"Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn,And murders done in caves."—Hood.
"Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn,And murders done in caves."—Hood.
From the time he heard the first shot up to the moment he saw his son pierced by the brigand's weapon, Mr. Lennox had sat as if he was an effigy and not a man, the father of him who had nobly died for him, and the senseless girl who had sunk against him in a swoon. Whether it was abject fear, or whether he was stunned by the horrid murder of his son and the fainting state of Caroline, or whether both preyed on the old man's mind we know not, but certain it is he sat as if powerless, insensible, crushed.
"To work, comrades," cried the captain of the band; "you, my Pedro, have ably spun yon fiery coxcomb, but more remains to be done. Pedro, lay a hand on the jewels, you know where they lie. I myself will see what the old dotard is about."
Whilst Pedro hastened to the trunk where the jewels were hidden, Luigi dismounted; followed by Adrian and several others, he approached the carriage-door. Roused for an instant from his fearful lethargy, Mr. Lennox aimed the pistol he held in his hand at the first intruder's head, and fired, narrowly missing Luigi, who little expected such a welcome. As it was, the smoke so clouded him, suffocating him with its sulphurous vapour, that for an instant he was as it were knocked back.
"The old devil! who would have thought of that? Iddio! I had a narrow escape: the rascal! he shall suffer for it!" exclaimed the irate chieftain, as he rushed forward at the old gentleman, who had after this sudden outburst again relapsed into dastardly inaction. "You old viper! I've got you now, and by Heaven I'll teach you to fire at me that way! here, Adrian, help us to drag the venomous old toad from his hole."
Without waiting for the assistance he asked, Luigi, seizing the old man by the shoulder, dragged him forth notwithstanding his cries for mercy.
"Pity my grey hairs! pity a father you have left sonless! spare me, oh! gentlemen, for God's sake! mercy! misericordia! for the sake of God—for the Virgin!"
"Cease whining in your villainous Italian, and ask for mercy in good English, you drivelling old poltroon," cried Luigi, in that tongue, for he had hitherto spoken in Italian.
He still held his prostrate foe by the arm with an iron grip, menacing death with his naked dagger. Had it not been for the dire reality and fatal signs of murder around, there was something almost ludicrous in the scene. Lying on his back, with his grey hair tangled and torn by his rough usage, his hands clasped together in beseeching agony, tears of terror streaming down his face, his countenance betraying awful fright, Mr. Lennox presented a remarkable contrast to the stern brigand, who, kneeling with one knee on his fallen captive, played with a shining dagger in one hand, whilst with the other he held his prisoner firm. The robber's countenance showed mingled contempt for his antagonist, if a resistless prisoner may so be called, and joy at having thus a foe in his power. But the scene was too terribly bloody for a smile; the father's foot rested against the body of his dead son, a little further off lay the corpse of the postilion with his limbs drawn together in the agony of his dying struggle, whilst fierce men on all sides cursed and swore as they dragged forth the baggage from the carriage, rudely breaking the lids, and scattering the articles on the road in their search for gold or precious things. Some of the band stood mute admirers of the scene of carnage and rapine, others were passionless lookers on, whilst one appeared to regard with horror the whole outrage. This solitary instance amongst a band infamous for its butcheries was Adrian Vardarelli. Leaning against his horse from which he had dismounted, he regarded the various incidents with a look approaching to disgust,—once when he saw the face of Mr. Lennox as he was torn from his carriage, this look changed to one of intense surprise; but again he reposed into his former state of indolent disapproval. When Mr. Lennox heard his native tongue spoken where he least expected it, and by one he least imagined to know it, a sudden feeling of joy thrilled through him.
An Englishman, then, the captain of the band was, he knew it by his accent; he knew that some of the fiercest brigands had been his countrymen, but he felt a conviction, bad as he was, brutal as was his conduct, there was yet an appeal to his mercy as a fellow countryman, and he would try if there was not in his black heart a chord that responded.
"Capitano," he cried, "I am an Englishman, so are you. Oh! for the sake of our mutual land—for the love of God and man—for the sake of England, your native home,—spare me, spare my daughter; take my money, take all, but save my life."
"Look at me, you cowardly old rascal, look at me; do you not know me? then ask yourself if you have cause to expect mercy; no, by G— I told you a reckoning time would come, it has come, and d—n me if I let it slip."
It is not in the power of language to tell the surprise of Mr. Lennox, as he gazed on the speaker, and in Luigi Vardarelli, the terror of the Capitanata, the scourge of the Abruzzi and all the south of Italy, beheld his old acquaintance Captain John de Vere.
"Ha! Lennox, old boy," continued the robber, "you little thought Luigi Vardarelli was your old friend the Captain. Egad I little thought, when Pedro brought me the news to-day an old gentleman, his son and daughter, with rich jewels, passed this way, that it was my old friend Lennox. I told you a dozen years ago you might live to repent your words to me that night; you have lived to do so, and by the Almighty you shall repent it,—your life alone shall satisfy me."
Poor Mr. Lennox, who had been comforting himself with the hopes that old friendship would at least save his life, saw all his visions vanish like smoke with the last dreadful words; yet he determined he would not lose his life for want of asking. During their converse the Captain had let his unfortunate prisoner loose from the iron grip with which he had till then detained him, and now stood calmly scrutinizing his suppliant.
"Oh, Captain de Vere, noble Captain de Vere, for the sake of old friendship, spare me, for the sake of the Earl, your departed sister, have pity on me, an aged, helpless man. Why should you take my life? I have done you no harm; leave me to finish my life in peace; spare me to my daughter. Oh! you have had your revenge in slaying my son, the hope of my age. Oh! stay your sword."
"Name not your son in the same breath with your abject supplications; he died a man, he had some pluck in him, but sirrah! you are a disgrace to your name—a disgrace to Britain, and all your entreaties will not move me. I will hang you on the next tree and rid the world of such a poltroon."
