THE ROBBERS' CAVE.
Enrico, followed by his prisoner, groped his way through the cave, and then along a passage in the rock too low to admit of their standing upright. The dampness of the air, the darkness of the place, made the unhappy Horace feel as though he were entering a tomb. They soon, however, emerged into a very spacious cavern of irregular shape, at one side of which was some light. This light, as Horace soon perceived, came from two wax tapers, burning in front of an image of the Virgin. The feeble gleam served only to make "darkness visible," not reaching at all to the roof of the cave, and showing but little even of its brown rugged wall. The place was tenanted by bats, which wheeled around in circling flights, seeming to Horace's fevered imagination like spirits of evil haunting the robbers' cave. The youth watched with curiosity to see whether Enrico would cross himself or bow on passing the image, and as he did neither, the prisoner ventured upon a remark.
"I should hardly have expected to see that here," he said, pointing to the shrine.
"Why so?" asked his companion.
"Because," answered Horace, trying to put his reply in the least offensive form, "I should not have thought Matteo a man to care for religion."
"That shows how little you know about him," said Enrico. "Some of your mother's good ducats will go to a fat friar for masses, that the rest may be enjoyed with an easy conscience; and though Matteo has not scrupled to rob a traveler on this Friday, nothing would persuade him to touch a morsel of meat.
"Is it possible," exclaimed Horace, "that a man can so deceive his own soul?"
"None of that talk here," cried Enrico, with gesture of irritation; "we have more of it than we like, and will never stand it from you!"
"From whom can they hear it?" thought the astonished Horace. "One would as little expect to hear truth as to find honesty in a den like this!"
Enrico now lighted a torch which was fastened in the rock a few feet above a long low table, which Horace now for the first time perceived, and which, with the rude benches on each side of it, seemed to form all the furniture of the place. On it were ranged sundry flagons, bottles of wine, and other preparations for a meal.
"I suppose that while you are our prisoner, you will partake of our fare," said Enrico. "Will you join our jovial party at supper to-night, or shall I at once introduce you to the luxuries of our private apartment—the elegant chamber which you are to share with me and my brother?" Enrico's tone was satirical, and there was indescribable bitterness in his smile.
"If you could possibly keep me apart from the band to-night, I should be thankful," said Horace, "I am parched with thirst, but I have not the slightest inclination to eat food."
Enrico went up to the table, and filled a large tankard with water, which Horace eagerly drained. He then bade the prisoner to follow him, and a little more—to Horace—painful clambering up rude stony steps brought them to a recess in the side of the cave, about ten feet above the floor, and overlooking the table.
It was so utterly dark, that it was by feeling and not by sight that young Cleveland became aware that there was a heap of dry leaves upon the rocky floor.
"As the Rossignol has not returned," said Enrico, "you may take possession of his bed. I warrant it that you have been accustomed to a more soft and dainty couch! I must go below to prepare the banquet."
So saying, Enrico groped his way back to the floor of the cavern; while Horace, dizzy and bewildered by the strange events of the night, gave a deep sigh of relief at finding himself in comparative solitude. He threw himself down on the heap of leaves, resting his burning forehead on his arm, and tried to collect his scattered thoughts and realize his position.
"What a strange, wild place this is! Shall I ever leave it alive?—Shall I ever look upon the sunshine, or feel the pure breath of heaven? What horrors these walls may have witnessed! Could they speak, what fearful tales of crime might they disclose! And it is more than probable that, ere a week shall have passed, another may be added to the list."
Horace changed his position in feverish restlessness, and a sharp thrill of pain reminded him of the fetters on his limbs. "There would be none to lift a hand, or to speak a word in my defence; no, nor to feel pity for my youth, whatever I might have to endure! Even this Enrico, who seems somewhat less brutal than the rest, would shoot me dead on the spot rather than suffer his captive to escape. Oh, my mother, my poor mother, how little you ever expected your son to be in such a situation as this!"
Then Horace recalled how, ever since he could remember, his parent had been wont to come and sit at night by his bed-side, stroke back his curly hair, and talk to him of holy things, and tell him how much she loved him. These nightly visits, once a pleasure to both, had within the last year become a cause of painful feeling between Horace and his mother. The youth had grown jealous of being treated like a child; it had annoyed him to be disturbed from his desk or some interesting book by the entrance of his mother at her regular hour; to be chidden for sitting up late, or warned of the danger of fire. Horace had become so impatient et the interruption, the reproof and the warning, that he had at last actually locked his door, answering his mother's "good-night" without turning the key to admit her.
Mrs. Cleveland had been deeply wounded, Horace hardly guessed how deeply, but it was agony now upon this his first night of captivity to recall the sound of her step in the passage, the tone of her plaintive "good-night," and to think that that step—that voice—might be heard by his ear no more. Oh, why had he not loved her better?—Why, why had he not always welcomed the presence of one so dear?
With this train of thought came linked another; it was not only in filial piety that Horace Cleveland had failed: his neglect had not been only towards his mother. Carefully brought up as he had been, the youth had, with tolerable regularity, observed the outward forms of religion, and conscience had been easily satisfied that all was right with his soul.
Horace had mistaken reverence for devotion, and belief in God's truth for faith. But such a shadow of religion could not support him under the pressure of real trials, or make tolerable the prospect of death: it had no strength or solidity in it. Horace could not realize the presence of a heavenly Father in the dark, gloomy cave, nor was the psalmist's assurance his,—
"The Lord is my light and any salvation, whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?"
In courage and spirit he was by no means deficient—but human courage and spirit will bend under the pressure of protracted trial; that terrible walk in shackles had for the time exhausted the energies of Horace, and in that gloomy abode of evil, he felt desolate and wretched indeed.
Even the comfort of silence was soon taken from the prisoner. Before many minutes had elapsed, a wild uproar of voices announced the approach of the band. One by one the robbers emerged from the low passage which united the outer and inner caves, some bearing spoil, and some bearing torches, which threw a wild, red glare on their dark faces and picturesque dress. Horace counted eight bandits, including Enrico. The men sat noisily down at the table. Matteo and some others had their seats near the wall, and were so immediately under Horace that he could not see them, without stretching his head so far forward that he would himself have been exposed to the observation of the robbers, which he anxiously desired to avoid; but while remaining under cover of the darkness of his recess, Horace had full view of Enrico and three of his companions, who sat opposite to their chief.
I shall not enter into details of what—with disgust and horror—Horace saw and heard on that night; the oaths, the tales, the songs of the coarsest description, the sounds of wild revel, the burst of laughter strangely echoing through the recesses of the vaulted cave, till it seemed as though fields unseen shouted and laughed again. Enrico, laying aside his former manner, appeared to be the gayest of the gay, plunging into the torrent of unholy mirth as though he sought to drown all memory and all remorse.
Horace tried to shut out from his own ears the sounds of profane merriment, but he tried in vain. It seemed to his loathing mind that if one black spot were to be found on earth, where evil, unmixed evil, reigned triumphant, where faith was quite shut out, where heavenly hope could not come—that spot was the robbers' cave in the depth of the Calabrian mountain!
