Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty One.The Torreanis.On that same night in which the brigands had strayed into the town of Val di Orno, thesindicohad learned something which caused him more than ever to fear for the future. The bold, bullying behaviour of the men was itself sufficient to tell him of his own impotence, in case they had chosen to violate the laws of hospitality. But he had been told of something more, something personal to himself, or rather to his family—that family consisting solely of his daughter Lucetta. She and Luigi were his only children, and they had been motherless for many years.What he had learned is already known to the reader—that Corvino had been seen to cast longing looks upon his child. This is the Italian parlance when speaking of a preference of the kind supposed to exist in the bosom of a brigand. Francesco Torreani knew its significance. He was well aware of the personal attractions possessed by his daughter. Her great beauty had long been the theme, not only of the village of Val di Orno, but of the surrounding country. Even in the city itself had she been spoken of; and once, while on a visit there with her father, she had been beset by blandishments in which counts and cardinals had taken part; for these red-legged gentry of the Church are not callous to the smiles of witching woman.It was the second time Corvino had seen Lucetta Torreani; and her father was admonished that he had perhaps seen her twice too often, as that once more he might bring misery to his house, leaving it with a desolate hearth. There was no insinuation against the girl—no hint that she had in any way encouraged the bold advances of the brigand chief. On the contrary, it was known that she hated the sight of him, as she should do. It had been simply a warning, whispered in the father’s ear, that it would be well for her to be kept out of Corvino’s way. But how was this to be done?On the day after the visit of the band, Francesco Torreani noticed something strange in his daughter’s manner. There was an air of dejection not usual to her, for the pretty Lucetta was not given to gravity. Why should she be low-spirited at such a crisis? Her father inquired the cause.“You are not yourself to-day, my child,” he said, observing her dejected air.“I am not, papa; I confess it.”“Has anything occurred to vex you?”“To vexme! No, not quite that. It is thinking of another that gives me unhappiness.”“Of another! Who,cara figlia?”“Well, papa, I’ve been thinking of that poor youngInglese, who was carried away by those infamous men. Suppose it had been brother Luigi?”“Ay, indeed!”“What do you think they will do with him? Is his life in danger?”“No, not his life—that is, if his friends will only send the money that will be demanded for his ransom.”“But if he have no friends? He might not. His dress was not rich; and yet for all that he looked agalantuomo. Did he not?”“I did not take much notice of him, my child. I was too busy with the affairs of the town while the ruffians were here.”“Do you know, papa, what our girl Annetta has heard? Some one told her this morning.”“What?”“That the youngIngleseis an artist, just like our Luigi. How strange if it be so?”“’Tis probable enough. Many of these English residents in Rome are artists by profession. They come here to study our old paintings and sculptures. Hemaybe one, and very likely is. ’Tis a pity, poor fellow, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps if he were a greatmilordit would be all the worse for him. His captors would require a much larger sum for his ransom. If they find he can’t pay, they’ll be likely to let him go.”“I do hope they will; I do indeed.”“But why, child? Why are you so much interested in this young man? There have been others. Corvino’s band took three with them, the last time they passed through. You said nothing about them.”“I did not notice them, papa: and he—think of his being apittore! Suppose brother Luigi was treated so in his country?”“There is no danger of that. I wish we had such a country to live in; under a government where everything is secure, life, property, and—”Thesindicodid not say what besides. He was thinking of the admonition he had recently received.“And why should we not go to England? Go there and live with Luigi. He said in his last letter, he has been successful in his profession, and would like to have us with him. Perhaps this youngIngleseon his return may stop at the inn; and, if you would question him, he could tell us all about his country. If it be true what you say of it, why should we not go there to live?”“There, or somewhere else. Italy is no longer a home for us. The Holy Pontiff is too much occupied with his foreign affairs to find time for the protection of his people. Yes,cara figlia, I’ve been thinking of leaving Val di Orno—this day more than ever. I’ve almost made up my mind to accept the offer Signor Bardoni has made for my estate. It’s far below its value; but in these times—what’s all that noise in the street?”Lucetta ran to the window, and looked out.“Che vedette?” inquired her father.“Soldiers,” she replied. “There’s a great long string of them coming up the street. I suppose they’re after the brigands?”“Yes. They won’t catch them for all that. They never do. They’re always just in time to be too late! Come away from the window, child. I must go down to receive them. They’ll want quartering for the night, and plenty to eat and drink. What’s more, they won’t want to pay for it. No wonder our people prefer extending their hospitality to the brigands, who pay well for everything. Ah, me! it’s no sinecure to be thesindicoof such a town. If old Bardoni wishes it, he can have both my property and place. No doubt he can manage better than I. He’s better fitted to deal with banditti.”Saying this, thesindicotook up his official staff; and, putting on his hat, descended to the street, to give official reception to the soldiers of the Pope.“A grand officer!” said Lucetta, glancing slyly through the window-bars. “If he were only bravo enough to go after those brutes of brigands, and rescue that handsome youngInglese. Ah! if he’d only do that. I’d give him a smile for his pains.Povero pittore! Just like brother Luigi. I wonder now if he has a sister thinking of him. Perhaps he may have a—”The girl hesitated to pronounce the word “sweetheart,” though, as the thought suggested itself, there came a slight shadow over her countenance, as if she would have preferred knowing he had none.“Oh!” she exclaimed, once more looking out of the window. “The grand officer is coming home with papa; and there’s another—a younger one—with him. No doubt they will dine here; and I suppose I must go and dress to receive them.”Saying this, she glided out of the room; which was soon after occupied by thesindico, and his two soldier-guests.