"Then if you have no mercy in your black heart—if you have no natural pity in your reptile blood—hear me as an Englishman. I tell you a heavy retribution will fall on you if you shed my blood. I am a Briton, and His Majesty's liege subject. I am his special servant; dread him, bold robber, he will send his armies and root such accursed bloodthirsty wolves from this country."
"Ha, you speak very fine, my brave fellow, but I scorn your threats as much as your entreaties. I have long renounced my allegiance to your besotted king; here his armies and navies are alike useless: besides, my bravo, who will tell his most sacred Majesty that his servant hangs like a felon on a nut-tree? But egad, we waste time arguing with a cowardly old miscreant like this. Pedro, swing him up on yon tree."
"You dare not—oh heavens! you dare not—the Earl—the King—oh, no, no," embracing the very hessians of the bandit. "Captain de Vere, for auld lang syne, pardon me, I know not what I say, hang me not like a dog."
"As you are one, that were no great fault; but perhaps you wish a little torture first. Pedro, Antonio, twist the rope round his forehead first, till his eyes start a little."
"Good God! you surely joke, you would not, you could not do so," exclaimed the unfortunate man, as he saw these desperados approach to fulfil their master's order.
"I joke not," replied the Captain; "you think I am a woman, and turn pale at the sight of blood. I have not been pirate and bandit a dozen years for nothing, by G—. I have not roamed torrid and temperate zone, or pitched shiploads of niggers into the sea to grow sick at a little bloodshed, or merciful because an old coward asks for mercy. I have seen a dozen better men than thee, old dotard, tortured and beheaded, and think you I joke; ye gods, you will find me another man than you think. Did you hear me, sirrahs? do my bidding, or Iddio! I'll serve you the same. And hark you, if he chatters for mercy any more, tear his vile tongue out by the roots."
These awful commands would doubtless have been carried out to the letter had not Adrian, or, as our readers must have already guessed, Edward L'Estrange, then stepped forward, and pleaded for an old friend.
"Nay, Luigi, hurt not the poor old imbecile, he is not worth your interest. Hands off, villains!" (to the two ruffians who were about to begin their work of butchery). "Heed them not, old man, I will not let them harm you, for the sake of old and better days."
"God bless you, Edward L'Estrange, you had ever a feeling heart! God bless you for befriending an old, and friendless man, who has fallen among thieves! God be merciful to you for saving a poor fellow creature's life!" exclaimed the poor man when his tormentors departed.
The Captain bit his lips. "You were ever a soft-hearted fool, and would be better occupied in wooing your lady-love, or in writing sonnets to another's bride, than aiding in any manly exploit; but, hark you, I will spare only his tortures—not his life. He fired at me, and by heaven he dies for it! I am captain here, no one shall countermand my orders."
"Edward L'Estrange, for the love of God, say something for me."
"I can do no more; he is captain. God knows if I was, your blood should not stain my hand; be thankful I have saved you from torture."
Poor Lennox thought he had small cause for thankfulness.
"Are we to loiter here all day? By heavens, my comrades! heard you ever such a noise about an old fool's life before? Egad, one would think there were two captains here. Every command is reversed! Which will you have as a leader—Adrian or me? Which will do most for you—he or I? Whom will you obey? By G—, it's time there was some understanding."
"You, you, you shall be our chief,al diavolowith Adrian, the faint-hearted fool!" exclaimed Pedro; all the rest assented.
"Then obey me only," said the Captain; "we shall have the sbirri here in half an hour more, unless we come to quarters. Here, hang, shoot, strangle, or behead yon rascally dotard—which will you have, Lennox? there's store of deaths, choose away and be sharp! You are dumb, are you? Then I'll choose for you. Antonio cut his head off, and stick it on a pole; he ever soared high, he shall be higher after death than before it. Toss that carrion into the ravine," pointing to the postilion, "and whip off that lad's head, too, and stick it on a pole opposite his father's; and now for the girl."
We turn our backs on the scene that followed, and shut our ears to the heart-rending cries for mercy. Enough to say in less time than we have taken to write this, the heads of the unhappy father and son were cut off, and whilst the bleeding trunks were left as they lay, the ghastly heads were stuck on two poles, and elevated on either side of the road.
Turning a deaf ear and merciless eye to the butchery, the Captain approached the carriage, on the floor of which the hapless Caroline lay in a dead faint.
"Ha! not ill-looking by any means. Come, my girl, cheer up," applying some brandy to her nose, whilst another robber flung some water on the senseless girl's face. These restoratives had the desired effect, and the poor girl opened her eyes; at the same time crying out, "My poor father, is he alive? Oh! spare him, noble sirs!"
"He is well—that is the old man—and will remain so if his daughter will be Luigi's bride," said the hard-hearted Captain.
"Oh, God be thanked—but my brother?"
"Heed not him, come away; here Pedro, Adrian, you were ever a lady's man, give this girl a swing on my horse, and take her down to the cave; she will do to drive away my hours of ennui."
L'Estrange stooped down and lifted her in his arms: taking her out of the carriage, he let her slowly fall down from his arms till her feet touched the ground; he turned her head away from the poles with their ghastly heads. His face betrayed convulsive emotions, as if he was planning something within.
"Why burden yourself with her, Capitano?" said Pedro, "there are fairer girls than she in Avellino; she will be a burden, and ever moping and crying, like your last Inglese girl."
"You speak sooth, d—n me if you don't. What do I want with the pigeon? Wring her neck, and let's be off with our booty."
"Luigi," said L'Estrange, for by that name he had long learned to address him, "you have had your way with the old man—you have dipped your hands already in innocent blood—leave this girl to me, let her be my prize."
