawbury, haughtily, as his horses stopped at the Baron's carriage.
"You are prisoners—" began Girasole.
But before he could say another word he was interrupted by a cry of fury from Dacres, who, the moment that he had recognized him, sprang to his feet, and with a long, keen knife in his hand, leaped from the carriage into the midst of the brigands, striking right and left, and endeavoring to force his way toward Girasole. In an instant Hawbury was by his side. Two men fell beneath the fierce thrusts of Dacres's knife, and Hawbury tore the rifle from a third. With the clubbed end of this he began dealing blows right and left. The men fell back and leveled their pieces. Dacres sprang forward, and was within three steps of Girasole—his face full of ferocity, his eyes flashing, and looking not so much like an English gentleman as one of the old vikings in a Berserker rage. One more spring brought him closer to Girasole. The Italian retreated. One of his men flung himself before Dacres and tried to grapple with him. The next instant he fell with a groan, stabbed to the heart. With a yell of rage the others rushed upon Dacres; but the latter was now suddenly seized with a new idea. Turning for an instant he held his assailants at bay; and then, seizing the opportunity, sprang into the woods and ran. One or two shots were fired, and then half a dozen men gave chase.
Meanwhile one or two shots had been fired at Hawbury, but, in the confusion, they had not taken effect. Suddenly, as he stood with upliftedrifle ready to strike, his enemies made a simultaneous rush upon him. He was seized by a dozen strong arms. He struggled fiercely, but his efforts were unavailing. The odds were too great. Before long he was thrown to the ground on his face, and his arms bound behind him. After this he was gagged.
The uproar of this fierce struggle had roused all the ladies, and they turned their eyes in horror to where the two were fighting against such odds. Ethel raised herself on her knees from beside Lady Dalrymple, and caught sight of Hawbury. For a moment she remained motionless; and then she saw the escape of Dacres, and Hawbury going down in the grasp of his assailants. She gave a loud shriek and rushed forward. But Girasole intercepted her.
"Go back," he said. "De milor is my prisoner. Back, or you will be bound."
And at a gesture from him two of the men advanced to seize Ethel.
"Back!" he said, once more, in a stern voice. "You mus be tentif to miladi."
Ethel shrank back.
The sound of that scream had struck on Hawbury's ears, but he did not recognize it. If he thought of it at all, he supposed it was the scream of common terror from one of the women. He was sore and bruised and fast bound. He was held down also in such a way that he could not see the party of ladies. The Baron's carriage intercepted the view, for he had fallen behind this during the final struggle. After a little time he was allowed to sit up, but still he could not see beyond.
There was now some delay, and Girasole gave some orders to his men. The ladies waited with fearful apprehensions. They listened eagerly to hear if there might not be some sounds of approaching help. But no such sounds came to gladden their hearts. Lady Dalrymple, also, still lay senseless; and Ethel, full of the direst anxiety about Hawbury, had to return to renew her efforts toward reviving her aunt.
Before long the brigands who had been in pursuit of the fugitives returned to the road. They did not bring back either of them. A dreadful question arose in the minds of the ladies as to the meaning of this. Did it mean that the fugitives had escaped, or had been shot down in the woods by their wrathful pursuers? It was impossible for them to find out. Girasole went over to them and conversed with them apart. The men all looked sullen; but whether that arose from disappointed vengeance or gratified ferocity it was impossible for them to discern.
(see caption)
THE MÊLÉE.
The brigands now turned their attention to their own men. Two of these had received bad but not dangerous wounds from the dagger of Dacres, and the scowls of pain and rage which they threw upon Hawbury and the other captives boded nothing but the most cruel fate to all of them. Another, however, still lay there. It was the one who had interceptedDacres in his rush upon Girasole. He lay motionless in a pool of blood. They turned him over. His white, rigid face, as it became exposed to view, exhibited the unmistakable mark of death, and a gash on his breast showed how his fate had met him.
The brigands uttered loud cries, and advanced toward Hawbury. He sat regarding them with perfect indifference. They raised their rifles, some clubbing them, others taking aim, swearing and gesticulating all the time like maniacs.
Hawbury, however, did not move a muscle of his face, nor did he show the slightest feeling of any kind. He was covered with dust, and his clothes were torn and splashed with mud, and his hands were bound, and his mouth was gagged; but he preserved a coolness that astonished his enemies. Had it not been for this coolness his brains might have been blown out—in which case this narrative would never have been written; but there was something in his look which made the Italians pause, gave Girasole time to interfere, and thus preserved my story from ruin.