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not, papa; I confess it.”

“Has anything occurred to vex you?”

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

“Of another! Who,cara figlia?”

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

“Ay, indeed!”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“I do hope they will; I do indeed.”

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

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

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

Thesindicodid not say what besides. He was thinking of the admonition he had recently received.

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

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

Lucetta ran to the window, and looked out.

“Che vedette?” inquired her father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirty Two.Captain Count Guardioli.The town of Val di Orno was now in military possession, and there was no longer any fear of a revisit from the bandits.The soldiers, in all about a hundred, were distributed by billet into the best houses while the officers took possession of the inn.The captain, however, not contented with such shelter as the humble hostelry afforded contrived to insinuate himself into more comfortable quarters, in the house of the chief magistrate of the town, who, as already known, was thesindicohimself.It was a hospitality somewhat reluctantly offered; and, under other circumstances, the offer might not have been made. But the times were troublous, the brigands were “abroad,” and people could not well act with churlishness towards their professed protectors.Besides, Francesco Torreani, on his own account, had need to show courtesy, or pretend it, to the soldiers of the Pope. It was suspected that he sympathised with that party of liberal views, fast growing in influence, and who, under the inspiration of Mazzini, was threatening an Italian republic.Compromised by this suspicion, thesindicoof Val di Orno required to act with circumspection in the presence of the Pope’s officer.The proposal for quarters in his house had come from the latter. It was made deferentially, and under some trifling excuse, but in a way to make refusal a delicate and difficult matter. Thesindicowas constrained to give consent; and the officer brought his luggage, along with his body servant, from the inn, leaving more room for his subalterns.Thesindicothought it strange, but said nothing. The explanation he gave to himself was not very consolatory. “To act as a spy upon me, I suppose. No doubt he has his orders from Antonelli.”Though plausible to him who made it, the conjecture was not true. Captain Count Guardioli had received no orders of the kind; though, likely enough, he had given the Vatican some hints of the political proclivities of thesindicoof Val di Orno.His desire to share the hospitality of the magistrate’s mansion was a thought that came, after his entering the house on that first merely official visit. The cause was simple enough. He had caught sight of thesindico’sfair daughter as she was crossing one of the corridors, and Captain Count Guardioli was not the man to close his eyes against such attractions as Lucetta possessed.Poor girl! To be assailed on every side—on one by acapoof bandits, on the other a captain of Papal soldiers. In truth, was she in danger? Fortunately for her peace of mind, she knew nothing of the designs of Corvino; though she was not long in discovering the inclinations of Captain Count Guardioli.His countship was one of those men who believe themselves irresistible—a true Italian lady-killer, with a semi-piratical aspect, eyes filled with intellectual fire, teeth of snowy whiteness, and coal-black moustaches, turning spirally along his cheeks. A maiden must have her mind powerfully preoccupied who could withstand his amorous assaults. So was he accustomed to declare in the ears of his military associates—boasting his irresistibility.No doubt, in the corrupt circles of the Apostolic city, he had had his successes. Count, captain, and cavalier, above all, an ardent pursuer of love adventures, it could scarce be otherwise.At first sight of Lucetta Torreani the Captain Count experienced a sensation akin to ecstasy. It was like one who has discovered a treasure, hitherto unseen by the eyes of man. What a triumph there would be in revealing it! To obtain it could be no great difficulty. A village damsel, a simple country girl, she would not be likely to resist the fascinations of one who brought along with him the accomplishments of the court, backed by the prestige of title and position.So reasoned Captain Count Guardioli; and, from that moment, commenced to lay siege to the heart of Lucetta Torreani. But, although from the city of Caesars, he could not say, as the first Caesar had done, “Veni—vidi—vici!” he came, and saw; but, after residing a week under the same roof with the “simple village damsel,” he was so far from having subdued her heart, that he had not made the slightest impression upon it; on the contrary, he had himself become enslaved by her charms. He had grown so enamoured of the beautiful Lucetta, that his passion was apparent to every one in the place, his own soldiers and subalterns included.Blinded by his ill-starred idolatry, he had abandoned even the dignity of concealing it; and followed hisignis fatuusabout—constantly forcing his company upon her in a manner that rendered him ridiculous.All this the father saw with chagrin, but could not help it. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that Lucetta was safe, so far as her heart was concerned. And yet every one did not believe this. In the character of thesindico’sdaughter there was nothing that could be called coquetry. It was rather an amiability, that hesitated about giving pain; and, influenced by this, she listened to the solicitations and flatteries of the Captain Count almost as if she relished them. It was only her father who thought otherwise. Perhaps he might be mistaken.As usual, the soldiers did but little service—none at all that was of any avail towards clearing the country of the bandits. They made occasional excursions to the neighbouring valleys, where the outlaws had been heard of, but where they could never be found. In these expeditions they were never accompanied by theircommandante. He could not tear himself away from the side of Lucetta Torreani, and the field duty was left to his lieutenants. By night the soldiers strayed about the town, got drunk in the liquor-shops, insulted the townsmen, took liberties with their women, and made themselves so generally disagreeable, that before a week had elapsed, the citizens of Val di Orno would have gladly exchanged their military guests for Corvino and his cut-throats.About ten days after their entry into the place, there came a report, which by the townspeople was received with secret satisfaction, not the less from their having heard a whisper as to the cause. The soldiers were to be recalled to Rome, to protect the Holy See from the approaches of the Republic.Even to that secluded spot had rumours reached, that a change was coming, and there were men in Val di Orno—where it might be supposed such an idea could scarce have