As he spoke these words poor Caroline had detected the cruel reality, and, giving a wild scream as she glanced towards the fatal poles and their dreadful burdens, again swooned and sunk down on the ground at her protector's feet.
"You chicken-hearted fool, you were ever a blockhead when women fell in your way, but this girl is my prize, and I'll do what I please with her. See, the silly dove has gone and swooned again. Egad, you make a nice pair. Come, Adrian, away with such folly; run your dagger through her heart, and let's away, or we shall bring the whole country buzzing about our ears."
"Protect me, sir; oh, protect me," cried Caroline, awakening again from her swoon, and as if by instinct seeing in him a deliverer.
"I will—fear not, maiden."
"Can you?" roared the Captain. "Are you able? Ye powers! he dares me, his captain!"
"You are not my captain, I renounce my allegiance. I have long been sickened by your brutalities. I wanted but an excuse to shake off an accursed yoke. I am free; henceforth I forsake your band. I will protect this girl. Thank God, black as my heart is—dark as my crimes have been—I have something human left still; let me see who will touch her!"
Whilst he spoke these words a dark light beamed on his face, his eyes seemed to flash fire; beneath him knelt the poor girl, who had flown to him for protection, around him scowled the brigands, struck dumb at this sudden rebellion.
The Captain's very aspect darkened, as with a stern voice he again asked, "Comrades, who is to be captain?—whose is the girl?"
"Thou art—she is yours," exclaimed twenty voices.
"Then renounce your booty, give up your prize, obey your chief! miscreant, fool, rebel, accursed and d——d, yield thee!" he shouted rather than spoke these words, and, as he spoke, he advanced to where L'Estrange stood.
Never did fierce tiger guard its prey as L'Estrange did his suppliant; his whole frame trembled with passion, his mouth quivered, his eyes rolled fire.
"Back on your life; tempt me not," he cried, in a voice shuddering from wrath; "she is mine, I will guard her to death—I will save her, I will; fear not, maiden."
As the dove trembles when the hawk approaches—as the chicken hides beneath its mother's wing when the kite poises above—so trembled Caroline, so did she crouch beneath her protector, as the fierce Captain stepped forward.
The rest of the brigands stood still in a circle round, they were men, and they loved to see manly resistance; it would be hard to tell which of the two had most well-wishers. They saw L'Estrange was no coward, no faint heart, although merciful. They knew the Captain's character, and in silence watched. There was not one there who would give unwarrantable assistance to either,—the two must fight it out—they only looked on.
"Saveyourself, Adrian, save yourself, L'Estrange; see yonder come the troops," pointing down the vale, up which came a large detachment of mounted sbirri; "yet," laying his hand on Caroline's shoulder, whilst she shrunk from his touch, "never shall it be said mortal man bearded me living. I am captain, I will have my lawful captive, and," lifting his bright dagger, "now yield thee, give her up. I will be chief—nothing but death shall make me yield my authority."
"Then die!" cried L'Estrange, striking a back-blow at his enemy with his stiletto. It sunk beneath the blade of the Captain's right shoulder.
"Oh, God! you have killed me, villain! oh, God! I am done for!" ejaculated the unhappy man, as he sunk backwards. At the same instant a dozen gunshots rent the air, and the robbers were surrounded on every side by enemies.
"What have I done?" exclaimed L'Estrange, gazing at the ghastly face of the Captain. "I have killed him! God forgive me!"
Then, throwing Caroline across the saddle-bow of his horse which stood beside him, he himself mounted in an instant, and, casting a hurried glance at the new foe and his late comrades, struck his spurs into his courser's flanks, and dashed through the sbirri, managing his horse with his knees; holding Caroline with one hand, whilst with the other he whirled his sabre over his head, cutting his way right and left through the sbirri. A dozen pistol-balls followed his flight from both friends—at least former ones,—and enemies; but he seemed charmed,—no bullet struck him, and he was soon beyond range both of ball and vision.
The fight and its awful end had so engaged the bandits, they did not mark the new enemy approach, and gradually surround them: when, however, the first shot was fired, and one of their band fell mortally wounded, they were soon up and doing.
The two conflicts went on together for a few moments; then the Captain fell, and the sbirri, seeing the champion sink, rushed again on their foes with renewed energy.
The robbers were not men to be taken by surprise, as the sbirri found to their cost. They were all mounted in an instant; and the most of them, well acquainted with the ground, which their antagonists were not, disappeared in the woods, and from behind the trees kept up a telling fire. Man after man dropped before the unseen shots, and the few remaining soon began to lose spirit. When their Captain fell, and Adrian galloped off with his prize, a yell of vengeance arose from the brigands; and one of joy from the sbirri. The former—at least half a dozen who still remained—rushed to protect him from the latter, who strove to gain possession of the prize. A terrible hand-to-hand conflict was fought over the wounded man, who laughed as he saw them so grimly engage; for though mortally, he was only wounded as yet, and might live many hours.
Several bullets were, as we have already said, fired after the retreating L'Estrange. The battle still went on over the Captain; the sbirri wavered,—they yielded, and then fled. But they did not escape; every man was shot or cut down, and not even one escaped alive to tell the tale! The successful belligerents then took up their wounded captain, as well as the plunder, and diving into the woods, sought their cave, leaving five dead, and carrying home four more wounded besides their chief Luigi.
About half an hour after the conflict had ceased, and the brigands were gone, a solitary figure emerged from the woods, crossed himself when he saw the numerous corpses, and the poles with their bleeding trophies, and whistled, faintly at first, as if afraid of the reappearance of the enemy, then louder. His whistle was answered by plaintive neighs, and in less than ten minutes two of the four horses trotted up to the postilion; by-and-by a third also appeared; after some time he succeeded in harnessing his horses to the despoiled carriage, and set off alone for Foggia.