MUSIC AND MADNESS.
"Ha! The Rossignol come at last!" shouted Beppo, as a low, clear whistle was heard in the dark passage.
Horace looked down eagerly, and saw the slight form of Raphael, as he came forth from the gloom, bearing his instrument of music.
The young Calabrian looked exceedingly weary. He made a slight inclination of the head on entering towards the place where Horace knew that the chief was; he then laid his guitar against the rocky wall and sat down on a vacant seat beside his brother Enrico.
"What news of Otto?" cried Matteo, whose voice was easily recognized amongst the rest by its peculiar harshness.
"I could gain no tidings beyond those which have already reached you," replied Raphael, in low, rich tones, which formed as strong a contrast to the discordant sounds which had lately prevailed, as his appearance did to that of his companions. "He was as you know, conveyed by a strong military escort towards Staiti; thence to be taken to Reggio. He had not been able to communicate with any one at the inn, access to him being strictly forbidden by the officer in charge."
Something that sounded like a curse burst from the lips of Matteo.
"And what are your news?" inquired Raphael, with what seemed to Horace a somewhat anxious air.
One of the robbers replied with a laugh, "Some good business done to-day! English travelers are always worth the plucking! It will take you some time with your curing and your carolling to bring in the value of a plaything like this;" and he held up the glittering gold chain which had been torn from the neck of Mrs. Cleveland.
"Any blood shed?" inquired Raphael quickly, resting his clenched hand on the table, and sternly regarding the last speaker. When a short account of what had occurred was given to him, the improvisatore looked relieved, and Horace instinctively felt that he had a friend in the man whom he had called to his face a low musician, a jailbird, a companion of thieves.
Raphael bent towards his brother and whispered some question, to which Enrico replied by glancing up towards the recess occupied by the captive; then heaping food upon a trencher which was before the Rossignol, he bade him eat and drink and refresh himself after his long walk.
Raphael shook his head, and pushed the trencher away.
"If you will not eat, you shall sing," cried Matteo. "Beppo here has a voice which he might have borrowed from a raven, and Marco's is like a muffled drum—we've not had a singer worth listening to, since Carlo was shot in the wood!"
Raphael did not appear much more disposed to sing than to eat, but Matteo spoke like one whose will was a law which few would have dared to oppose; and the musician, albeit reluctantly, laid his hand on the guitar.
"Give us the jovial old Spanish drinking song, with the bolero—give it out bold and free!" exclaimed Beppo.
"I shall choose my own song," replied Raphael coldly, "and sing it in what manner I list."
"A madman's theme must be madness," cried the ill-favored robber.
"Be it so," answered the Rossignol; "although I accept not your name—I take the word as my subject. Madness shall be my theme."
He struck a few chords with a light, bold hand—and the silvery sound in that fearful place seemed like the tones of an angel's harp. In an instant, all other noise was so completely hushed that Horace could hear distinctly the slow drip of water distilling from the roof of the cave.
The attention of the robbers deepened as, after a short prelude, Rossignol began to sing. His exquisite voice poured forth in a wild and original air, sometimes rapid and almost gay, but at the close of every verse ending in a minor key, and in tones of such deep pathos that they sounded like a dirge from the dead, or a wail for the lost.
Horace had often listened to music, but he had never before heard such music as this. In others he had felt sweet song a charm, but in Raphael it was a power. It was a spell which kept chained in almost breathless silence the reckless beings whose fierce passions brooked no restraint either of law or conscience.
MADNESS.A wanderer stood by a rapid stream,When a scroll unto him was brought;'Twas a father's message of love, addrestTo one whose childhood his care had blest.'Twas an offer of pardon, peace and rest;—But the prodigal whom he sought,Only flung the scroll from the river's brink,And watched it slowly and slowly sink.Oh! Madman, to break love's golden link!On a hill stood a poor wayfaring man,When a parchment to him was givenBy which he was proved the rightful heirTo all the broad region before him there,The wooded valleys, and meadows fair,Bounded but by the arch of heaven.But with reckless hand he the parchment tore,And the breezes afar the fragments bore.Oh! Madman, that wealth can be thine no more!A doomed man crouched o'er his prison fire,His heart for his fate he steeled;Already he heard the castle bellBoom drearily forth his dying knell,When his eye on a royal writing fell;'Twas his pardon, signed and sealed!But he flung the pardon into the flame,And so went forth to a death of shame.Oh! Madman, well hast thou earned the name!
"Almost as well," exclaimed Beppo, "as the rhymer who could make such a song! Sing to us of men of flesh and blood, for the world holds no such fools as those in your ballad—they be more unnatural than the ghosts and goblins of nursery rhymes."
"For the matter of that," observed Marco, another of the robbers, "there's many a prodigal I wot of, has thrown his father's letter away."
"But to tear a deed of inheritance—throw a pardon into the fire—nothing so wild, so improbable was ever yet said or sung. Such mad freaks as those are not played by men even in their dreams."
"Are you sure of that?" asked the Rossignol, while his fingers, as if unconsciously, wandered over the strings of his guitar.
"Is the song ended?" said Matteo.
"Not ended—but you have heard enough," was the answer of the improvisatore.
"Let's hear it out," cried the chief.
"Let's hear it out," echoed the bandits.
Again rose the rich, full tones, but with deeper emphasis, more thrilling expression.
Such madmen amongst us live and dwellSuch madmen amongst us die;A father's message is heard—forgot;A treasure offered—accepted not;Men wildly prefer the demon's lot,To freedom and life on high!A king's free pardon—a parent's stay,Infinite wealth may be theirs to-day.Oh! Madmen, to cast them all away!
The song ceased. There was an instant of deep stillness, and then Beppo flung a tankard at the head of the speaker, as his comment on a moral so unwelcome.
By a quick movement, Raphael avoided the blow; Enrico glanced fiercely at Beppo; the Rossignol laid his hand on his brother's arm, as if to restrain him from expression of anger, and without taking any other notice of the insult, arose from his seat.
The countenances of the banditti, as Horace looked down upon them, would have been a study for a painter. The music had a very different effect upon its various hearers. Beppo's face was flushed with passion, while over that of Marco, a powerful man who sat next to him, gathered a gloomy scowl. A third wore a mocking sneer, a glance that seem to say that while he admired the music, he cared nothing for the moral of the song.
Enrico's expression, after the glance of indignation had passed away, was that of silent misery which he made a vain effort to conceal. The bow might have been drawn at a venture, but in one heart the barbed arrow was rankling.
And there stood the Rossignol, calm and intrepid, as one not unconscious of danger, but raised above its fear. Horace looked with wondering curiosity at the man who could dare to sing such a lay in such a place, and marveled what mysterious link could bind his fate with that of ruffians with whom it appeared that he could have no feeling in common. Even as regarded Enrico, when Horace now looked upon the two brothers, and contrasted them with each other, he could hardly conceive how he had ever traced a resemblance between them.