penetrated—men ready to vociferate, “Eviva la Republica!” Itssindicowould have been among the foremost to have raised this regenerating cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirty Three.Improved Prison Fare.A week elapsed from the day the brigands had got back to their mountain den. The plunder had all been appropriated by three or four, to whom fortune had been most favourable. These were already the richest individuals in the band; for amid the mountains of Italy, as in the towns of Homburg and Baden, the banker in the end is sure to sweep in the stakes of the outsiders. Dame Fortune may give luck for a run; but he who can afford to lose longest will outrun her in the end.Among the winners was the brigand chief, and Cara Popetta put fresh rings upon her fingers, new brooches upon her breast, and additional chains around her neck.Another expedition began to be talked about, to provide fresh stakes for the game ofcapoorcroce. It was not to be either a grand or distant one—only a little spurt into one of the neighbouring valleys—the capture, if chance allowed it, of some petty proprietor, who might have ventured from the great city to have a look at his estates, or the seizure of such chattels as might be found in a country village. It was chiefly intended to fill up the time, until the return of that secret messenger who had been despatched to England, and from whose mission much was expected.Their Englishconfrèrehad given the brigands a hint of the great wealth of their captive’s father, and all were hopeful of receiving the grand ransom that had been demanded by thecapo. With five thousand pounds (nearly thirty thousandpezzos), they might play for a month, and go to sleep for another, without troubling themselves about the soldiers in pursuit.The little expedition, that was to form the interlude while this was being waited for, was soon organised—only about three-fourths of the band being permitted to take part in it. On this occasion the women were also left behind, Cara Popetta among the rest.The captive, inside his cell, only knew of its having started by the greater tranquillity that reigned around the place. There were still quarrels occurring at short intervals; but these appeared to be between the women, whose voices, less sonorous, were not less energetic in their accents of anger, or more refined in their mode of expressing it. Like their short-cropped hair, their vocabulary appeared to have been shorn of all its elegance—both, perhaps, having been parted with at the same time. Had Henry Harding been in a mind for amusement, he might have found it in witnessing their disputes, that oft occurred right under his window. But he was not. On the contrary, it but disgusted him to think of the degradation to which the angel woman may reach, when once she has strayed from the path of virtue.And many of these women were beautiful, or had been before they became vicious. No doubt more than one had been the fond hope of some doting parent, perhaps the stay of an aged mother, and the solace of her declining days, and who, having one day strayed beyond the confines of her native village, like the daughter of Pietro, returned “home sad and slow,” or never returned at all!The heart of the young Englishman was lacerated as he reflected upon their fate. It was torture, when he thought of them in connection with Lucetta Torreani. To think of that pure, innocent girl—the glance he had had of her convinced him that she was this—becoming as one of those feminine fiends who daily jarred and warred outside his window! Surely it could never be. And yet what was there to hinder it? This was the inquiry that now occupied his attention, and filled him with dread forebodings.Since the departure of the expedition a ray of hope had shone into his cell. It was bright as the sunbeam that there entered. For the mind of the captive, quickened by captivity, like a drowning man, will catch even at straws; and one seemed to offer itself to the imprisoned artist.In the first place, he perceived that there was a chance of corrupting his gaoler. This was no longer the morose, taciturn fellow, who had hitherto attended upon him, but one who, if not cheerful, was at least talkative. On hearing his voice the prisoner could at once recognise it as that of one of the brigands who had held conversation under his window. It was the one whose sentiments showed him the less hardened of the two, and whom the other had called Tommaso. The captive fancied something might be done with this man. From what he had heard him say, Tommaso did not appear altogether dead to the dictates of humanity. True, he had made confession to having spent some time in a Papal prison. But many a martyr had done that—political and otherwise. The worst against him was his being where he now was; but this might have come from a like cause.So reflected Henry Harding; and the more did he think of it, after his new gaoler had held converse with him. But he had found something else to reflect upon, also of a hopeful character. The breakfast brought by Tommaso—which was his first meal after the departure of the band—was altogether different from those of former days. Instead of the macaronipasta, often unseasoned and insipid, there were broiled mutton, sausages,confetti, and a bottle ofrosolio!“Who sent these delicacies?” was the interrogatory of him who received them. He did not put it until after eating his dinner, which in a like way differed from the dinners of previous days. Then he asked the question of his new attendant.“La signora,” was the answer of Tommaso, speaking in such a courteous tone, that but for the small chamber and the absence of furniture the captive might have fancied himself in an hotel, and especially cared for by one of its waiters.Throughout the day did this solicitude show itself; and at night the signora herself brought him his supper, without either the intervention or attendance of Tommaso. Shortly after the sun had gone down the young Englishman started at seeing a woman make her way inside his cell; for it was an apparition strange as unexpected.The small chamber in which he was imprisoned was but the adjunct of a larger apartment—a sort of storeroom, where the brigands kept the bulkier articles of their plunder, as also provisions. In this last was a large window, through which the moon was shining; and it was only on the door of his cell being thrown open that he perceived his feminine visitor. Though she was but dimly seen in the borrowed light of the outer chamber, he could tell that it was a woman.Who was she?Only for a second was he in doubt; her large form, as she stood outlined in the doorway, as also the drapery of her dress, told him it was the wife of the chief. He had observed that only she, of all the women belonging to the band, affected female habiliments.Yes, his visitor was Cara Popetta. He wondered what she could want with him; all the more as she came stealing in apparently in fear of being watched, or followed by some one outside. She had noiselessly opened the outer door, as noiselessly closed it behind her, and in the same way opened and closed that communicating with his cell.End of Volume One.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who was she?