He had not proceeded far, however, ere the temporary fastenings he had made gave way, and the carriage once more came to a stand-still. The postilion alighted, and then, giving the other horses their freedom, mounted one, on which he galloped to the Earl's villa, bearing with him a scarf dyed with blood which had belonged to Caroline, as a dread token of the truth of his tale.
"Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood:I've seen it rushing forth in blood.* * *I've seen the sick and ghastly bedOf sin delirious with its tread."Prisoner of Chillon.
"Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood:I've seen it rushing forth in blood.* * *I've seen the sick and ghastly bedOf sin delirious with its tread."Prisoner of Chillon.
On his restless couch lay Captain John de Vere, the dying brigand. He was mortally wounded, though the deep gash had been bound, and the outward flow of blood stayed, yet he felt a pang which told him the wound bled internally, and he could not but feel it was for his life. Death is a grand tryer; and when the bold sinner felt that within him which, in unmistakeable language, silently told him that in a few hours at most he would quit a life of crime and bloodshed, and enter on an endless existence of misery, or total annihilation, (for he was a professed infidel,) even his stout heart somewhat quailed! He felt the firm ground—theterra cognita—giving way; the reed on which he held failing him. He was about to make that dread leap in the dark, and to appear before an offended Deity; for though he professed to disbelieve in the existence of God, his heart belied his voice. He was in a burning fever—faint from loss of blood and parched with the death-thirst!—he felt the slow trickle of his life-blood inly welling! Oh! how his tongue seemed scorching, as if a foretaste of the quenchless fires of hell! He turned over on his side, a thrill of agony shot through him, and he again relapsed to his former position, and lay on his back. He had turned to see if there was any one with him; he was alone, save his own dark thoughts,—they were with him! The couch on which he lay was raised on a slight bedstead that stood against the naked rock-walls of the cave. The apartment itself was a small cavern, opening into the larger cave in which the band lived,—it was his own private cell!
It was dimly lighted by a single wax candle of large dimensions, whose light counterfeited gloom on the dark rocks, hung with weapons, which glimmered in the uncertain rays. A large oaken table, very low, stood in the centre of the cave; on it were placed several bunches of grapes and a glass vessel of water,—but beyond the sufferer's reach, tantalizing him with their proximity. Oh, if he could reach the cooling fruit, and still more cooling water!—it seemed to aggravate his pain; and once more he made an effort to rise. This time he sat upright, and experienced a certain relief from the change of position; he gazed on the tempting fruit; but when he further raised his form to strive and reach it, another agonizing pang shot through him; so intense was its poignancy he could scarcely forbear screaming. He sank back a second time, muttering curses on his band.
"They were ready enough to share my booty!—good friends in health, but at need where are they? False dogs! vile deceivers!—they leave me, their captain, to perish like a brute beast! Bill! Pedro!—some one of you—dogs, ingrates!—for the love of God a glass of water!" The last part of the sentence was shouted. "They hear me not—they care not for me!—but no, I wrong them," he said, as the curtain which divided his cave from the larger was pushed aside, and an Italian maiden entered. She was very young, and singularly interesting-looking in face; her beauty, of a high order, was as yet imperfectly developed; her eyes large, dark, and piercing. She approached the dying man with noiseless tread; then in her soft tongue asked if he wanted anything.
"Yes, child, water—water!—for God's sake! I am parched."
The maiden poured out a silver goblet-ful from the glass vessel, and brought it to the sufferer; he seized it as if it had been for his life, and eagerly drained it.
"Thanks; it is long since I tasted water, signorina, but I never before drank wine with such gusto,—egad, it was nectar!"
"Take some grapes, Capitano," said the girl, offering him a bunch; "they will cool your tongue. Are you better?—easier from pain?"
"Ay, better now," exclaimed the Captain, receiving the fruit. "Now tell Bill Stacy I want him:—why does he shrink from the sight of death?"
"He shrinks not from death, but has gone to bring you a priest," said the girl. "The Virgin grant you may yet live!"
She then as noiselessly departed, and once more left the dying man to his own reflections.
His thoughts were far from enviable; he felt perhaps remorse—for it was not repentance nor grief—for his crimes; and as he recalled them all, the long dark catalogue seemed endless,—terrific! Deeds of rapine and murder long forgotten revived like adders, and stung him once more;—but it was the agony of lost despair—the echoes of horrid crimes!
From these thoughts he was roused by the entrance of Bill Stacy, and with him a Roman Catholic priest.
"Ha! Bill! you are come at last. Egad! I thought you had clean forgotten a wounded mate. But who the devil have you got there? Where did you pick up yon shaveling?—and why bring you accursed priests to my bed?"
"Your cable is nigh run out; I thought you would like a chaplain mayhap, and brought this fellow along—for I had hard work to prevail on the cussed fool to venture his head here;—but here he is; and he knows a yarn o' long prayers!"
"My son," said the priest, looking heavenwards as he crossed himself, "look on this blessed sign, and ere life takes wing, ask the bless—"
But he was cut short by the Captain.
"Cease your drivelling—idiotical nonsense, or preach to others who believe your fables. Egad, you think me dying, but I'll come it yet. Away, old dotard!"
"Blaspheme not, my son; think upon the blessed Virgin; think on him who forgave the dying thief."
"I, the dying thief! be d—d to you. Bill, if you love me, chase the whining hypocrite from the cave. God's name! had I the strength, I would break his shaven pate for him."
"He don't want you, nor do I neither; so spread sail, old monk, and look sharp our lads don't tear your frock off your back or your hide off your old bones," said Bill, pushing the priest unceremoniously from him by the way he came in.
"What in the foul fiend's name brought you that pattering shaven-headed rascal here for?"
"I told you, but howsomdever let it pass. What did you want me for?"
"Sit down, Bill. I say, Bill, this cut isn't mortal, is it?"