The noise of the falling tankard clattering on the rocky floor, was succeeded by that of the fist of Matteo coming heavily down upon the table, as if in anger; when the chief spoke, however, he made no allusion to the song; that it had offended him could only be gathered from the increased savageness of his tone.
"It is time to disperse. Mountain-wolves, away to your dens!"
The command was instantly obeyed. For a few moments, noise and uproar prevailed, and as the wild band scattered in various directions, torches flashed hither and thither in the hot murky air. Horace watched the retreating form of Beppo, as the light which he carried showed a deeper recess of the cave than he had been able to see before, with glistening stalactites hanging from the roof; and when he turned to look for the Rossignol, found that he had disappeared from his view. Remembering that Raphael was to share his own rocky chamber, Horace awaited his coming with interest and impatience. There was a step on the rough stair (if such that might be called, that seemed framed by nature and not by man), which led to the upper recess, and some one entered, but in the darkness Horace knew not whether it were Raphael or Enrico. The comer threw himself down on a heap of leaves not far from Horace, and either imagining the captive to be asleep, or (as was more probable) forgetting his presence altogether, gave a heavy groan as if in pain. That sound assuredly did not come from the Rossignol's lips. Horace lay for some time perfectly still, listening to the drip drip of water, and the deep sighs of his unseen companion, and awaiting the coming of Raphael, till, weary as he was, sleep overcame the young captive.
A DASH FOR FREEDOM.
The summer morning had dawned, and though no direct ray could ever enter the inner cave, Horace could see the reflection of pure rosy light tinging the rugged stone, hundreds of feet above him, through a cleft in the rocky roof, which appeared as if it had been rent asunder by the shock of an earthquake. Most refreshing to the captive's eye was even that reflected gleam, which showed that the sun was shining upon earth, though not upon him: and he longed for wings to fly upwards through that lofty cleft to the glorious daylight beyond.
Horace half raised himself on his elbow and looked around him. Not two yards from the spot on which he rested, he saw the kneeling form of Raphael, who was evidently engaged in prayer. The sight of him was to Horace like the sight of the sun-lit rocks;—something to witness to the existence of Heaven's light even in this abode of darkness. On the other side lay Enrico asleep, and the quiet which prevailed through the cave showed that the day wag but little advanced.
After a brief space of time Raphael arose from his knees, and turning towards Horace, perceived by the dim light that the captive was awake.
"How have you slept?" he asked in Italian, addressing Horace in the third person singular, which, in that language, is a token of respect.
Even this trifling mark of courtesy was grateful to the unfortunate youth.
"I slept but ill," replied Horace; "how could I look for pleasant slumbers here?"
"The bed is but a hard one," said the Rossignol, "to one who has been accustomed to a softer pillow, though custom has made its roughness no hardship to us. Yonder, where the water drips, Nature has formed a simple basin, where you may find refreshment in bathing your weary limbs."
Horace attempted to rise, but the clambering of the previous night had made his fetters gall him so severely, that every movement was pain.
Raphael saw his distress. "I know too well what it is to wear such anklets," said he.
"Can you not free me from them?" exclaimed Horace.
The Rossignol shook his head. "I cannot free you from them," he said, "but I can render their effects less painful;" and he drew from a little hole in the side of the rock some lint and ointment, which, kneeling down, he at once began to apply to the captive's swollen ankles. The touch of his hand was gentle as a woman's, and Horace felt grateful for the relief imparted.
"I regret that I spoke of you as I did yesterday," said the youth, remembering his insulting manner and the words at the door of the inn.
"It is not at once that we know either our friends or our foes," replied Raphael.
"But you will be my friend—I know it—I can trust you!" exclaimed Horace, an eager hope arising in his heart; and, speaking in English, in a low, rapid tone, he offered the Italian a large reward—a thousand ducats—two—three—if he would aid him in effecting his escape, and so restore him to freedom and safety.
Raphael knitted his brows, and shook his head sadly in reply.
"It would be a noble deed—it would be to rescue a fellow-creature from danger—"
"And to deliver my only brother to death," interrupted Raphael, pointing to the sleeper at his side.
"Matteo would never—"
"Matteo has vowed that Enrico shall answer for your safe keeping with his life: Matteo never breaks such a vow," said Raphael, speaking in imperfect English.
"But he cannot be such a ruffian as to murder his own follower," pursued Horace, who was unwilling to let go his only hope of escape.
"He would do it—nor would it be for the first time," said Raphael, his face darkening with some recollection of horror; "it was not by the hand of soldier or executioner that Carlo perished in the wood!"
Horace felt the blood run cold in his veins, yet his intense desire for freedom made him once more return to the subject. "If Matteo be so merciless," he said, "how dared you provoke his anger last night?"
"I had my message to give, and I gave it," replied the improvisatore; "he who builds on the brink of a volcano does so with the knowledge that the lava may one day overflow. Yet do I stand on vantage ground, and Matteo would bear from me what he would bear from no one beside."
"Why so?" inquired young Cleveland.
"He has an old wound in his thigh, which, having been imperfectly healed, has broken out afresh. Having gained, when I was very young, some slight knowledge of surgery from my grandfather, I am able to afford him such aid as the chief would be loath to lose. Besides," continued Raphael, "Matteo has a passionate love for melody, the one softening quality yet left him; and words are endured when clothed in music which, without it, would be perilous in the utterance. I must now depart; the band usually pursue their work at dusk, but mine requires the daylight." Raphael now spoke in his native tongue, being so little conversant with English that he was obliged, when using that language, to interpolate many words from his own.
"Do not leave me!" exclaimed Horace, who already looked upon the Rossignol as his only earthly protector.
"There is a villager sick, perhaps dying, whom I must see, and others who must not vainly expect me. I will, please Heaven, return before dark; and will, ere I go, bring you food to supply the wants of the day."
So saying, Raphael with a light step descended the rude steps which led to the body of the cave, and soon returned with a plentiful supply of better fare than Horace would have expected to find in such a place. His appetite was now keen, as he had eaten nothing since he had left the inn on the mountain.
"How shall I ever repay you for your kindness to a prisoner?" he said to Raphael.
"I shall ask a favor of you this evening," replied the Rossignol, "which, if granted, will richly repay any slight services which I can render. I must go now—the day advances—but I leave you with little anxiety; while Otto lives, your life is perfectly safe from any deed of violence. Annoyance or insult you may have to endure, but a brave youth, as I doubt not that you are, can endure hardness like a good soldier of the cross."
The last words, and the glance which accompanied them, acted on the spirit of Horace like the sound of a trumpet. Refreshed by his morning ablutions and the food of which he had partaken, not only the youth's bodily frame felt invigorated, but his mind rebounded from its late depression with all the elasticity of hope. There were a thousand chances, Horace thought, in his favor. His mother might—would succeed in her efforts to effect his exchange with the bandit's son, or the government would be roused to send an overwhelming force to crush the robbers. Even failing this, Matteo himself might be bribed to release his captive, or Raphael, moved by generous compassion, aid him to effect his escape.