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

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

Chapter Thirty Four.Popetta.The prisoner had started up, and was standing in the centre of his cell.“Don’t be alarmed,Signor Inglese,” said his strange visitor, in a half whisper.While speaking she had groped her way through the gloom, and was now so near that he felt her breath upon his cheek, while her hand was laid gently upon his shoulder.“What is it?” he asked, starting at her touch, and slightly recoiling, though not through fear.“Do not be alarmed,” she said soothingly: “I am not a man come to do you an injury. Only a woman. It is I, Popetta,—you remember me?”“I do, signora; you are the wife of the chief Corvino.”“Wife! Ah! if you’d saidslave, it would be nearer the truth. No matter about that. It can signify nothing to you.”A sigh, distinctly audible in the still darkness, accompanied the speech.The captive remained silent, wondering what was to come next. She had taken her hand from off his shoulder, or rather it had slipped from it as he drew back.“You’ll be surprised at my coming here,” she continued, speaking in the tongue and tone of a lady. “From what you have seen you will think there can be no compassion in a heart like mine. You may well think so.”“No, no,” asseverated the captive, now really feeling surprise; “no doubt, you have been unfortunate.”“That’s true,” she hurriedly rejoined, as if not caring to dwell upon some recollection called up by his speech. “Signore, I am here, not to talk of the past—my past—but ofyourfuture.”“Mine!”“Yes, yours. Oh, it is fearful!”“In what way fearful?” asked the young Englishman. “Surely, I shall soon be set free? Why need I care for a few days, or even weeks, of imprisonment?”“Caro signore, you deceive yourself! It is not imprisonment, though you may find that hard enough; and harder still whenhecomes back again—brute that he is!”Strange language for a wife to use towards her husband, thought Henry Harding.“Yes, harder,” continued she, “if the letter you have written receive no response—I mean if it bring no ransom. Tell me, signore, what did you say in that letter? Tell me all.”“I thought you were acquainted with its contents. It was dictated in your hearing, and penned in your presence.”“I know, I know; but was that all? I saw that you were unwilling to sign it. You had a reason?”“I had.”“Some difference with your family? You are not friends with your father—am I right?”“Something of that,” answered the young Englishman, knowing no reason why he should conceal a quarrel—so far away from those whom it might concern.“I thought so,” said the woman. “And this,” she continued, changing her tone to one of greater earnestness, “this quarrel may prevent your father from sending theriscatta.”“Possibly it may.”“Possibly it may! You treat the matter lightly; you have done so all along. I have noticed it. One cannot help admiring your courage; I cannot. Perhaps that is why I am here.”Again there was something like a sigh, which added to the surprise of the captive, something of embarrassment.“You know not,” continued Popetta, “the fate that is before you if theriscattashould not come.”“What fate, signora?”“As I have said, a fearful one.”“Tell me what it is. By your words it seems to be already determined upon.”“It is determined—always determined. It is the decree of Corvino.”“Explain yourself, signora.”“First, your ears will be cut off; they will be enclosed in a letter, and sent to your father. The letter will be a renewed demand for money. And then—”“Then?” demanded the captive, with some impatience—for the first time giving credence to the threat that had already been twice spoken by Corvino himself.“If the money be not sent, you will be still further mutilated.”“How?”“Signore, I cannot tell you. There are many ways. I may not mention them. Better for you if your father’s answer leave no hope of a ransom. You would then escape torture, by being immediately shot!”“Surely, signora, you are jesting with me?”“Jesting! Ah! it is no jest. I have witnessed it once—twice—often. It is the invariable custom among these wretches with whom I have the misfortune to be associated. It is one of their laws; and will be carried out to a certainty!”“You come to me as a friend?” inquired the captive, as if to test the sincerity of his visitor.“I do! You may believe me.”“You have some advice to give me, signora? What is it?”“It is that you should write again—write to your friends. You must have some friends—you the son of a greatgalantuomo, as your countryman, Ricardo, tells us you are. Write to these friends—tell them to see your father, and urge upon him the necessity of sending the ransom demanded. It is your only chance of escaping from the fate I have told you of—that is, from being fearfully mutilated, first tortured and then shot.”“Surely, there is another?” said the captive, for the first time speaking in—a tone of appeal to his strange counsellor.“Another! If you think so, tell me what it is.”“Your favour, signora!”“How?”“Youcan find me the means of escaping from this prison.”“Ah! that is just possible, but not so easy. If I succeeded, it could only be by giving my life for yours! Would you wish me to do that, signore?”“No—no!”“Such a sacrifice would be certain. You know not how I am watched. ’Tis only by stealth, and a bribe to Tommaso, I’ve been able to enter here. Corvino’s jealousy—ah,Signor Inglese, I have been deemed handsome!—youmay not think so.”Her hand once more rested on the young Englishman’s shoulder—once more to be repelled, but this time with greater gentleness. He feared to wound her self-esteem, and stir the tigress that slumbered in that darkened Italian heart. He made reply as he best could, without committing himself.“Even were he to know of this interview,” she continued, still speaking of Corvino, “by the law of our band my life would be forfeited. You see that I am ready to serve you!”“You would have me write, then? How is it to be done? Can a letter be sent?”“Leave that to me. Here are some sheets of paper, ink, and a pen. I have brought them with me. You can have no light now; I dare not give it you. Corvino’s captives must not be made too comfortable—else they would be less urgent for their friends to set them free. When the morning sun shines in through your window, then write. Tommaso will bring you your breakfast, and take your letter in exchange. It will be my care to see that it be sent.”“Oh, thanks, signora!” exclaimed the grateful captive, seizing hold of the offered gift with an eagerness he had not hitherto shown. A new idea had come suddenly into his mind. “A thousand thanks!” he repeated; “I shall do as you say.”“Buono notte!” said the brigandess, putting the writing materials into his hand, at the same time pressing it with a fervour that betrayed something more than pity. “Buono notte, galantuomo!” she added. “Sleep without fear. If it should come to that, you may command even the life of her you have heard calledCara Popetta.”Henry Harding was but too happy when she permitted him to disengage himself from her clasp; which, though scarce understood, filled him with a feeling somewhat akin to repulsion. He was happier still, when she stole silently out of his cell, and he heard the door, closing behind her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mine!”

