HOW THE LIGHT WAS LIT.
Raphael spent several hours in visiting the sick, and the opportunity which Horace desired came not until the morrow. Tidings having been brought from Marco, who had gone out as a spy, that a traveling party was expected on the way to Staiti, the bandits departed at dawn in the hope of intercepting it. They went off in high spirits, except Matteo, whose fierce and gloomy visage was never lighted with a smile.
"Enrico lost his last carlino at play yesterday!" shouted Beppo. "But he will return with a heavy bag of ducats with which to line my purse. He puts one hand into a cavalier's pocket, and with the other makes the contents of it over to me. I call him the lion's provider."
"A lion more given to roaring than to fighting," laughed Enrico; but the laugh was suddenly cut short as he caught the eye of his brother.
Raphael approached Enrico, and though Horace could not distinguish what he said to him in his low, earnest tone, the robber's reply was more audible:
"I must go—I have no choice—I may prevent bloodshed."
Enrico had the same uneasy, vacillating manner which Horace had before remarked, and the nerve of his lip twitched violently.
"Enrico, keep at my side!" called out Matteo, turning upon the Rossignol a scowl of dark suspicion and dislike.
Horace and Raphael watched the departure of the banditti. The latter stood for some time with folded arms, his eyes fixed upon the spot where Enrico had disappeared from view, and with an expression of such anxious care on his face, that Horace did not venture to disturb him. Presently, however, the pale features resumed their usual calmness, and Raphael, turning towards the captive, proposed that they should renew their study of the Scriptures.
Some time was spent in this occupation. Horace was beginning to regard his seat under the oak much as regarded his place in the old village church. The presence of earnest piety had seemed to isolate that one little spot from all the rocks around, and the green boughs above were as the roof of a temple consecrated to God. There were portions of Scripture which Horace felt that he should always connect with that oak and with him who now sat by his side beneath it—verses that he could never hear again without recalling the musical tones of the Rossignol's voice.
When the reading was concluded, Horace asked Raphael to tell him something of the circumstances attending his capture and imprisonment. "For I have understood, both from yourself and from others," said the youth, "that you, like myself, know something of captivity. How did you fall into your enemy's hand?"
"Simply thus," replied Raphael; "I was wandering slowly through the woods one evening, when I heard a rapid step behind me, and on turning, beheld Matteo wounded, bleeding, gasping, like a stag whom the hunters have pursued till his strength is exhausted, and he can but turn, face them, and die. I saw by his staggering, uncertain step that he could not fly much further.
"'Boy!' he exclaimed. 'They are upon me! Plunge yonder through the thicket, and let them hear you; you may draw off pursuit from your captain.'
"I obeyed, was followed, and taken."
"Then your generous act saved the chief?"
"It was a mere act of impulse," replied Raphael; "it deserved no praise, and won no gratitude. I was now a prisoner, bound and guarded. I was taken from one place to another, and brought before a tribunal of justice. There was little against me but bare suspicion, for no actual crime could be laid to my charge. I had, indeed, been seen in the company of banditti. I was known to be acquainted with Matteo. I had baffled the soldiers when they had believed that the blood-money for his capture was within their grasp. The last offense might be atoned for; I was offered freedom and reward, if I would betray the secret haunts of Matteo. Of course such treachery was not to be thought of.
"After tedious imprisonment and examinations before various authorities, I was condemned to six months' labor in the galleys, rather for obstinate silence than for any offense which could be proved."
"What!" exclaimed Horace. "Was not the remembrance of the faithful services of your heroic father sufficient to save his son from so harsh a sentence."
"No one knew my parentage," replied Raphael quickly; "no, no! Sunk as I was, disgraced, condemned, I jealously guarded the honor of my father's name as the one precious possession left me, which would never be tarnished by shame. It should never be said that the son of Raphael Goldoni had appeared as a criminal at the bar of justice!"
"Were you not in a state of misery on hearing your doom?" asked Horace.
"I was in a state of sullen despair. It seemed to me as if there were no help for me on earth or in heaven. I was an outcast, a wretch abandoned by my fellow-creatures. I accused them of cruelty and injustice; and, what was far worse, my soul rose in guilty rebellion against the decrees of Providence. I looked upon myself as a sufferer rather for the crimes of others than my own, forgetful that no circumstances could justify my compliance with what I had known to be evil.