But why should he wait for Raphael?—The thought darted into the mind of Horace as he concluded his substantial meal. Could he not, without any assistance, recover the freedom which he had lost?
Young Cleveland glanced eagerly around—below—his heart throbbing high at the idea of such a feat as would establish his reputation as a hero for the rest of his days. The cavern was still perfectly quiet—the very bats had retired to rest—there was nothing but the sleeping figure of Enrico to betoken that the place was inhabited by any living creature but himself. The entrance was not bolted or barred, when Raphael had departed through the aperture, which was only distinguishable from the walls of the cave by its more intense blackness, no sentinel had challenged him for a pass-word.
Horace recollected, indeed, with uneasiness, that a robber had kept guard on the ledge of rock; but he hoped that at an hour so early as the present, no such precaution might be deemed needful. There must be danger, indeed, in an attempt to escape, but had not the peril in itself a certain indefinable charm? Horace had often longed for an adventure—here was one which had in it enough of romance to satisfy the most chivalrous spirit.
The only thing which presented any real difficulty to the boy's sanguine mind, was the bondage of his fetters; they not only cruelly impeded his movements, but made such a clanking as he walked, that it was certain to rouse the robbers. If Horace were once beyond the cave, the noise would signify less, but in that vaulted, echoing chamber, every sound was trebled. As his only resource, the youth half reclined on the rock and holding up the chain with one hand, so that the iron should not touch the stone, with the other, he helped to propel himself along in a slow and most uncomfortable manner.
Tedious and awkward as was this method of progression, it had at least the merit of being noiseless, and every yard crept over seemed to Horace to be a gigantic stride towards freedom. But oh, how distant seemed that yawning chasm through which the fugitive must make his way! How often he stopped in breathless anxiety to listen for sounds of pursuit!
At length the nearer end of the rocky passage was gained, and still perfect quiet reigned around; after their midnight revel, the bandits' slumbers were heavy and long. Horace had not crept far through the passage when the increasing light and the freshening air told of his approach to the outer world. He was so eager and impatient to reach it that the crouching position and slow progress to which he was confined became almost intolerably irksome. Horace had a vivid recollection of Enrico's threat; and the idea of being struck down like a rat in its hole, or shot in the back without the possibility of flight or resistance, increased the intensity of his desire to get beyond the perilous passage.
Horace reached the outer cave, which was light in comparison to that which he had quitted, though the entrance was much overgrown with plants. It opened upon the radiant east, and vivid though broken rays of sunshine were streaking with bright lines the rugged pavement and walls. "O blessed sunlight!" exclaimed the prisoner with transport, as, pushing the mantling foliage aside, he made his way into the open air, and sprang to his feet, feeling in the action as though he already were almost free!
Bright was the morning, splendid the view which the rocky platform without the cave commanded! An ocean of waving forest spread downwards—almond, olive, and palm, with a thick growth of underwood between, a wilderness of foliage, a labyrinth of wood, clothing the mountain-side, more than half-way up which the robber's den was situated. Horace had, however, no time now to indulge in admiration, or even to enjoy the sensation caused by the delicious air, and the knowledge that one great difficulty had been surmounted; he began at once to search anxiously for a downward path. The platform in front of the cave could only be quitted by descending such a rough, precipitous wall of rock, that a false step must have been fraught danger. Horace, twelve hours before, might with have gone down rapidly enough, but what was practicable to unfettered limbs was utterly impracticable to him now.
"I should but break a limb by attempting to get down!" exclaimed the almost despairing youth, after surveying again and again the rugged steep. "I cannot conceive how I ever mounted these rocks. Enrico dragged me up by sheer strength, or even his benevolent hint as to the quickening power of Matteo's stiletto would never have enabled me to climb. And even were I unshackled, and able to spring from rock to rock, by what clue could I find my way through that dense woodland before me? It shuts me in as effectually as bars and bolts could do. Oh, misery, to be thus mocked with the hope of freedom, only to find that, after all my exertions, it is impossible to escape!"
Horace was startled by a rough grasp on his shoulder. Turning sharply round, he beheld Enrico.
"So you thought to give us the slip!" exclaimed the bandit, significantly pointing to a pistol he carried in his belt. "Think you that if there had been a chance of our bird's escaping, we should not have clipped his wings more closely?"
"O Enrico!" exclaimed Horace with passionate earnestness, "you can help me—you can set me free. A file would be worth its weight in gold! Strike off my fetters—guide me through the wood, and the richest reward—"
"Name it again and I'll strike you dead!" cried Enrico, his sallow countenance assuming almost a livid hue.
"You are miserable here—your life is—"
Enrico gnashed his teeth with passion. "Whatever my life here may be," he exclaimed, "I am not going to fling it away in a mad attempt to rescue a stranger. Miserable I may be, but not insane enough to draw down upon my head the vengeance of a man who never forgives, and who, when he singles out a foe, never fails to make him a victim. Have I not seen Carlo lying in his blood? There is not one man in the band who would aid you to baffle Matteo, though you should promise him to fill that cave to the roof with silver and gold."
And with these words on his lips, the robber turned, and retired into the darkness of the cavern, leaving Horace to meditate on the desperate character of his own situation.
ANXIOUS HOURS.
How unwilling is youth to part with hope—how it clings even to its shadow! Believing against the evidence of his senses that what was so desirable could not be impossible, Horace only desisted from attempts to descend the rocks, when, in making them, he had hurt his ankle so severely that he would have cried aloud with anguish had he not feared that the sound might be overheard by the robbers. With a very heavy heart, the unhappy captive then dragged his chain to a little cleared space, a few yards higher than the entrance to the cave, where the roots of an oak offered a rude seat. Here Horace Cleveland rested his aching limbs, and leaning his head on his hands, gave himself up to anxious thought.
Still his mind was running upon chances of escape. Horace recalled the words of Raphael which had surprised him when they were uttered,—"I shall ask a favor of you which, if granted, will richly repay any services that I can render." What favor could a prisoner possibly have it in his power to grant? Raphael must be anticipating his release, and his restoration to a position in which he could largely reward any kindness which he now might receive. Perhaps the young Italian hoped that Horace might procure his pardon from the king of Naples for some crime, the commission of which had driven one born for better things to seek the shelter of a robber's den. Perhaps the free pardon of Enrico might be the desired boon. Horace's thoughts rambled on through paths almost as mazy as the forest before him. He would place Raphael in the way of distinguishing himself. Raphael was the son of an officer, and bore the stamp of a gentleman; with his singular talents, he would grace any society, and might raise himself to a high position.
Horace had already begun to feel a strong interest in his mysterious friend, whose character and situation afforded to the youth's mind an enigma which he was curious to solve. Raphael certainly kept evil company, and a man may be known by his chosen associates; the girl at the inn had more than hinted doubts regarding his character; the Rossignol had himself confessed that he had once worn shackles, which confirmed Giuseppina's report that he had known the inside of a prison. But, on the other hand, Horace recalled the song of Raphael; he remembered how his presence, like that of some being of higher and purer nature, had checked the foul flood of vile conversation which had flowed amongst the banditti, and how in the dim twilight, he on that morning had seen the young Italian kneeling in prayer.