“Yes, yours. Oh, it is fearful!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I had.”

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

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

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

“Possibly it may.”

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

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

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

“What fate, signora?”

“As I have said, a fearful one.”

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

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

“Explain yourself, signora.”

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

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

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

“How?”

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

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

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

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

“I do! You may believe me.”

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

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

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

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

“Your favour, signora!”

“How?”

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

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

“No—no!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirty Five.Writing under Difficulties.As soon as the captive became convinced that his visitor was gone for good, he lay down upon the fern leaves and gave way to profound reflection—the subject, of course, being what had just passed between him and Popetta. What could be her motive for the advice thus voluntarily given? Was it a trap to betray him? It could hardly bear this construction—for what was there to betray? He was already in the power of the bandits, for life as for death. What more could they want?“Ah!” thought he, “I see through it now! After all, it may be Corvino’s doing. He may have put her up to this, to make more sure of getting the money for my ransom. He thinks that her counsel, given in this side way, will terrify me, and make me write in stronger terms to my father.”But the answer to these self-asked questions did not quite satisfy him. What need was there for any scheme of the kind on the part of the bandit chief? He had dictated the letter sent. If stronger terms had seemed necessary, he would have insisted on their insertion. The former conjecture fell through.Then, supposing Popetta’s counsel to him had been loyal, what could be her motive?Henry Harding was yet young, and but little experienced in the ways of woman’s heart. He could count but one experience, and that of a different kind. Only by some ill-understood whisperings of Nature was he guided to a suspicion of what this strange woman meant; and he cared not to continue the reflection.For all that he eagerly seized at her suggestion. It promised to assist him in a design he had already half conceived, though without much prospect of being able to carry it into execution. It was to write to Luigi Torreani in London, and warn him of the peril in which his sister was placed. He could write to his own father all the same, and in more pressing terms—as he had been counselled; for he had now become sensible of a dread impending danger.The behaviour of the brigands—which for more than a week he had been witnessing—had produced upon him a serious impression—altogether effacing that imbibed by contemplating the stage bandit of picturesque habiliments and courteous carriage. However he might have felt about the representative robber looking at him from the stall of a theatre, he could see there would be no trifling with the real personage, when contemplated by one completely in his power upon the summit of an Italian mountain. Everything around proclaimed the seriousness of his situation. It had become too critical for him to affect further indifference, or feel in any way contented. No longer able to sleep, he watched anxiously for the light of morning.No sooner did daybreak show itself through the window of his cell, than he spread out the paper with which Popetta had provided him, and commenced writing his letters. His table was the stone-paved floor; his chair the same. He wrote lying flat along the flags. There were two separate epistles. When finished they were as follows—the first to his father:—“Dear Father,—“By this time, I presume, you will have received a letter, which I wrote to you eight days ago, and which I have reason to believe was carried to you by special messenger. I have no doubt that its contents will have surprised and perhaps pained you. It was an appeal which, I must confess, I was very little inclined to make; but it was done at the dictation of a brigand, with a pistol held to my head, so there was no help for it. I am writing this one under different circumstances—on the floor of the cell where I am imprisoned; and without being overlooked by my jailers. I can add little to what I have said before—only that I am not now speaking under compulsion. From what I’ve lately learnt, I can assure you that my former communication—though I thought so at the time—contained no idle words. The threat made in it by the brigand chief, he means most surely to execute; and if the sum named be not sent to him, he will. The first part of his performance is to be the cropping off my ears, and forwarding them to your address. The latter he has learned from a strange source, of which I may as well inform you—from our old discharged gamekeeper, Doggy Dick, who happens to be one of his band. How the scoundrel came to be here, I cannot tell. I only know that he is here; and the most hostile to me of the whole fraternity. He remembers the thrashing I gave him, and takes care to keep me constantly in mind of it.“Now, dear father, I have told you all about how I am situated; and if you deem it worth while to extract your unworthy son from his dangerous dilemma, send on the money. You may think 5,000 pounds rather a high figure to pay for such a life as mine. So do I; but unfortunately I am not permitted to name my own price. If it appear too much, perhaps you would not object to send the 1,000 pounds you promised I should have at your death. Then I shall make the best bargain I can with the rogues who’ve got me in pawn.“Hoping to hear from you by return of post—this, I believe, is to go by post—I remain your closely guarded son,—“Henry Harding.“To General Harding,“Beechwood Park, Bucks, England.”Such was the letter from Henry Harding to his father. That to his friend Luigi was shorter, though perhaps more impressive in its suggestions. It ran as follows:—“Dear Luigi,“I have only time to say three words to you. I am a prisoner to a band of brigands—the band of Corvino, of whom, if I mistake not, I have heard you speak. The place is in the Neapolitan mountains, about forty miles from Rome, and twenty from your native town. I saw your sister while on my way through it as a captive. I did not know her at the time; but I have since learnt something I almost hesitate to tell you. It must be told, however; and it is for that I write you this letter.Lucetta is in danger—the brigand chief has designs upon her! I learnt it by a conversation between two of the band, whom I chanced to overhear. I need not add more. You will best know how to act; and there is no time to be lost. God speed and guide you!“Yours,“Henry Harding.”The letters were ready for thepost, long before Tommaso brought in the breakfast.Without saying a word he slipped them into the breast pocket of his coat, and carried them away with him.That same night they were on board the mail steamer on the way from Civita Vecchia to Marseilles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dear Father,—“By this time, I presume, you will have received a letter, which I wrote to you eight days ago, and which I have reason to believe was carried to you by special messenger. I have no doubt that its contents will have surprised and perhaps pained you. It was an appeal which, I must confess, I was very little inclined to make; but it was done at the dictation of a brigand, with a pistol held to my head, so there was no help for it. I am writing this one under different circumstances—on the floor of the cell where I am imprisoned; and without being overlooked by my jailers. I can add little to what I have said before—only that I am not now speaking under compulsion. From what I’ve lately learnt, I can assure you that my former communication—though I thought so at the time—contained no idle words. The threat made in it by the brigand chief, he means most surely to execute; and if the sum named be not sent to him, he will. The first part of his performance is to be the cropping off my ears, and forwarding them to your address. The latter he has learned from a strange source, of which I may as well inform you—from our old discharged gamekeeper, Doggy Dick, who happens to be one of his band. How the scoundrel came to be here, I cannot tell. I only know that he is here; and the most hostile to me of the whole fraternity. He remembers the thrashing I gave him, and takes care to keep me constantly in mind of it.“Now, dear father, I have told you all about how I am situated; and if you deem it worth while to extract your unworthy son from his dangerous dilemma, send on the money. You may think 5,000 pounds rather a high figure to pay for such a life as mine. So do I; but unfortunately I am not permitted to name my own price. If it appear too much, perhaps you would not object to send the 1,000 pounds you promised I should have at your death. Then I shall make the best bargain I can with the rogues who’ve got me in pawn.“Hoping to hear from you by return of post—this, I believe, is to go by post—I remain your closely guarded son,—“Henry Harding.“To General Harding,“Beechwood Park, Bucks, England.”