"There's small doubt of that: you are overhauled at last. I bound it up, but the blood flows into your hold, when it is full you will sink."
"You lie, sirrah! and yet—yet, I do feel queery. D—n Ned for a villain; it was a cowardly felon-thrust. You will avenge me, Bill, if I flit."
"I promise you. Our band will go to wreck now when their skipper is gone."
"And yet, Bill, I may come it. I've escaped worse than this."
"No you havn't; you won't ride out this squall. You are wrecked at last, and on the shoals now."
"Go to the devil. You are a capital Job's comforter, Bill," said the sinking sinner, trying to laugh.
"I'm thinking you will see him first. Gin there be a devil he should give you a good berth, since you have helped so many downwards. You'll know if there be a hell or not this night."
For some time, as if exhausted by his exertions in speaking, the Captain lay silent and motionless, save that now and then, as if in agony, he ground his teeth together or clenched the clothes between his fingers. Old Bill sat silently watching him without a feature moving. Again the dying Captain sat up, and passing his hand over his eyes as if to clear his vision, said, "Bill, the candle is going out—it is getting dark."
"It is your own candle going out, and the darkness of death in your brain!"
"You lie, dog, it is false! and yet—yet how dark it grows. The shadows pass quickly; ah! they're gone, I see clear again; and now once more they come—it grows dark, so dark! Bill, I'm dying—but get brandy, I've heard it has do—ne won—" He sank back, unable to articulate the final words.
Bill passed some of the burning spirit into his mouth from a flask; its effect was rapid and wonderful. Once more, fed by the ardent liquid which gave a short-lived strength, and, as it were, nourished the flickering lamp of life, the expiring man sat up.
"More, Bill, more! hurrah for brandy! More, I say. Ha! I begin to see clearly again. More yet, more! The shadows are gone; I feel new vigour. Ye gods, I'll come it yet!"
Bill shook his head.
"Give me the flask again," said the Captain, ere five minutes were flown; "the shades fall again; I will drive them to hell! ha! they go—they go to the devil who sent them; I shall live yet."
Again he drank the maddening liquid, which in a fearful way buoyed up the sinking man; but the alcohol and loss of blood combined worked on his brain and fired it into a kind of frenzy. He sprang up as if convulsed, and crouching amid the wolfskins that covered him, like a wild beast in his lair, struck at an imaginary foe which seemed to haunt him.
"Don't you see him, Bill? the fiend; have at him, drive him away."
"I see nought," replied the old man, still watching him with imperturbable countenance; "who is it you see?"
"Who?" yelled the wretched man. "D'you ask who? See him at the foot of my bed; 'tis the Devil himself."
"Come to overhaul his son," answered Bill, with a brutal laugh. "What like is he, Jack?"
"Bill, you are the archfiend's self, to mock me in my last distress. He is gone, thank God! No, no, there he comes again—will no one scare the demon hence? Ho! there are more—I see them—they crowd around me—they gibber—they laugh a hellish laugh! All my victims come to daunt me! There is Hesketh, Graham, ye gods! Musgrave too; he points to the red hole in his forehead. Avaunt, fiends, away! you frighten me not, I dare you one and all. There's Strogonoff—ha! more, by Jove—crowds—the hung, the tortured, the strangled, the drowned—crowds of them, the infernal niggers! the air is full of their horrid faces! they will tear me. Save me, Bill. Oh, powers of darkness;shetoo, she is there."
"Who is there?" said Bill; "you seem to have a good company—a devil's dance, and women to dance too!"
"Yes, it is she; then I did murder her. God above! I dreamed I had failed, but no, she is there too."
"She, who is she?"
"Antonia, Juana, who you like. I may as well make a clean breast of it—I poisoned her. I feel remorse for her—for none of the rest. Ah! how pale she is! how dull her once glorious eye!"
"Fiends of hell! you didn't; but you have said it, dog, and for her you die." And with an expression of horrid ire, the old man sprang from his couch and gripped the dying man by his throat.
"Death, hell, and furies! would you murder me, villain? a dying man. Ho, help! he is throttling me, I cannot breathe—help—let go, dog!"
"No, I won't defraud death; you may die scatheless, murderer, villain, foul poisoner! if there is a hell you have dearly earned its torments."
"Leave me, hound, let me die in peace; but stay, give me brandy once more, the room gets dark again, scales of blackness seal my eyes. No, I will not drink; I am better again, I shall yet live."
He lay back calm on his pillow, his eye looked bright, he felt lighter, but it was only the dead man's lightening, when the blood flows back to the seat of life and relieves "the o'ertortured clay;" and what he dreamed was the return of life was only the first touch of death. It seemed the last mercy accorded to this miserable man that at least he should die with full possession of his senses.
"Bill," he said, "forgive me—forget that deed—I am going now—it was that fiery liquor distorted my senses. Bill, there is a hell, I feel its breath scorch me now!"
"Will you have the old priest to absolve you like?"
"No, no, I will die as I have lived; I will meet the devil like a man; I have served him all my life; I have sown the wind, why should I play him false now, or be amazed if I reap the whirlwind? I have been a great sinner, but God knows my blood is on your head, Bill; you brought me to this, and—Oh God!—I am gone! A mortal pang ran me through like a knife—the Devil has hold of my heart! oh, heavens! I die—I d—i—e."
The death rattle in his throat choked the last words, and the soulless form of what was once John de Vere sank back,—the immortal soul fled to its dread Maker.
"Ay, he is gone; wild and bad he was, yet he was a fine fellow. I have had my revenge. The last act remains only to be played out, but his murder must e'en be avenged," said old Bill, as he lifted the dead man's hand and let it fall nerveless again by his side. At that moment Pedro and a youth of eleven or twelve, though he looked much older, entered the chamber of death.