Girasole then came up and made his men stand back. They obeyed sullenly.
Girasole removed the gag.
Then he stood and looked at Hawbury. Hawbury sat and returned his look with his usual nonchalance, regarding the Italian with a cold, steady stare, which produced upon the latter its usual maddening effect.
"Milor will be ver glad to hear," said he, with a mocking smile, "dat de mees will be take good care to. Milor was attentif to de mees; but de mees haf been fiancée to me, an' so I take dis occazione to mak her mine. I sall love her, an' se sall love me. I haf save her life, an' se haf been fiancée to me since den."
Now Girasole had chosen to say this to Hawbury from the conviction that Hawbury was Minnie's lover, and that the statement of this would inflict a pang upon the heart of his supposed rival which would destroy his coolness. Thus he chose rather to strike at Hawbury's jealousy than at his fear or at his pride.
But he was disappointed. Hawbury heard his statement with utter indifference.
"Well," said he, "all I can say is that it seems to me to be a devilish odd way of going to work about it."
"Aha!" said Girasole, fiercely. "You sall see. Se sall be mine. Aha!"
Hawbury made no reply, and Girasole, after a gesture of impatience, walked off, baffled.
In a few minutes two men came up to Hawbury, and led him away to the woods on the left.
(see caption)
"THEY SAW A RUINED HOUSE."
Girasolenow returned to the ladies. They were in the same position in which he had left them. Mrs. Willoughby with Minnie, and Ethel, with the maids, attending to Lady Dalrymple.
"Miladi," said Girasole, "I beg your attenzion. I haf had de honore to inform you dat dis mees is my fiancée. Se haf give me her heart an' her hand; se love me, an' I love her. I was prevent from to see her, an' I haf to take her in dis mannaire. I feel sad at de pain I haf give you, an' assuir you dat it was inevitabile. You sall not be troubled more. You are free. Mees," he continued, taking Minnie's hand, "you haf promis me dis fair han', an' you are mine. You come to one who loves you bettaire dan life, an' who you love. You owe youair life to me. I sall make it so happy as nevair was."
"I'm sureIdon't want to be happy," said Minnie. "I don'twantto leave darling Kitty—and it's a shame—and you'll make mehateyou if you do so."
"Miladi," said Girasole to Mrs. Willoughby, "de mees says se not want to leaf you. Eef you want to come, you may come an' be our sistaire."
"Oh, Kitty darling, you won't leave me, will you, all alone with this horrid man?" said Minnie.
"My darling," moaned Mrs. Willoughby, "how can I? I'll go. Oh, my sweet sister, what misery!"
"Oh, now that will be reallyquitedelightful if youwillcome, Kitty darling. Only I'm afraid you'll find it awfully uncomfortable."
Girasole turned once more to the other ladies.
"I beg you will assura de miladi when she recovaire of my considerazion de mos distingue, an' convey to her de regrettas dat I haf. Miladi," he continued, addressing Ethel, "you are free, an' can go. You will not be molest by me. You sall go safe. You haf not ver far. You sall fin' houses dere—forward—before—not far."
With these words he turned away.
"You mus come wit me," he said to Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie. "Come. Eet ees not ver far."
He walked slowly into the woods on the left, and the two sisters followed him. Of the two Minnie was far the more cool and collected. She was as composed as usual; and, as there was no help for it, she walked on. Mrs. Willoughby, however, was terribly agitated, and wept and shuddered and moaned incessantly.
"Kitty darling," said Minnie, "Iwishyou wouldn't go on so. You really make me feel quite nervous. I never saw you so bad in my life."
"Poor Minnie! Poor child! Poor sweet child!"
"Well, if I am a child, you needn't go and tell me about it all the time. It's really quite horrid."
Mrs. Willoughby said no more, but generously tried to repress her own feelings, so as not to give distress to her sister.
After the Count had entered the wood with the two sisters the drivers removed the horses from the carriages and went away, led off by the man who had driven the ladies. This was the man whose stolid face had seemed likely to belong to an honest man, but who now was shown to belong to the opposite class. These men went down the road over which they had come, leaving the carriages there with the ladies and their maids.