“Dear Father,—

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

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

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

“Henry Harding.

“To General Harding,

“Beechwood Park, Bucks, England.”

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

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

“Dear Luigi,

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

“Yours,

“Henry Harding.”

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

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

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

Chapter Thirty Six.A Short Trial.The brigands returned from their raid two days earlier than they had been expected.The captive became aware of their arrival by the increased clamour outside. On peering through his cell window, he saw the men who had been upon the expedition. They were all in ill-humour, looking sulky, and cursing beyond their usual quantity. They had been unsuccessful in the raid—having foundsoldiersin the district into which it had been made. They had, moreover, heard a rumour, that a combined force, both from the Roman and Neapolitan territory, was marching upon their mountain retreat.The captive could hear them talking of treason. He caught sight of Corvino in front of his window. Something special seemed to have enraged the chief. He was swearing at Popetta, and calling her foul names in presence of his followers.One of the other women—a sort of rival in the regards of the ruffian—was standing by, and appearing to act as instigator. She talked as if she was bringing some accusation against thesposaof thecapo.The prisoner could see that Popetta was in trouble, though he had no clue to the cause. They talked so fast—several clamouring at the same time—that it was impossible for him, with his slight knowledge of Italian, to make out much of what was said.Soon the colloquy assumed a different phase, Corvino separating from the crowd, and, along with two or three others, coming towards the cell. In an instant the door was dashed open, and the brigand chief stepped inside the dismal apartment.“So, signore,” he cried, hissing the words through his teeth, “I understand you’ve been very comfortable during my absence—plenty to eat and drink—rocatti, confetti, cordials—the best of everything! Ah! and a companion, too, in your solitude! No doubt, a pleasant companion? I hope you both enjoyed yourselves. Ha, ha, ha!”The laugh fell upon the ears of the captive with a fearful significance. It boded evil either to himself, or Popetta, or both.“May I ask what do you mean, Captain Corvino?” coolly inquired the young Englishman.“Oh! how innocent you are, my beardless lamb—my smooth-faced Adonis. What do I mean? Ha, ha, ha!”And again the cell resounded with his fierce, exultant laughter.“Cospetto!” cried the chief, suddenly changing tone, as his eye fell upon a white object lying in the corner of the cell; “what’s this?Una lettera! Andcarta bianca! And here, pen and ink! So, so, signore! you’ve been carrying on a correspondence? Bring him out to the light!” he vociferated. “Bring everything!”And with a fierce oath he rushed into the open air, one of his followers dragging the captive after him. Another carried the sheet of paper—surplus of the supply left by Popetta—as also the ink-horn and pen.The whole band had by this time gathered upon the ground.“Comrades!” cried thecapo, “there’s been treason in our absence. See what we’ve found. Paper, pen, and ink, in the cell of our prisoner. And, look—on his fingers the stain! He’s been writing letters! What could they have been about but to betray us? Examine him. See if they be still upon his person!”The search was instantly made—extending to every pocket of the prisoner’s dress, every fold where a letter might be concealed. One was brought to light, but evidently not of recent writing. It was the letter of introduction to the father of Luigi Torreani.“To whom is it addressed?” asked the chief, snatching it from the hands of his satellite.“Diavolo!” he exclaimed, on reading the superscription. “Here’s a correspondence unexpected!”Without further delay he pulled the epistle out of its envelope, and commenced making himself master of the contents. He did not communicate them to the bystanders; but the expression that passed over his countenance told them that the letter contained something that strangely interested him. It was like the grim smile of the tiger, who feels that the prey has been already secured, and lies helpless within reach of his claws.“So, signore!” he exclaimed, once more bending his eyes upon the young Englishman. “You told me you had no friends in Italy.Una menzognathat was. Rich friends you have—powerful friends. The chief magistrate of a town, with,” he satirically whispered, placing his lips close to the captive’s ear, “with a very pretty daughter! What a pity you did not have an opportunity to present your letter of introduction. Never mind; you may make her acquaintance yet—soon, perhaps, and here among the mountains. That will be all the more romantic,signor pittore.”The whispered insinuation, as also the satirical tone in which it was made, passed like a poisoned shaft through the heart of Henry Harding. Every hour, since the first of his captivity, his interest conceived for the sister of Luigi Torreani had been growing stronger, while that hitherto felt for Belle Mainwaring had passed altogether out of his mind.Stung by the speeches of the brigand, he made no reply. Anything he could have said would have served no purpose, even had there been opportunity to say it. But there was not. The tormentor thought not of listening to any response from his prisoner; and, without waiting for one, he continued:—“Compagnos!” cried he, addressing himself to his band, “you have here before you the proofs of treason. No wonder the soldiers are gathering upon our track. It remains for you to discover who have been the traitors.”