"Sometimes, indeed, conscience, oft stifled, would make itself heard, and then the icy calm of despair was exchanged for a tempest of anguish, such as almost shook reason from its seat. I could no longer have recourse to the miserable refuge offered by pilgrimage or penance. Even the relief of confession was denied me, for I had never learned to go in simplicity of faith for pardon and absolution to Him who heareth in secret.
"This mortal life was to me as a prison, and yet I clung to its dark walls, for I saw nothing beyond but purgatory fires, which made the thought of death a terror. I knew myself to be guilty in the sight of God, and I could not recognize a compassionate Father in the awful Judge before whom I trembled. My service had been that of a slave, my sufferings were those of a slave; far more galling than the iron which fettered my limbs was that which entered into my soul."
"And how long did this misery last?"
"Not long," replied the Italian. "I and my companions in punishment were chained by two and two in the galleys, and on the third day of my labors, I was coupled with a man whose demeanor at once struck me as different from that of the other prisoners. He was not old in years, but his form was bowed by suffering and sorrow, and white as silver were his locks and the beard which descended almost to his girdle. He looked so calm and resigned in the dignity of conscious innocence, that even the first glance convinced me that no criminal was at my side. Had I been in a less gloomy and despondent mood, I should have questioned by new companion; but I had lost all interest in life, all care for what was passing around me.
"Even when Marino (such was his name) spoke a few words of kindly greeting to his partner in misfortune, I only bowed my head in reply, and preserved a moody silence. I thought that the galley-slave pitied me, and my proud heart shrank from pity, even when I needed it most.
"Our toil on that day was severe. We had to row at our utmost speed, hour after hour, under the burning rays of the sun, which were reflected with dazzling glare from the waters. I felt as if the unwonted and protracted labor were drawing my very life away, and I saw that my comrade, who was weaker, suffered yet more than myself. The beaded drops were upon his brow and his lip, and he bent over his oar as if every stroke might be his last. While we were painfully toiling on, a gay cavalier, stretched at ease in the stern of our galley, was humming a light lay of love, or quaffing cool draughts of sparkling wine. He took no notice of the exhausted rowers, except to express impatience at the slow progress which they made.
"At length the keel grated on the shore, we lifted our oars, and the cavalier stepped on the beach. There were gay friends to welcome him there, and take him with them to cool orange groves and glittering fountains, towards which we wearily turned our longing eyes. There with fair and high-born ladies, would he enjoy the feast, the dance, and the song, while we sat thirsty, weary, neglected—the very outcasts of mankind.
"My companion addressed me again, in a voice so faint that I could at first scarcely catch his meaning. 'Is it not well, my son,' he murmured, 'that there is One who hath said:
"'"Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest?"'
"The words sounded strange to me, and I replied with sullen despair, 'There is no rest for me—no, not even in the grave!'
"'Then you have never yet come to Him, never yet found the Savior,' said Marino; 'you have not yet accepted His invitation; perhaps till this day you never heard it.'
"This was so unlike any address to which I had hitherto listened on the subject of religion, that it instantly arrested my attention. Fresh from the pure fount of Truth came the words which Marino now uttered. Parched as I was with feverish thirst, with a force which I cannot describe came especially one blessed verse, which I have ever since regarded as the very breathing of infinite love—
"'And the Spirit and the Bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst, come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.'
"That day,—that sultry, exhausting day," continued Raphael, clasping his hands as he spoke, "I regard as the birth-day of my soul. It was then first that I learned that there was pardon, full, free pardon, even for the chief of sinners; that there was love, infinite love, towards those for whom the Lord had died. I learned that I had been 'bought with a price,' and that I was no longer mine own. In the morning my soul had been even as your person now is. I had been shackled with my sins, galled, imprisoned, without power to shake off either the burden of my guilt or the dread of its punishment. I had seen before me a forest labyrinth of difficulties and temptations, and had no clue to guide me through it. The grand, glorious truth that the blood of the Savior 'cleanseth from all sin,' broke at once my chain and set me free; and henceforth God's Word was to be my guide to safety, to peace, and, I trust, hereafter—to glory."
There were some moments of silence, only broken by the ceaseless noise of the cicala and the sigh of the wind through the wood.
"Who was Marino," inquired Horace; "and how came so good a man to be working as a slave at the oar?"
"He had been sentenced to the galleys for a very different crime from any of which I had been suspected," replied Raphael. "Marino, as I learned afterwards from himself, had been a student of medicine, brought up in the Romish faith. Circumstances, or rather the leading of God's Providence, had taken him to England, where he had resided for years, and where he had acquired not only a knowledge of the languages, but of the truth which in your land is guarded and prized. Marino might have remained honored and happy amongst those whose communion he had joined, but he thought of the darkness of ignorance shrouding his own beautiful country; he thought of the bondage of superstition in which his fellow citizens groaned. Marino returned to be a missionary to his own people.