"How is Luigi? Where is our Captain?" asked Pedro.
"Luigi is where we shall all be one day, with the master he served!"
"Alas!" said Pedro, as he approached the bed on which all that was once his chief lay. "Alas! my brave Captain, my true friend, thou art laid low by a felon hand! Thou wert a true brigand,—a bold, fearless leader,—and what art thou now? inanimate clay—soulless dust! Farewell, Luigi, foreigner though thou wert,—the pride of the banditti, the terror of the Capitanata, the scourge of the Abruzzi! Thou art lost now; dull is the eagle eye—cold the impassioned cheek—nerveless the strong arm—still the high heart. Woe to us now! Who shall lead our bands? who shall think, plan, fight, and divide the prey? Woe to the hand that spilt thy blood! We have lost our head to-day; I have lost my friend—my boonfellow! Alas! woe is me!"
Tears stood in the robber's eyes, to whom the late Captain had been a guiding star and friend—even in crime there is a sort of false glory—even among robbers a sort of friendship!
The boy Giovanni, too, leaned over the death-bed.
"Alas! thou art low, high heart, brave soul! But, like the rays of the setting sun, a twilight glory lingers yet. Thy life is gone; not so thy example. The fiery soul lingers still. I feel it swell within me! Our Captain is gone. I will be leader now. I am young; but it was his will. I am a boy in years—a man in soul. This sword," taking the late Captain's blade, "shall not lose its lustre. Call our men in; let them own their chieftain."
Pedro blew a blast. Silently and sadly the whole band assembled. They filled the room; there were at least seventy bold spirits besides Bill, Giovanni, and Pedro; there was only one of the other sex; she wept bitterly, as she pressed the cold hand of Luigi.
"Comrades," said Bill, "our gallant Captain is dead!" A groan of rage and sorrow arose from all. "He named Giovanni as his successor. He is a stripling—a youth in age; but he will make a worthy Captain. I will train him up. Will you acknowledge him? Let those who will hold up their swords."
An instant clash of steel took place; not a sword was lacking.
"Then swear allegiance by your swords; and let the spirit of the dead be witness!"
The oath was taken. A sullen silence reigned for an instant.
"Leonora," said old Bill, "come here."
The maiden came. He whispered something in her ear. She was about to depart when a noise was heard in the bed where the dead lay. Every eye turned towards the place. He had been now dead for half an hour at least, and a shudder thrilled every soul as they saw a faint movement take place on the lips of the dead. Then two long, harrowing shrieks of agony rose from the blue lips, and echoed with fearful tones through the cavern! There was not a faint heart there, nor a coward soul; yet when they heard that scream twice repeated from the lips of the corpse, not a heart but sunk, nor a cheek but paled! It was a cry as if a hundred demons seized on the departed, and he yelled as their fiendish grip encircled him!
Many of the bandits fled in dismay, and hurried in confusion from the inner cave to drown their terror in ardent spirits.
Old Bill alone approached the body, and pressed his hand on the death-cold brow. It was icy. He had been dead long ago!
"Perhaps," said Pedro, "the incarnate fiend has taken possession of the body. It were well to get priestly aid, and exorcise him to depart."
"Perhaps," said Bill, in Italian, "the devil has got into your own head. Tut! it was but the air a rushing from his body. I've heard the like before."
"They were the most awful sounds I ever heard. I shall never forget their terror," said Pedro, shaking his head.
"Thou art a superstitious dog, and frightened by a sound. What if the carcase itself arose? Could not we fight it as well as a living man?"
"Old man, you believe in nothing, fear nothing! You English are afraid of neither spirit nor demon. I fear nothing mortal; but spirits from beyond the grave I do fear; and I care not to say so!"
"You had better drink another kind of spirit to drive such trash from your head," replied Bill, in English, as Pedro had used that tongue, thus giving force to the play on the word. "And, Pedro, see if Leonora be gone; and get a coffin to stow away our late Luigi in; and leave me here to lay out the corpse. I'se warrant not one of you cowardly dogs would lay claws on him now."
"Santa Maria! no! I am well pleased to be away."
Pedro, Giovanni, and the few remaining brigands then left the old man and the corpse together, and broached a cask of Falernian to drive away their terrors. In silver goblets they drank their late Captain's health; his quick delivery from purgatory; and vowed gold to purchase his redemption; as well as swore to avenge his death, if they got hold of the slayer; an important "if," for Adrian Vardarelli was esteemed a cunning man, who would not easily be taken.
"His swarthy visage spake distress,But this might be from weariness;His garb with sanguine spots was dyed,But these might be from his courser's side;He drew the token from his vest * *Me, not from mercy did they spare,But this empurpled pledge to bear!"—Giaour.
"His swarthy visage spake distress,But this might be from weariness;His garb with sanguine spots was dyed,But these might be from his courser's side;He drew the token from his vest * *Me, not from mercy did they spare,But this empurpled pledge to bear!"—Giaour.
The sun was setting on the Apennines, bathing them in purple, as the postilion bearing the fatal news of the tragedy of Val di Bovino neared the outskirts of Foggia.
Close to the road leading to Naples, the last of a row of villas, was the residence of the Earl of Wentworth. It was a small one compared to his villa at Naples; but sufficiently large to excite the attention of the traveller. Built on a gentle eminence, surrounded by orange groves bearing their golden burden, its front aspect faced the Apennines, embracing a fine view of the rich country around, as well as the immensetavoliereof Apulia, the pasturage of numerous herds of cattle during the winter.
On the balcony looking down the high road sat the Countess, now more matured in age than when we last saw her. She was still extremely handsome, and, in the opinion of many, her ripened beauty exceeded her girlish charms. She was somewhat more inclined toembonpointthan of old, but had worn remarkably well, and still possessed the same luxuriant quantity of hair, more richly brown than ever; the same winning, soft blue eye; the same clear complexion. Her countenance was saddened, but affliction had not soured; and when she smiled her smile was sweet as ever. Time had lightly laid his touch on her; she scarce looked five-and-twenty, though she was half a dozen years older at least.