“Yes, yes!” cried a score of voices. “The traitors! Who are they? Let us know that, and we’ll settle the score with them!”“Our prisoner here,” continued the chief, “has written a letter—as you can all see for yourselves. It has been despatched, too: since it is not upon his person. To whom has it been sent? Who carried it? Who supplied him with pen, ink, and paper? These are the questions to be considered.”“Who was left to keep guard over him?” inquired one of the men.“Tommaso!” answered several.“Where is Tommaso?” shouted a score of voices.“I am here!” responded the brigand who bore that name.“Answer us then. Did you do this?”“Do what?”“Furnish the writing materials to our prisoner?”“No,” firmly replied Tommaso.“You need not waste your time questioning him,” interposed a voice, recognised as that of Popetta. “It was I who furnished them.”“Yes,” said the rival brigandess, speaking aside to several members of the band, “not only found them, but carried them to the cell herself.”“Tutti!” cried the chief, in a voice of thunder, that stilled the murmurs produced by this communication. “For what purpose did you supply them, Cara Popetta?”“For the common good,” replied the woman, seemingly with the intent to give justification for what she had done.“How?” shouted a score of voices.“Cospetto!” exclaimed the accused, “the thing is simple enough.”“Explain it! Explain it!”“Buono! buono! Listen, and I will. Well, like yourselves, I want to procure theriscatta. I didn’t think theInglesewould get it for us. The letter directed by him wasn’t strong enough. While you were gone, having nothing else to think of, I prevailed upon thegalantuomoto write another. What harm was there in that?”“It was to his father, then?” asked one of the spokesmen.“Of course it was,” replied Popetta, with a scornful inclination of the head.“How was it sent?”“To thepostaat Rome. The young man knew how to address it.”“Who carried it to Rome?”To this question there was no answer. Popetta had turned aside, and pretended not to hear.“Compagnos!” cried the chief, “make inquiry, and find out who of those left behind has been absent while we were gone.”A man was pointed out by the accuser of Popetta. He was a greenhorn—one of the recent recruits of the band, not yet admitted to the privileges of the “giro.” The cross-questioning to which he was submitted soon produced its effect. Notwithstanding the promise of secrecy given to her who had selected him for a messenger, he confessed all. Unfortunately for Popetta, the fellow had been taught to read, and knew enough arithmetic to tell that he carriedtwoletters instead ofone. He was able to say that one was for the father of the prisoner. So far, Popetta had spoken the truth. It was the second letter that condemned her. That had been directed to Signor Torreani.“Hear that!” cried several of the brigands, as soon as the name was announced, and without listening to the address. “The Signor Torreani! Why, it is thesindicoof Val di Orno! No wonder we’re being beset with soldiers! Every one knows that Torreani has never been our friend!”“Besides,” remarked the brigandess who had started the accusation, “why such friendship to a prisoner? Why has he had all theconfetti, rosalio, the best things in the place—to say nothing of the company of the signorina herself? Depend upon it,compagnos, there has been treasonable conspiracy!”Poor Popetta! her time was come. Her husband—if such he was—had found the opportunity long wanted—not to protect, but get rid of her. He could now do so with perfect impunity—even without blame. With the cunning of a tiger he had approached the dread climax; with the ferocity of a tiger he seized upon the opportunity.“Compagnos!” appealed he, in a tone pretended to be sad; “I need not tell you how hard it is to hear these charges against one who is dear to me—my own wife. And it is harder to think they have been proved. But we are banded together by a law that cannot be broken—the law of self-preservation. That must be mutual among us. To infringe this law would lead to our dissolution—our ruin—and we have sworn to one another, that he, or she, who does aught contrary to it, shall suffer death! Death, though it be brother, sister, wife, or mistress. I, whom you have chosen for your chief, shall prove myself true. By this may you believe me.”While in the act of speaking the last words, the brigand sprang forward, until he stood by the side of his accused wife—Popetta. Her cry of terror was quickly succeeded by one of a different intonation. It was a shrill scream of agony, gradually subdued to the expiring accents of death, as the woman sank back upon the grass, with a poniard transfixed in her heart!The scene that followed calls for no description. There was sign of neither weeping, nor woe, in that savage assemblage. There may have been pity; but if there was, it did not declare itself. The murderous chieftain strode quietly away to his quarters, and there sought concealment. He was too hardened to have remorse. Some of his subordinates removed from the spot the ghastly evidence of his crime—burying the body of the brigandess in a ravine close by. But not until they had stripped it of its glittering adornments—the spoils of many a fair maiden of the Campagna.The prisoner was carried back to his cell, and there left to reflect on the tragedy just enacted—on the fate of poor Popetta. To his excited imagination it appeared but the foreshadowing of a still more fearful fate in store for himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tommaso!” answered several.