"Following the steps of his Master in the path of self-denying labor, he soon tracked the holy footprints through sufferings also. You know, doubtless, that with Italians it is held a crime to search the Scriptures; doubly a crime to teach others to do so. Marino for both offenses was sentenced for three years to the galleys. Alas! Broken down as he was, by hardship and trial, his life did not last out the term."
"Was it not much to be regretted," observed Horace, "that, instead of laboring where he could have labored in safety, this good man threw away freedom, and, as it proved, life itself, upon such a desperate venture?"
"I have no reason to say so," replied the Rossignol with deep feeling. "Marino was silenced from preaching the gospel to freemen, that he might carry the glad tidings to slaves! Who can say that he lived or that he died in vain? I was not the only wretched outcast over whose darkness he shed light, though to none was he such a friend, such a father as he was to me. When his spirit passed away, I felt that for the third time my earthly stay had been wrenched from my hold, but now I was not left desolate. Marino had led me to the Rock—the changeless—the everlasting!"
Raphael's voice faltered as he continued, covering his eyes with his hand: "When they dropped his lifeless remains into the sea, without funeral rite, without toll of bell, without even a coffin to shroud them; when the waves of the Mediterranean rolled over the spot where slept the friend I loved best upon earth, even then God sent thoughts of comfort—of triumph—into my soul. I knew that Marino would rise again, incorruptible, immortal, glorious; that the sea should give up her dead and the Savior reclaim His own. And I knew that there was something left also for me—an object in life, as well as a hope in death."
"What was that object?" asked Horace.
Raphael seemed unable to give an audible reply. He turned over silently the leaves of his Testament, and laid his finger upon this verse: "'The love of Christ constraineth us; because we thus judge that if One died for all, then were all dead; and that He died for all that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto Him which died for them!'"
Horace remained for a space with his eyes riveted upon the passage, marveling how he had never before seen how it contains not only the ground of a Christian's hope, but of a Christian's willing obedience. What is true religion but "a personal love for a personal Savior?"
"'The love of Christ constraineth!'" That is the very watchword of the soldier of the cross upon the battle-field of life. Not to live to self, but unto God; not to do our own will, but God's will; to make His love our inspiring motive, His glory our end and aim;—this is the object, the only object, worthy of an immortal soul.
After a lengthened pause, Horace resumed the conversation. "I am surprised," said he, "that one whose whole character had been changed like yours, should ever have come back to a den of wickedness like this."
"When Marino departed," replied Raphael, "my six months of durance had almost come to a close. Often and anxiously I revolved in my mind what course it would be right to pursue after I should have regained my freedom. Sometimes I almost decided upon working my way to England; at other times I proposed returning to Naples, seeking out some old acquaintances of my grandfather, and trying through their assistance to make my entrance into his profession.
"Amidst my various projects one truth was ever recurring to my mind. A soldier chooses not his own post; it was my one simple duty to find out where my Leader would have me to be, and what He would have me to do. More and more strongly the conviction came that nowhere was light more needed, and into no place was it less likely to penetrate, than into this robbers' cave. Here seemed to be my allotted post, and hither I accordingly came."
"You were throwing yourself into the midst of great temptations," observed Horace.
"I felt that—I feel it," replied Raphael; "and I often have I feared presumption, and closely have searched my own motives for running so great e risk. But," he continued, as if conscious that there was a need of explaining his position in order to justify his conduct, "I knew that there were circumstances in my favor, which made it possible for me to plant my foot where by another man no standing ground could have been found. I was known amongst the banditti, liked, favored; perhaps I counted too much upon that favor, as I certainly did upon the circumstance of having saved the life of their captain."
"But the danger!" exclaimed Horace Cleveland.
"There was nothing but bare life to be hazarded; I had nothing else that I could lose—not even a fair reputation. I had neither father nor mother to mourn me! I had but a brother, and he was one of the band. Perhaps my strongest earthly incentive was the hope of being the means of winning his soul."
"And how were you received by the banditti?" inquired Horace, who regarded this project of planting a "home mission" in the midst of a gang of ruffians as the wildest, most impracticable scheme which enthusiasm had ever devised.