A little distance from the Countess stood Lady Augusta, who was then past eleven. She was tall for her age, and built on a large scale; her eyes were her mother's, but her hair was very much fairer; her well-formed mouth betrayed the firmness of the De Veres. She was too young for us to judge of her character, or even what her appearance would yet be; but, if ever a mother's prayers and loving example are sure of a reward, doubtless Augusta would grow in beauty of mind and person all the Countess wished.
"Augusta, love, is there no sign yet of our guests? Look if you can see the carriage. They should have been here long ago."
"No, mamma dear, I see nothing. We shall hear the wheels first, for the orange-trees hide the turn in the road."
"No sign of Lennox yet?" said the Marquis, entering the verandah. "'Pon my word they are taking it easily."
"Indeed, I am beginning to feel nervous,—the roads are so unsafe. I wish they had started earlier," said the Countess.
"Pooh! you are always thinking of the brigands. I tell you Lennox wrote to say he would take guards."
"I know; but that Luigi is such a dreadful man! I quite dread going drives. And if he heard of my jewels coming,—he gets news of everything. I do hope nothing will happen."
"Never a fear. Young Lennox is a smart fellow. They will come all right. They are armed, and the sbirri with them. Luigi knows too well to risk an attack."
"I hear the clatter of a horse, mamma," said Augusta. "Ah! see, here he comes. How he rides; and he is stopping at our gate."
"Oh! I hope there is nothing wrong. Do go and see, Arranmore. How my heart beats!"
Lord Arranmore, without waiting to be asked, had left the balcony, and at the porch learned the dreadful tidings from the postilion, who, almost dead with terror, crossing himself and calling every saint to his aid, by broken sentences told all, producing also the ensanguined scarf.
The Marquis ordered the servants to give him refreshment (but the poor man had little peace till he had told them the whole twenty times over, and each time a little more exaggerated than the last), and then returned to break the news to the Countess.
"Your fears are, alas! too true," he said. "Our friends have been attacked and fearfully murdered!"
"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed the Countess; "is this true?"
"Too true. The wretched postilion, who alone survived, told me all. Poor young Lennox attacked them boldly, but was soon overpowered; then poor Lennox! Faith! the tale is too shocking for your ears. Enough to say, he was murdered, and the heads of father and son stuck on poles! The worst part is, all your jewels are gone too!"
"Oh! Arranmore! do not say so! I would gladly have lost every trinket in the world to save one life. But, Caroline, poor girl, what has become of her?" said the Countess, whilst unfeigned tears of sorrow coursed her cheeks.
"Ah! poor girl! she was carried off by the ruffian Adrian Vardarelli. Luigi is a bloodthirsty villain! but Adrian a—I won't say my fears!"
"Oh! my poor Caroline! my heart bleeds for her indeed! But had they not guards? How did it happen?"
"They met a count at their last stage—no real count, but a disguised brigand—who got everything out of our poor murdered friend. Alas! he little knew to whom he spoke. They hired two ruffians to guard them instead of the sbirri! though heaven knows they would not have helped them much! Then they were attacked—their false guards turned on them, and the postilion fled to hide in the woods, and from his hiding place saw the whole! I cannot repeat the horrors he saw, or the cold-blooded butchery! There was a quarrel between the Vardarelli, it seems, for poor Caroline, and Adrian mortally wounded Luigi. In the midst of the conflict some twenty sbirri appeared. Adrian galloped off with his prize. A fierce hand-to-hand fight took place, which ended in the total annihilation of the sbirri, and the victorious miscreants carried off their booty, and dead and wounded, as well as the dying Luigi. It is a comfort to think that vagabond has got his desert, and the whole country will be rid of a nuisance."
"This is a most fearful tragedy. Alas! what a lawless land this is, but perhaps the man may have exaggerated the truth, and they may be only captive, God grant it."
"I fear it is too true; this stained scarf tells its tale. Luigi never spared men; it was his plan to torture and then stick the heads of his victims on poles. Adrian only spares his captives for worse than death; poor Caroline, a sad fate is hers. However, this has now come to a pass, the whole country are up in arms, and they are determined to find out their hiding place, a secret that has baffled search as yet. I shall join, and so will Wentworth, and we will be avenged on the rascals," said the Marquis.
"Oh no, do not think of such a thing, dear Lord Arranmore. Wentworth shall never go; if anything happened to him it would kill me; for my sake leave their punishment to the troops. Wentworth shall go and see the King of Naples. Let us go and seek my husband, he must be told of this awful event. Poor Mr. Lennox and his son, and poor Caroline! I feel sick at heart for her. How I shall treasure this sad relic,—and all perhaps on my account! I would I had not asked them to bring my jewels."
The Marquis, accompanied by the Countess and their daughter, then descended to seek the Earl, who was busy with state papers in his study. The Marquis knocked, no answer came,—he opened the door, the Earl was not there; his desk lay open on the table, his quill was dipped in the ink, and a half written letter lay on the floor.
"Curious he isn't here, and yet I only left him half an hour ago; he must have gone out into the garden; see, the windows are open: shall we go and see, Countess?"
"Yes, let us go. Augusta love, put your hat on, and bring me a shawl, the dew is falling heavily."
In a few minutes they all three walked out through the Venetian windows, which opened on a smooth lawn bounded on all sides by orange trees, and explored the gardens to see if the Earl was there, as it was a favourite evening resort. After an hour, when it grew dark and chilly, they gave up the search, and returned. He was not in the house either; the servants were next questioned, but had not seen their lord. Lady Wentworth began to get anxious, and sent several servants to various friends' houses near, as well as the reading-rooms, and any other place where he might have gone to in Foggia. After a long, anxious time they returned, but without news.