That last recollection raised in the bosom of Horace, a feeling of self-reproach. Except a few instinctive ejaculations, which could hardly be called prayers, since his capture he had neglected the duty of devotion. He had been so much taken up with his own hopes and fears, his difficulties and dangers, so great had been his eagerness to escape, and the excitement caused by the strange scenes passing around him, that Horace had not bent his knee in prayer, as he had been accustomed from childhood to do.
And yet, never through the course of his life had Horace had greater need of Divine protection. He had tried all earthly means for his deliverance, and all having failed, nothing remained for the prisoner but to turn unto Him in whose hands are the issues of life and death.
Under the spreading branches of the oak, in the stillness of that wild and desolate spot, the young captive knelt down and prayed. Horace prayed for his mother—for himself—more for rescue from earthly trials than for grace and strength to endure them, for the youth was yet ignorant of human weakness, and of the objects for which affliction is sent to the sons of men.
"Ha, ha! See the heretic at his beads!" exclaimed the mocking voice of Beppo, who, with two or three of his companions, had sauntered lazily forth into the sunshine.
Horace was on his feet in a moment, ashamed—strange cause for shame!—at having been discovered by these men in the act of prayer. The scornful laugh of the robbers brought the blood to his cheek.
The banditti had merely come out of the cave to sun themselves in the morning beams, and enjoy in the open air the dolce far niente of which the Italians are so fond. They stretched themselves on the ground in front of their den, and the better to beguile the time, amused themselves by asking the young stranger a number of questions regarding his country, its customs, its people, its ruler, making their comments upon his replies in a half jocular, half insulting manner, which sorely tried his patience. Common sense, however, showed Horace that there was little to be gained by quarreling with men who held his life in their hands, and that it was better to bear an insulting jest than to try whether the robbers' stilettos had keener edge than their wit.
Partly to change the current of conversation, and partly to gain information on a subject that interested him, Horace suddenly asked Beppo where the Rossignol had learned the song which he had sung on the preceding night.
"Who ever asked where the nightingale learns its lay?" answered the robber, whose face looked even more repulsive when seen by the clear light of day, than it had done by torch-gleam. "And yet notes of his sort suit our wild haunts so ill, that I trow that he learned it in his cage!"
"He has been in prison then?" asked Horace.
"Oh, he, like most of us, has known what it is to lodge free, gratis, and for nothing at the expense of our gracious King Francis," laughed Beppo, "and has found the bedchamber none of the airiest, and the royal fare none of the daintiest!"
"And for what offense?" began Horace.
But Enrico, who had joined the party, fiercely cut his questioning short.
"There be ways of shackling tongues as well as limbs!" he exclaimed, resting his right hand on the butt of his pistol, and glaring at young Cleveland as if he had touched a wound.
Horace made no attempt to pursue the conversation so rudely interrupted. The banditti began to amuse themselves with dirty cards, gambling away their ill-earned spoils; and Horace, as he sat watching them in silent disgust from under his tree, saw many things that had belonged to himself and his mother staked and lost in play.
Then came the noonday meal of maccaroni and the peculiar fruit of the cactus, which was eaten in the open air, and of which the prisoner, with a rude hospitality, was invited by the robbers to partake. The day had now become oppressively hot, and the banditti, after the fashion of their country, stretched themselves on the ground to enjoy their afternoon siesta.
Horace did not sleep; even had he been in the habit of conforming to this Italian custom, he would now have felt too restless and anxious to do so. In a half-recumbent position he remained listening to the loud, monotonous noise of the cicala, a kind of beetle that all day long fills the air with its harsh grating sound, and watching the lizards as with quick motion, their lithe, slender forms glanced in and out of holes in the rock. Familiarity with the sight of the robbers had rather lessened his fears of danger from them, and though Horace had small hope of effecting his escape by any efforts of his own, he had strong expectations that the unwearied exertions of his mother would avail to procure his release.
When the sun, sloping towards the west, was throwing the broad shadow of the mountain across the valley which stretched in front of the cave, the banditti prepared to start upon some lawless expedition. The day of listless indolence and reckless gambling was probably to be succeeded by an evening of crime. Horace was well pleased to find that Matteo had no intention of dragging his captive with him into the woods. The youth had exchanged no word with the chief on that day, but before the robber quitted his mountain haunt, he strode up to Horace, and addressed him with an expression of savage determination upon his hard features, that was calculated to inspire more fear than the tenor of his words.
"I need hardly command you, boy, not to stir beyond this platform of rock, as—even were you unfettered—it would be impossible for you to find your way through yon forest without a guide. It may be as well, however, to remind you, that these woods are our familiar haunts, that watch is kept there by night and by day, and that a network surrounds you there which you would feel before you saw it. Were you detected in any insane attempt to break through the toils, short and sharp would be the means taken to curb your restless humor. You are not the first prisoner whom I have kept for ransom, and I have found a little iron in the foot a more effectual restraint than a great weight of iron around it."
"Ay," joined in Beppo, who had overheard the threat, "the procuratore of Garda will go halting for the rest of his life, as a token that he passed one night in the den of the wolf, and tried to make his escape in the morning!"
THE LONE SENTINEL.
Horace had not been left many minutes to ruminate over the bandit's parting warning, when the sound of a melody, warbled in rich tones which, once heard, could ever afterwards be recognized, announced to his glad ear that the Rossignol was coming through the forest. Little as the captive had seen of the improvisatore, he yet welcomed him as a friend.
"I have been impatient for your return," Horace exclaimed, as soon as Raphael emerged from the trees. "Have you heard any tidings from Staiti? Can you give me any news of my mother?"
Raphael made a sign in the negative, as he advanced to the foot of the rocky ascent.
Horace leaned over the rough parapet and said in English, "Could you not contrive to bear a note or a message from me to my mother?"
"Matteo made me give my word of honor that I would not do so," replied Raphael. "Had he not bound me by that which he knows that I never break, he would have detained me in his fastness here, almost as close a prisoner as yourself."
With the agility of a chamois, the young Italian now ascended the rocks to gain the platform in front of the cave, unimpeded by his instrument, which he carried slung behind him. His first glance, on reaching the spot where Horace awaited him, was directed towards the fettered ankles of the captive.
"You have been attempting to escape!" he said quickly.
"Is it a crime in your eyes to make an effort for freedom?" asked the prisoner.
"In your case it is useless—utterly useless—worse than useless," said Raphael with earnestness. "I know better than you can know, in how close a clutch you are held; I see, as you cannot see, the pitfalls surrounding you here."
"But what can I do?" exclaimed Horace impatiently, chafing under the sense of bondage like a caged lion.