Girasole now led the way, and Minnie and her sister followed him. The wood was very thick, and grew more so as they advanced, but there was not much underbrush, and progress was not difficult. Several times a wild thought of flight came to Mrs. Willoughby, but was at once dispelled by a helpless sense of its utter impossibility. How could she persuade the impracticable Minnie, who seemed so free from all concern? or, if she could persuade her, how could she accomplish her desire? She wouldat once be pursued and surrounded, while, even if she did manage to escape, how could she ever find her way to any place of refuge? Every minute, also, drew them deeper and deeper into the woods, and the path was a winding one, in which she soon became bewildered, until at last all sense of her whereabouts was utterly gone. At last even the idea of escaping ceased to suggest itself, and there remained only a dull despair, a sense of utter helplessness and hopelessness—the sense of one who is going to his doom.
Girasole said nothing whatever, but led the way in silence, walking slowly enough to accommodate the ladies, and sometimes holding an overhanging branch to prevent it from springing back in their faces. Minnie walked on lightly, and with an elastic step, looking around with evident interest upon the forest. Once a passing lizard drew from her a pretty little shriek of alarm, thus showing that while she was so calm in the face of real and frightful danger, she could be alarmed by even the most innocent object that affected her fancy. Mrs. Willoughby thought that she understood Minnie before, but this little shriek at a lizard, from one who smiled at the brigands, struck her as a problem quite beyond her power to solve.
The woods now began to grow thinner. The trees were larger and farther apart, and rose all around in columnar array, so that it was possible to see between them to a greater distance. At length there appeared before them, through the trunks of the trees, the gleam of water. Mrs. Willoughby noticed this, and wondered what it might be. At first she thought it was a harbor on the coast; then she thought it was some river; but finally, on coming nearer, she saw that it was a lake. In a few minutes after they first caught sight of it they had reached its banks.
It was a most beautiful and sequestered spot. All around were high wooded eminences, beyond whose undulating summits arose the towering forms of the Apennine heights. Among these hills lay a little lake about a mile in length and breadth, whose surface was as smooth as glass, and reflected the surrounding shores. On their right, as they descended, they saw some figures moving, and knew them to be the brigands, while on their left they saw a ruined house. Toward this Girasole led them.
The house stood on the shore of the lake. It was of stone, and was two stories in height. The roof was still good, but the windows were gone. There was no door, but half a dozen or so of the brigands stood there, and formed a sufficient guard to prevent the escape of any prisoner. These men had dark, wicked eyes and sullen faces, which afforded fresh terror to Mrs. Willoughby. She had thought, in her desperation, of making some effort to escape by bribing the men, but the thorough-bred rascality which was evinced in the faces of these ruffians showed her that they were the very fellows who would take her money and cheat her afterward. If she had been able to speak Italian,she might have secured their services by the prospect of some future reward after escaping; but, as it was, she could not speak a word of the language, and thus could not enter upon even the preliminaries of an escape.
On reaching the house the ruffians stood aside, staring hard at them. Mrs. Willoughby shrank in terror from the baleful glances of their eyes; but Minnie looked at them calmly and innocently, and not without some of that curiosity which a child shows when he first sees a Chinaman or an Arab in the streets. Girasole then led the way up stairs to a room on the second story.
It was an apartment of large size, extending across the house, with a window at each end, and two on the side. On the floor there was a heap of straw, over which some skins were thrown. There were no chairs, nor was there any table.
"Scusa me," said Girasole, "miladi, for dis accommodazion. It gifs me pain, but I promise it sall not be long. Only dis day an' dis night here. I haf to detain you dat time. Den we sall go to where I haf a home fitter for de bride. I haf a home wharra you sall be a happy bride, mees—"
"But I don't want to stay hereat allin such a horrid place," said Minnie, looking around in disgust.
"Only dis day an' dis night," said Girasole, imploringly. "Aftaire you sall have all you sall wis."
"Well, at any rate, I think it's very horrid in you to shut me up here. You might let me walk outside in the woods. I'm soawfully fond of the woods."
Girasole smiled faintly.
"And so you sall have plenty of de wood—but to-morra. You wait here now. All safe—oh yes—secura—all aright—oh yes—slip to-night, an' in de mornin' early you sall be mine. Dere sall come a priest, an' we sall have de ceremony."
"Well, I think it was very unkind in you to bring me to such a horrid place. And how can I sit down? Youmighthave had a chair. And look at poor, darling Kitty. You may be unkind to me, but you needn't makehersit on the floor. You never savedherlife, and you have no right to be unkind to her."
"Unkind! Oh, mees!—my heart, my life, all arra youairs, an' I lay my life at youair foot."
"I think it would be far more kind if you would put a chair at poor Kitty's feet," retorted Minnie, with some show of temper.