"I was received with a welcome so cordial and warm, that it almost shook my resolution to strip away all deception, and at once avow the reason for my return. I was enabled, however, to speak out the truth—to own that I came not to rejoin the band, to eat bread that was won by robbery, or to touch gold that was stained with blood—to say that if the outlaws desired it, I would tend their sick, and do what other kindly offices I might without wounding my conscience—but that I was now the soldier and servant of One who suffers no compromise with sin."
"I should have liked to have heard such an avowal made to such men," exclaimed Horace, "and to have seen the countenance of Matteo as you spoke! That was indeed walking into the lion's den, and laying your hand on his mane. How was your strange offer received?"
"With bursts of laughter and mocking jests. I believe that some of the banditti deemed that imprisonment had affected my brain."
"I marvel not at that," returned Horace. "Did you not find it hard to stand against the storm of ridicule?"
"So hard that I almost cowered beneath it. I had then, however, nothing beyond such ridicule to bear. The robbers were amused—not infuriated. My conditions were mirthfully accepted. I was elected with shouts as friar and father confessor to the band, and was given full leave to pray and to fast as long as it might suit my pleasure to do so."
"The outlaws doubtless thought," observed Horace, "that your resolution was but some strange passing fancy."
"I doubt not that they thought so," replied Raphael, "and that they promised themselves much diversion from what was to them so novel. But when the robbers found that though they might be in jest, the object of their mockery was in earnest, opposition assumed a different form."
"You were persecuted, threatened, tormented," said Horace, recollecting the lacerated shoulder, and the cruel insults of which he had himself been a witness.
"I had a little rough discipline," answered Raphael lightly, "such as every soldier must look for. I have often cheered myself under it by remembering the words of my father—if applicable to earthly warfare, how much more so to the heavenly!—'The duty of a brave soldier is simple, prompt, unswerving obedience, even unto death!'"
"But does it not damp your spirit," asked Horace, "to find that you labor and suffer in vain?"
A thoughtful, pensive expression sat on the brow of the young Italian as he replied, "Is there not a promise that such labor shall not be in vain? I have not much to cheer me, I own, as regards any little efforts of my own; yet the village youth whom I am now going to visit has begun to pray in earnest, and in the Savior's name alone. Sometimes I think that in my brother's bosom a better spirit is stirring, though he is hedged round with difficulties whose greatness a stranger cannot fully understand. God will give Enrico to me; while life remains, I will never cease to pray for my brother, and He in whom I trust will grant me my heart's desire."
The sigh which followed came from a burdened, but yet a confiding heart.
"Oh, yes," cried Horace, anxious to efface the painful impression caused by a thoughtless question, "you will not suffer without reward. I know not whether you will care to hear it, but I must tell you one thing. Though, from my cradle, I have heard a great deal about religion, I have never thought so seriously upon the subject as you have made me do during these last few days. If I ever become a real Christian—a faithful soldier, as you would say—I shall trace, the beginning of an earnest life to these hours which I have spent with you under this oak."
The pale face of Raphael lighted up with an expression of joy, as when a sunbeam, bursting from behind a cloud, throws over a still stream a pathway of glory. The smile was so bright, so sudden, so angel-like in its gladness, that it often in future days recurred to the memory of Horace. Raphael grasped his hand with the warmth of a brother, but without commenting upon what he had said; and the improvisatore soon afterwards descended to the forest to go on his errand of mercy to the sick.
FAILURE.
Not the example and influence of Raphael alone tended to ripen good resolutions in the mind of the captive; much resulted from the effect of the long hours of solitude in which reflection was forced upon him. To one of Horace's lively temper and active disposition, meditation had appeared to be of all occupations the most tedious and unprofitable, as long as study or amusement could fill up each waking hour.
It was thus that little wisdom had been gained while a good deal of knowledge had been acquired, and that even the lessons of experience had made but small impression upon Horace Cleveland. He had had his day-dreams, it is true, and his schemes of ambition, but neither had been calmly reviewed in the sober light of truth. Now, having nothing else to do, Horace perforce must think; and the result of reflection was that the proud lad, who, exalted by conscious superiority over his companions, had feared comparison with no one, now felt mortified and even disgusted himself. He recalled circumstances that had once elated him; he remembered the trophies won by intellectual or physical efforts; all their glitter and glory seemed gone.
When the youth recollected how utterly he had ignored "the only object in life worthy of an immortal soul," he felt little cause to exult at having won the prize at the examination, or the honors at foot-ball or the boat race. These things were good in themselves, but what were they compared to the crown of life towards which the solders of the cross were pressing?