"Trust in God," was the reply: and these three words, uttered with the manly simplicity of one who in himself had proved their power, dispelled in the mind of Horace every lingering doubt and suspicion as regarded the character of Raphael. Wonderingly he resolved the mystery of the connection of a man of no ordinary earnestness of devotion, with the lowest and worst of his race. As little would Horace have expected to find the rich blossoms of the passion-flower twining round a cluster of poisonous fungi, or a jewel glittering on some heap of corruption, as a firm, decided Christian man in a den of robbers and thieves. How could a rain-drop retain its purity when mixed with the stagnant waters of a pool? How could the spark of faith still live with so fierce a storm of temptation around it?
While Horace was reflecting on his strange companion, Raphael, laying aside his guitar, had entered the cave. He soon returned, bearing with him such liniment as he had used in the morning to relieve the pain caused to the captive by the chafing of his fetters. Raphael then knelt down upon the rock, and applied the simple remedy. Horace, unaccustomed to suffering or restraint, could scarcely endure the pressure of the iron upon his galled and swollen ankles. He implored Raphael, as he had urged Enrico, to release him from the torturing bonds. Sadly but firmly his suit was refused, and when pressed, it only wrung forth the unanswerable question:
"Would you have me sacrifice the life of my brother?"
When all that was possible had been done for the prisoner's relief, Horace asked Raphael, with some curiosity, what was the favor which he had his intention of one day asking.
"I ask it now," replied the Rossignol; and to the surprise, and almost disappointment of young Cleveland, he drew forth from his bosom a small English Testament, which bore marks of having been much used.
"I would have left this with you this morning," said Raphael, "but I feared lest my treasure should be discovered, and taken from you by force. See, it is in English," he continued, "and the little which I know of that tongue has been chiefly learnt from its pages; but my knowledge is very imperfect; oft in vain I struggle to make out the meaning of a passage, like one groping in the darkness of a cave. You, who can speak my language as well as your own, will make all clear and plain to my understanding."
"How did you get this?" asked Horace with interest, turning over to the title-page, on which the name of Pietro Marino was written.
"Let us leave the tale to another day," replied Raphael; "time is now precious. I expect that the band will this evening return more early than usual. Could you know how long and how anxiously I have waited for such an opportunity as this, you would not marvel at my reluctance to hazard its loss by delay."
So saying, Raphael threw himself on the rock beside Horace, and eagerly turning over the pages of the Testament, showed place after place where he had found difficulties from his imperfect knowledge of English. Horace had often read the Bible with his mother, often listened to chapters in church, and had with tolerable regularity, though with slight attention, perused the Scriptures by himself. But the cold, lifeless form which the performance of this duty had too often been to the youth, was something different indeed from the intense earnestness which he now saw in his strange companion.
It was evident that to Raphael, religion was a living reality, something that engaged all the powers of his mind as well as all the affections of his soul. The Bible was to him as the Father's letter, treasured in the bosom of the Son; as the charter by which he held all his dearest hopes; as the "pardon signed and sealed" granted to the prisoner by the grace of his King.
The Rossignol and Horace read together as long as the daylight lasted, and when that failed they returned to the cave, and pursued their occupation by the gleam of the tapers which were lighted in front of the Virgin's shrine.
Horace was well versed in Scripture history, but he had only a very superficial knowledge of the Epistles of St. Paul. The glowing, fervent spirit of devotion breathing through them had found no response in his heart. He read now, almost as though they were new to him, the soul-stirring words of the apostle and martyr, proclaiming the blessed truths which he so joyfully sealed with his blood—
"Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong!"
Horace felt that the Italian at his side was not merely reading this as a chronicled address to suffering saints of old, but receiving it as a rousing call to himself, a watchword to be used on the field of battle, a command from a leader to a soldier of the cross.
"Is it true," asked Raphael, when at last he paused in his reading—"is it true that in your blessed land these Scriptures are open to all?"
"The poorest can have a Bible," replied Horace.
"What a power must be wielded there for the truth!" said the Italian, laying his hand upon the open Testament. "In this country there is but a man here and there, like a picket in a hostile land, a sentinel on a post of danger, to grasp with a feeble hand the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God, standing forth in a cause which, were it not the cause of the Almighty, he might well consider to be desperate; but with you, how strong, how united a phalanx must hold the ground against all opposers, and go forward conquering and triumphant in the great battle that is waged on earth!"
"Of what battle do you speak?" said Horace, rather to draw forth an answer from Raphael than from any difficulty as to his meaning.
"The great battle between truth and error, Light and Darkness, God and Satan," replied Raphael; "that battle in which every individual must be enlisted on one or the other side."
"Not necessarily to take any very active part," observed Horace, who felt as regarded himself there had been little interest, and certainly no great effort in the strife.
Raphael fixed his large, earnest eyes upon the speaker with an expression of grave surprise. "In the world's warfare," said he, "what do we esteem a soldier who shrinks from taking his part in the struggle, who obeys not his leader, who deserts his banner at a period of danger?"
"We esteem him a coward," replied Horace.
"And if he takes part with the enemy?"
"He has the name, and deserves the fate of a traitor."
"And what shall we call those who, enlisted from infancy to oppose sin and Satan, are content to remain mere spectators of the strife, or who actually join the ranks of the foe?"
"Nine-tenths of the Christian world do so," observed Horace, "and certainly look upon themselves neither as cowards nor traitors. Few consider that there is any battle to be fought at all. Men follow their own pleasure, do their own will, and doubt not but that all will be well in the end."
"You do not think so?" said Raphael.
Horace knew not what to reply. He was too conscious that he had been describing his own state of mind, and felt that if a brave, earnest, self-sacrificing spirit of devotion be necessary to the Christian soldier, he was unworthy of the name. Willing to change the conversation, he said abruptly:
"You must be indeed as a sentinel in a hostile land; I wonder how you can keep your ground at all in this the very stronghold of the enemy."
"I can but grasp my sword, and look to my Leader," said Raphael. "I am sometimes well-nigh ready to give up all in despair, but He can keep me from falling."
"I marvel why you remain here," began Horace, when he was prevented from concluding his sentence by the sound of a shrill whistle from the wood, and Raphael, hastily rising, thrust his Testament into his bosom.
"I knew that they would return soon," he said; "see where yonder they come."
The banditti returned in a very discontented mood. They had found no prey, and brought back no booty. The only consolation which they found under their disappointment, was that of exercising the power of tormenting, and their unfortunate prisoner had to run the gauntlet of every kind of annoyance.