"But, oh, carissima, tink—de wild wood—noting here—no, noting—not a chair—only de straw."
"Then you had no business to bring me here. You might have known that there were no chairs here. I can't sit down on nothing. But I suppose you expect me to stand up. And if that isn't horrid, I don't know what is. I'm sure I don't know what poor dear papa would say if he were to see me now."
(see caption)
"WHAT IS THIS FOR?"
"Do not grieve, carissima mia—do not, charming mees, decompose yourself. To-morra you sall go to a bettaire place, an' I will carra you to my castello. You sall haf every want, you sall enjoy every wis, you sall be happy."
"But I don't see how I can be happy without a chair," reiterated Minnie, in whose mind this one grievance now became pre-eminent. "You talk as though you think I am made of stone or iron, and you think I can stand here all day or all night, and you want me to sleep on that horrid straw and those horrid furry things. I suppose this is the castle that you speak of; and I'm sure I wonder why youeverthought of bringing me here. I suppose it doesn't make so much difference about acarpet; but you will not even let me have achair; and I think you'reveryunkind."
Girasole was in despair. He stood in thought for some time. He felt that Minnie's rebuke was deserved. If she had reproached him with waylaying her and carrying her off, he could have borne it, and could have found a reply. But such a charge as this was unanswerable.It certainly was very hard that she should not be able to sit down. But then how was it possible for him to find a chair in the woods? It was an insoluble problem. How in the world could he satisfy her?
Minnie's expression also was most touching. The fact that she had no chair to sit on seemed to absolutely overwhelm her. The look that she gave Girasole was so piteous, so reproachful, so heart-rending, that his soul actually quaked, and a thrill of remorse passed all through his frame. He felt a cold chill running to the very marrow of his bones.
"I think you'revery, veryunkind," said Minnie, "and I really don't see how I caneverspeak to you again."
This was too much. Girasole turned away. He rushed down stairs. He wandered frantically about. He looked in all directions for a chair. There was plenty of wood certainly—for all around he saw the vast forest—but of what use was it? He could not transform a tree into a chair. He communicated his difficulty to some of the men. They shook their heads helplessly. At last he saw the stump ofa tree which was of such a shape that it looked as though it might be used as a seat. It was his only resource, and he seized it. Calling two or three of the men, he had the stump carried to the old house. He rushed up stairs to acquaint Minnie with his success, and to try to console her. She listened in coldness to his hasty words. The men who were carrying the stump came up with a clump and a clatter, breathing hard, for the stump was very heavy, and finally placed it on the landing in front of Minnie's door. On reaching that spot it was found that it would not go in.
Minnie heard the noise and came out. She looked at the stump, then at the men and then at Girasole.
"What is this for?" she asked.
"Eet—eet ees for a chair."
"A chair!" exclaimed Minnie. "Why, it's nothing but a great big, horrid, ugly old stump, and—"
Her remarks ended in a scream. She turned and ran back into the room.
"What—what is de mattaire?" cried the Count, looking into the room with a face pale with anxiety.
"Oh, take it away! take it away!" cried Minnie, in terror.
"What? what?"
"Take it away! take it away!" she repeated.
"But eet ees for you—eet ees a seat."
"I don't want it. I won't have it!" cried Minnie. "It's full of horrid ants and things. And it's dreadful—andvery, verycruel in you to bring them up here just toteaseme, when youknowI hate them so. Take it away! take it away! oh, do please take it away! And oh, do please go away yourself, and leave me with dear, darling Kitty.Shenever teases me. She isalwayskind."
Girasole turned away once more, in fresh trouble. He had the stump carried off, and then he wandered away. He was quite at a loss what to do. He was desperately in love, and it was a very small request for Minnie to make, and he was in that state of mind when it would be a happiness to grant her slightest wish; but here he found himself in a difficulty from which he could find no possible means of escape.
"And now, Kitty darling," said Minnie, after Girasole had gone—"now you see how very, very wrong you were to be so opposed to that dear, good, kind, nice Rufus K. Gunn.Hewould never have treated me so.Hewould never have taken me to a place like this—a horrid old house by a horrid damp pond, without doors and windows, just like a beggar's house—and then put me in a room without a chair to sit on when I'm soawfully tired. He wasalwayskind to me, and that was the reason you hated him so, because you couldn't bear to have people kind to me. And I'msotired."
"Come, then, poor darling. I'll make a nice seat for you out of these skins."