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

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

“Answer us then. Did you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Furnish the writing materials to our prisoner?”

“No,” firmly replied Tommaso.

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

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

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

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

“How?” shouted a score of voices.

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

“Explain it! Explain it!”

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

“It was to his father, then?” asked one of the spokesmen.

“Of course it was,” replied Popetta, with a scornful inclination of the head.

“How was it sent?”

“To thepostaat Rome. The young man knew how to address it.”

“Who carried it to Rome?”

To this question there was no answer. Popetta had turned aside, and pretended not to hear.

“Compagnos!” cried the chief, “make inquiry, and find out who of those left behind has been absent while we were gone.”

A man was pointed out by the accuser of Popetta. He was a greenhorn—one of the recent recruits of the band, not yet admitted to the privileges of the “giro.” The cross-questioning to which he was submitted soon produced its effect. Notwithstanding the promise of secrecy given to her who had selected him for a messenger, he confessed all. Unfortunately for Popetta, the fellow had been taught to read, and knew enough arithmetic to tell that he carriedtwoletters instead ofone. He was able to say that one was for the father of the prisoner. So far, Popetta had spoken the truth. It was the second letter that condemned her. That had been directed to Signor Torreani.

“Hear that!” cried several of the brigands, as soon as the name was announced, and without listening to the address. “The Signor Torreani! Why, it is thesindicoof Val di Orno! No wonder we’re being beset with soldiers! Every one knows that Torreani has never been our friend!”

“Besides,” remarked the brigandess who had started the accusation, “why such friendship to a prisoner? Why has he had all theconfetti, rosalio, the best things in the place—to say nothing of the company of the signorina herself? Depend upon it,compagnos, there has been treasonable conspiracy!”

Poor Popetta! her time was come. Her husband—if such he was—had found the opportunity long wanted—not to protect, but get rid of her. He could now do so with perfect impunity—even without blame. With the cunning of a tiger he had approached the dread climax; with the ferocity of a tiger he seized upon the opportunity.

“Compagnos!” appealed he, in a tone pretended to be sad; “I need not tell you how hard it is to hear these charges against one who is dear to me—my own wife. And it is harder to think they have been proved. But we are banded together by a law that cannot be broken—the law of self-preservation. That must be mutual among us. To infringe this law would lead to our dissolution—our ruin—and we have sworn to one another, that he, or she, who does aught contrary to it, shall suffer death! Death, though it be brother, sister, wife, or mistress. I, whom you have chosen for your chief, shall prove myself true. By this may you believe me.”

While in the act of speaking the last words, the brigand sprang forward, until he stood by the side of his accused wife—Popetta. Her cry of terror was quickly succeeded by one of a different intonation. It was a shrill scream of agony, gradually subdued to the expiring accents of death, as the woman sank back upon the grass, with a poniard transfixed in her heart!

The scene that followed calls for no description. There was sign of neither weeping, nor woe, in that savage assemblage. There may have been pity; but if there was, it did not declare itself. The murderous chieftain strode quietly away to his quarters, and there sought concealment. He was too hardened to have remorse. Some of his subordinates removed from the spot the ghastly evidence of his crime—burying the body of the brigandess in a ravine close by. But not until they had stripped it of its glittering adornments—the spoils of many a fair maiden of the Campagna.

The prisoner was carried back to his cell, and there left to reflect on the tragedy just enacted—on the fate of poor Popetta. To his excited imagination it appeared but the foreshadowing of a still more fearful fate in store for himself.

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