Horace, little accustomed to insult, chafed with impotent rage. He glanced at Raphael, as though to claim his protection, and the Rossignol, without appearing to notice the appeal, came to his relief in the only effectual way. The liquid tones of his guitar were heard through the noisy uproar, and the tumult suddenly lulled. The notes exercised such a spell as fable ascribes to that of Orpheus, and almost as savage an auditory as that which listened to the ancient bard, gathered around the Rossignol as he poured forth his thrilling lay:—
There is a sword of glittering sheen—All unite to defend the right!Its blade is bright, and its edge is keen,But the wound it gives is a wound unseen,And who would flinch in the glorious fight?There is a foe—a ruthless foe—Such unite to oppose the right!In secret ambush he croucheth low,And the blow he strikes is a deadly blow,But who would flinch in the glorious fight?There is a banner floating wide—All unite to defend the right!The blood of martyrs its folds has dyedWhen the best and the bravest fought side by side.For who would flinch in the glorious fight!There is a Leader exalted high!All unite to defend the right!Through Him His followers hosts defy.Through Him they learn to do and to die,And scorn to flinch in the glorious fight!There is a palm—a victor's palm—All unite to defend the right!'Twill be given in realms of peace and calmTo the steadfast spirit, the stalwart armThat never flinched in the glorious fight!Then shall lips touched with living flameIn song unite—in the world of light,"In our Leader's strength, in our Leader's name,We fought—we struggled—we overcame—And victors stood in the glorious fight!"
So spirited was the air, so flowing the measure, that Matteo himself beat time with his heavy hand on the table, and several of the banditti actually joined in the burden. Horace saw, however, by the glances directed towards the improvisatore, that the words were only tolerated on account of the music; and Enrico, as if the strain were hateful to him, quitted the table before the song was ended.
On the mind of the young prisoner himself the effect of the lay was powerful. He felt his spirit roused by the music, which seemed to burst forth from the singer's soul rather than from his lips. Horace realized, as he had never done before, his own responsibilities as a sworn soldier of Christ. Had he not been enlisted to serve under the banner of the cross, to fight manfully against the world, the flesh, and the devil? And how had he kept his vow—how had he fought under that banner? What interest had he taken in the holy cause—what had he ever sacrificed in order to spread its conquests?
It was not needful for Horace to compare himself with missionaries spending their strength and hazarding their lives to win heathen lands for their Leader; nor with the devoted men and women who in densely crowded cities lead the assault against the enemy's mightiest strongholds; such may be termed the forlorn hope of the Christian host, the Gideons or Davids of the army; but had he shown himself worthy to be counted even amongst the common rank and file? Had he ever struck one good blow for the sake of religion against a besetting sin? Had he cared even to keep his sword bright? Had he not felt ashamed on that morning at being discovered in the act of prayer? Could he regard himself as other than a coward, even if he deserved not the name of traitor?
How the lay rang that night in the ears of Horace! The music haunted him when he retired with Raphael to the rocky recess, whither they had been preceded by Enrico. Horace there found a fresh bed of fragrant herbs, which had been gathered for him, over which was thrown a mantle which he had seen on the shoulders of Raphael.
In silence the Rossignol knelt down to pray, and the young Englishman knelt beside him. Horace expected some taunt from Enrico, who lay stretched on his heap of leaves; but the bandit watched them in sullen silence, by the light of a torch which he had stuck on the wall.
As Raphael was making his simple preparations for the night, in removing a portion of his dress, he bared his shoulder, and accidentally displayed to the view of Horace a hurt which he had received on it, a purple contusion, as from some blunt but heavy instrument. The injury had evidently been both recent and severe.
"No light hand left such a mark as that?" exclaimed Horace.
"It was Matteo's work, it is no prison-scar upon me," replied Raphael, covering the evidence of the chief's brutality.
"And do you know how he won that scar?" exclaimed Enrico with vehemence. "In coming between the wolf and his prey, in trying to save that poor wretch Carlo from destruction. His attempt was in vain, all that he does is in vain; the hand that left that mark will fall more heavily upon him one day."
It was long ere Horace could sleep. The sight of that bruised, lacerated shoulder had brought more vividly before him the savage nature of the man in whose absolute power he lay than aught he had seen or heard.
"Raphael must indeed," thought the captive, "be as a sentinel on a post of danger, as a soldier isolated from his comrades in an enemy's land."
Horace looked at the young Italian, stretched in peaceful slumber on his rocky bed, and wondered how his repose could be so serene and untroubled. It was the consciousness of the presence of a watchful Guardian that gave to the soldier of the cross calm sleep in the robbers' den. His last waking thought had been—
"'The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?'"
THE ORPHAN'S TALE.
A strange Sabbath was that to Horace which commenced with the dawning day. He closed his eyes on the rude and gloomy cave around him, and tried to make memory and fancy replace the hateful scene; he sought to shut his ears to the noise of oaths, profane talking, and wrangling. Sadly he recalled privileges unprized and too often neglected when he had had the power to enjoy them. He had frequently been weary of the quiet monotony of the holy day, desiring more active amusements, more exciting pursuits, and now remembered the peaceful Sabbaths in his home almost as though they had been spent in paradise, and sighed when the doubt presented itself whether he would ever be permitted to know such Sundays again.
It need scarcely be said that the Sabbath was no holy season to the robbers. It was passed with rather more of noisy riot than the preceding day had been. There was more of the wild mirth so forcibly described as "the crackling of thorns under the pot," the laughter which makes the thoughtful listener more sad than sounds of woe. The robbers gambled, danced, reveled, swore.
Raphael was the especial target for their coarse jests, which he bore as one who was accustomed to endurance, a veteran in suffering, though young in years. Horace marveled how long the improvisatore had been subjected to the daily martyrdom of such an existence, a constant chafing and fretting like that of the waves against some solitary headland.
Raphael, during the first part of the day, appeared to avoid the society of the prisoner; he neither addressed nor even looked towards him. It seemed to Horace that the young Italian did not wish his comrades to see that there was any community of thought or sympathy between them; and Horace felt that to have been recognized as the friend of the Rossignol would have increased the difficulties of his own position. It would have been like leaning on a lightning conductor while thunder was growling above.
When gambling had succeeded to more noisy revels, the improvisatore approached Enrico, who was seated amid a group of his rude companions outside the cave. Horace, from his favorite seat under the oak, where he enjoyed comparative seclusion, watched with interest the movements of the brothers, though he could not overhear their conversation. Raphael laid his hand on Enrico's shoulder, stooped down, and whispered something in his ear. Enrico, who had a dice-box in his hand, frowned and shook his head with a gesture of impatience. Again there was a low whisper, and the robbers around burst into mocking laughter. Distress, indecision were stamped upon the face of Enrico, and as Horace viewed on the one side the anxious, pleading look of the brother, on the other the dark glances of his reckless companions, he seemed to behold, in human embodiment, spirits of good and of evil contending for the possession of a soul. This time the good appeared to gain the mastery, for Enrico, suddenly flinging dice and dice-box on the ground, sprang to his feet, and followed his brother down the rocks into the forest, in whose recesses they were soon lost to view.
They were absent for more than an hour, and on their return Enrico looked sadder and more subdued, with folded arms and downcast eyes, he emerged from the shadow of the trees. Horace suspected that the interview had had some relation to himself, for Enrico, after mounting to the rocky platform, stood for some moments before his prisoner, surveying him with a fixed and inquiring gaze, then, as if answering some question to himself, he shook his head and turned sadly away.