"I am quite distressed," said the Countess, sinking on a sofa. "I am so anxious. Where can he be? this dreadful night has quite upset me. Where is my husband?" and she burst into tears.
"Dear Lady Wentworth, you have no cause for any anxiety; remember the Earl is continually away at night; he often goes to tea somewhere you must know; we have not sent to the right house."
"I know it is foolish of me, but I cannot help it, I am so shaken by this awful night; oh, if anything has happened to him, I shall die. Where is my Wentworth? Why did he not tell me where he was going to?"
Lord Arranmore did all he could to pacify the lady, but it was in vain he told her to fear nothing, as time sped on, and no sign of her lord still. Augusta had gone to her room, the Countess and he sat in the drawing-room, or rather she sat sobbing with grief, whilst he stood at the window straining his eyes to catch any glimpse of his brother-in-law. The moon had already risen round and full, showering down a light equal to many a day in the north. Every now and then he would say a word of comfort, begging her not to weep—"he would soon come;" but as time still went on, and not a sign of the absent one, he too began to feel a misgiving in his heart, and his mind readily conjured up real, or fancied terrors. The letter unfinished, the windows open; he had evidently gone for a walk but had not returned; could he have heard the fatal report, and with his natural impetuosity at once ridden off to the spot? as he thought of this a sigh unwittingly escaped him as he fancied the perilous position his friend was in. The quick ear of the Countess caught it, and suddenly springing up she ran to him; taking one of his strong hands between her own delicate fingers, she looked up into his face with a despairing earnestness that went to his heart, and with tears standing in her large blue eyes, asked him why he sighed.
"Alas, Ellen," he fondly said, "I sighed to see you so unhappy at nothing."
"My dear Arranmore, tell me the truth; do you not now fear? hide nothing if you know it from me. Oh, deceive me not, you too are anxious."
Often when we wish to comfort people we say the worst things we can by a sort of heartless chance—contrariety. The Marquis, anxious to alleviate her fears by assigning a cause for her husband's absence, said the very worst thing he could.
"I think it is not at all unlikely, Ellen, that Wentworth has heard the news, and gone off with soldiers to the spot."
"Gracious Heavens!" cried the Countess, "I never thought of that; it is too true, that must be it, and he is now in those dreadful ruffians' power,—he is perhaps, wounded,—he may be—"
But her lips refused to frame the word, all she thought to say was lost in a wild scream, as she sunk on the floor, in a dead swoon. The Marquis, terrified at what he had thoughtlessly done, rang the bell, while he lifted the insensible lady, and placed her on a sofa. The fit proved a long and dangerous one, and it was not till the doctor had been sent for that Lord Arranmore felt free from alarm. The medical gentleman said there was no cause for any apprehension, and in a short time she would recover. In the excitement occasioned by the Countess's illness the absence of the Earl was partially lost sight of, and whilst the Marquis was bending over the patient, he was somewhat surprised by the sudden reappearance of the Earlin propriâ personâ, who when his lady's illness was told him, rushed to the drawing-room, and forcing his way through the surrounding servants, in an agony of fear pressed his wife's hand, exclaiming:
"I knew it, see what my folly in not telling her has done. I think everything is leagued to rob me of my mind to-night,—mysterious guides, horrid butcheries, robbers' dens, and now my wife dying."
The voice of her husband acted as a restorative when the doctor was beginning to think all would fail, and the Countess opened her eyes. When she saw the object of her solicitude she burst into tears, crying—
"God be thanked you are safe, my own Wentworth! where have you been? why did you leave me?"
"My darling, I could not help it, I was unwillingly lured away, but you shall hear all when you are better; we must get you to bed at once, the horrors of this evening have been too much for you."
The Countess grew rapidly better, and ere long was calmly sleeping away her terrors, whilst the Earl drew the Marquis aside and told him the cause of his absence. For more than two hours they were closely closeted together, and as they shook hands the Earl said:
"It has been truly the most wonderful day of my life."
"It indeed seems so,—it is the most extraordinary history I ever heard in my life,—it out-Herods all romances and novels. Faith, you were a bold fellow to risk your life amongst such ruffians."
"Had I not I should never have known all this; poor John, such an end,—and the other—"
"After all, you would have been happier in blissful ignorance, but you are sure it is not a tissue of lies?"
"Lies, oh, dear no, I have the proofs here," (producing a large packet of papers,) "besides, I saw enough to prove the truth of at least part; but we must not talk any longer to-night; to-morrow we will sift the whole to the bottom, and see what is to be done for our unfortunate friends; their remains must be decently interred if we can obtain them. I would we could trace Caroline Lennox, and he who took her away. We shall have enough to do, first here and then in England, for thither I must go; we shall have work for the Crown lawyers."
"I' faith I hardly like to go home through that horrid valley; what if they cut us up too?"
"No fears, I have a pass for all Italy; no brigand would harm us were he to see this paper."
The Earl produced a small paper, on which were inscribed some hieroglyphical marks, on which the Marquis looked with some interest.
"This is a queer country after all," he said, "but we are got to talking again. Good night, I shall be glad to sleep off my thoughts."
"And I too," said the Earl; "but sleep will not chase mine away. Good night, I must see how Ellen is."
With these words they parted and sought their different rooms. The Earl found his wife calmly sleeping, and kissing her white forehead, prepared to follow her example. Whilst the whole house are bathed in forgetfulness we shall trespass on our readers' time a little longer, and account for the Earl's mysterious absence for so many hours. But as it is a long story we must leave it for the few next chapters, and we hope they will be sufficiently interesting to reward the reader's careful perusal of their strange contents.