When, in the hottest and most oppressive part of the day, the banditti retired for their accustomed siesta, the improvisatore joined Horace under the oak. Again was the Testament produced, and again the prisoner and his companion drank deeply of its life-giving truths. He who has never known severer thirst than that which makes a draught of cold water refreshing on a summer's day, can scarcely conceive the feverish eagerness of the traveler in the desert, when, exhausted and parched with thirst, he bends over the lonely well. Raphael was treading the wilderness of life, the scorching sun of temptation above him, the burning sands of tribulation beneath his feet, and the Scriptures were to him as the cooling waters to the pilgrim ready to perish.
"I wish," said Horace, when at length there was a pause in the reading, "that you would tell me how you ever came to lead this strange life amongst robbers, and what induces you, unfettered as you are, to remain in this horrible place. Enrico has told me that your father was an officer of gentle birth. How came the sons of such a man to dwell in the haunts of banditti?"
Raphael sighed as he made answer. "My father was of an honorable family; but his own heroic virtues would have ennobled any descent. He was 'without fear and without reproach'; his name had never been coupled with disgrace. I was but a child when I last saw my father, but well do I remember—never can I forget—how I used to clamber on his knee and play with his sword-knot; and how he would lay his hand on my head and tell me that I should one day serve the king, and that the duty of a brave soldier is simply prompt, unswerving obedience—obedience even unto death.
"And the lesson which my father gave to his child, he sealed with his blood. He received orders to defend a mountain pass from the enemy with a small body of troops that were placed under his command. I know not—it was never clearly ascertained—whether in the confusion of a general retreat that small band was actually forgotten, or whether the commander had found it impossible to send reinforcements to its aid; but it was isolated, unsupported, and attacked by a greatly superior force.
"Some of those under my father's command urged the necessity of retreat; resistance, they said, was hopeless; to attempt to defend the pass was but to throw away the lives of his men.
"'I was placed here to hold this post,' was the gallant reply; 'and till I receive orders from my leader to quit it, here I am bound to remain. It is his office to command, and mine to obey.'
"The men," continued Raphael with emotion, "were not inspired by their captain's heroism. False to their trust, one by one they deserted their banners. A single brave man remained firm as a rock at the post of duty; where my father had planted his colors, there he fought, and there—he fell!"
"And did not your king reward such generous devotion by caring for the fatherless children of such a man?" exclaimed Horace, as Raphael with a deep sigh closed his brief account.
"Earthly princes do not resemble Him who keeps a record of every act of obedience," replied Raphael. "There were a few words of praise, a ribbon, and a cross, and then all appeared to be forgotten. My brother and I might have starved in the streets of Naples but for the kindness of our mother's father, a physician, who supported and educated us for the sake of a daughter whose loss he yet mourned.
"Enrico became weary of the monotony and restraint of the life which he led in the good old man's home. He spent much of his time away from it, and became acquainted with some who made no good use of the influence which they acquired over his generous and confiding nature.
"When I had reached the age of fifteen, my grandfather died; I was with him at the last, received his parting blessing, and closed his eyes. All my earthly comfort was buried in his grave. I will not dwell on the events of the following year."
Raphael chose not to unveil to the eye of a stranger scenes of riot and selfish profusion in the house which the memory of a venerable relative had to him rendered sacred. He would not relate how Enrico had recklessly squandered his young brother's inheritance as well as his own, exposing the orphan left to his guidance to the contamination of such society as might have ruined his soul as well as his fortunes. Raphael was tender of the reputation of a brother whom he yet loved with the strength of that affection which can bear all, hope all, endure all. But though the Rossignol purposely left out all the darker shades of the picture, Horace had already seen enough of Enrico to fill up the outlines for himself. After a brief pause, Raphael continued his narration:
"I was sleeping one night in my chamber, when I was startled from slumber by the sudden entrance of my brother. It was the hour before dawn, when darkness is deepest; I could not see his face, but I was alarmed by the grasp of his icy hand, and the strange, altered tone of his voice.
"'Raphael,' he exclaimed, 'we must fly! I am a ruined man! The bloodhounds are already on my track!'
"I found afterwards that my unfortunate brother had been mixed up in a night brawl, in which a man of high rank had been killed, and that Enrico was suspected—falsely suspected—" Raphael laid strong emphasis on the word—"of having dealt the fatal blow. Enrico had no means of proving his innocence; he had little money left, and no friends. He had been the victim of men more unscrupulous and reckless than himself, who were willing to screen their own guilt by sacrificing their dupe.
"Why should I dwell on a painful theme? Before morning we fled from Naples. Pursued by the ministers of the law, Enrico took refuge in these mountains of Calabria, and, driven to desperation, in an evil hour joined himself to a band of outlaws. I accompanied his steps and shared his fortunes."
"Then it was through no error of your own that you became associated with these men of blood?"
"I say not so," replied Raphael, quickly, "nor can attempt to justify my weak compliance. I was young and inexperienced, indeed, but not so young nor so ignorant as not to see the snares into which I was running. I was carried on by an impetus which I had not sufficient strength of principle to resist. My own views of religion and duty were dark. My conscience, indeed, was not dead; but while I could stifle its reproaches by supposed good deeds, while Latin prayers and long fastings could, as I thought, atone for sharing the booty of the robber (in his worst crimes, thank God, I never shared!), I pursued my course with but little remorse. I will not weary you with accounts of pilgrimages to holy shrines made with bare and bleeding feet, nor tell you how many hours at night were often spent in reciting prayers that I understood not. Vain superstition! Miserable opiates to put to sleep the restless monitor within! I was a favorite with Matteo and his followers. My youth, and perhaps my love of music, and my slight knowledge of the healing art, won for me more kindness and indulgence than it might have been supposed that such men could have shown. I ministered to their pleasure and to their comfort; they loved my jests and my songs. I might say whatever I liked—almost do whatever I liked; I was as the spoiled child of the band."
Horace felt no surprise that the gifted boy, attractive in person and winning in manner, should have exercised powers of fascination over the rough spirits around him. The prisoner had himself begun to feel in the society of Raphael a kind of magnetic influence, which made him watch every look, and listen for each word, with a strange interest for which he could scarcely have accounted. Circumstances, however, had evidently altered as regarded the connection of Raphael with the banditti, and Horace remarked to the Rossignol that he seemed to be now rather tolerated than liked.
"How is it," asked young Cleveland, "that the once 'spoiled child of the band' is now treated with such harshness, and even brutality, that it seemed to me to-day as though your very life were scarcely worth a day's purchase? How is it also that you have learned to put away superstition, to see the folly of dead forms, and have become so earnest in the service of God, that you are ready to hazard all for his sake?"
"It is a long story," replied Raphael, "and I hear by the sound of voices in the cave that the bandits' siesta is over. We must not be seen together," he continued, rising hastily from his seat; "you have perils enough to encounter as an Englishman, a Protestant, and a prisoner, without its being added to your list of offenses that you can call Raphael a friend."
Horace was disappointed at the interruption to the tale of the improvisatore, and awaited with curiosity and interest a fitting opportunity to hear its conclusion.