Horace thought of the heroes of old to emulate whom had been his ambition: he compared Cæsar and Alexander with Marino the galley-slave—they, sweeping like a pestilence over the earth; he, employing his dying breath in leading his fellow-sufferer to God. What were the different results of their labors? The warriors had, as it were, sent up a blazing rocket to startle the world, falling in a shower of dazzling sparks that glittered awhile, and then expired. The galley-slave had been the instrument in God's hand of lighting a star that should shine in the firmament of bliss when sun and moon should be seen no more. What are all human trophies compared to the trophy of a rescued soul, what all earthly glory compared to the glory which cometh from God?
"Raphael has been given a difficult, a perilous post of duty," thought Horace; "was none allotted to me? He tries to influence for good the lowest and worst his kind; have I had no power to influence, and if I had, what use did I ever make of it? Was not I also a soldier of the cross?"
The youth resolved that, if ever permitted to see his mother and his country, he would pursue a less selfish course than that which he had hitherto followed. His heart grew heavy as he thought of the possibility—at that moment it almost presented itself as a probability—that he would never be granted an opportunity of redeeming the past. Very bitter was it to him now to recall how his petulance and pride had distressed his mother, to know that he had added weight to the widow's cross, instead of helping her to support it.
"You have planted many a thorn in my pillow!" Were not these almost the last words that he had heard from her loving lips? Had he not seen her weep for the undutifulness of her only son? If a brother's blood was once said to cry from the earth, would not a mother's tears do so also?
Horace arose from his seat, restless and miserable; he must find something, do something to drive him distracting thoughts. Raphael left his guitar leaning against the rock. Horace took it up, and swept his hand over the strings; he could produce sound but not music. No melody came from the strong but objectless touch. He put down the instrument again; it only brought back again the theme of his painful reflections. Had he not struck life's chords with the same careless hand, and had they not given forth jarring discord?
Unable to play, the prisoner attempted to sing in order to while away the wearisome hours. He tried to wake the mountain echoes with some of the bold, spirited lays which he had sung with his comrades at school. Then a plaintive strain came to his remembrance; Horace had often heard his mother sing it, and he associated her voice with each word. It seemed so well suited to his own sad estate, his fallen hopes, once so bright and gladsome, that giving utterance to his feelings in the poet's appropriate lines, he sang Moore's well-known lay:
"All that's bright must fade,The brightest still the fleetest.All that's sweet was madeBut to be lost when sweetest!Stars that shine and fall.The flower that drops in springing.These, alas, are types of allTo which our hearts are clinging!"Who would seek or prizeDelights that end in aching?Who would trust to tiesThat every hour are breaking?Better far to beIn utter darkness lying,Than be blest with light, and seeThat light for ever flying!"
"Beautiful, but not true!" exclaimed a voice beside him.
Horace started and turned round; he had been so much absorbed in the train of ideas awakened by the words, that he had not heard Raphael ascending the rocks, nor been aware that the mournful song had reached any ear but his own.
"Sing it again," said the improvisatore.
Horace felt some reluctance to comply with the request from one who was himself a master of the musical art; he would rather have listened than sung. At Raphael's desire, however, he repeated the strain, the improvisatore listening intently, and keeping time to the music with his hand.
"And now let me hear you," said Horace; "and let us have something more cheerful."
Raphael took up his guitar, and struck a few chords full of harmony and tone in a different and far richer key than that in which Horace had been singing. He afterwards remained for several minutes silent, gathering and arranging his thoughts.
"I will be your echo," he then said with a smile; "but I will give back your notes in more joyous strain, less meet for the poet, but more for the Christian;" and catching up the air, Raphael sang in Italian as follows:—
"Earth's bright hopes must fadeNot those which grace hath given;Joys were fleeting made,But not the joys of heaven!Stars that shine above,And flowers that cannot wither,These are types of peace and loveThat shall abide for ever!"Who that seeks the skiesWould mourn earth's pleasures blighted.Weep o'er broken tiesSoon to be re-united!Blest e'en awhile to beIn darkness and in sorrow,Assured we soon the dawn shall seeOf an eternal morrow!"
Raphael did not lay down his guitar. The last thought seemed to link itself on to another, and changing the mournful air to a burst of triumphant melody which appeared to well up fresh from a deep spring of joy within him, the Rossignol poured forth in his richest tones the following:
SONG OF HOPE."Now in the east Hope's trembling lightProclaims a brighter dawning;Though woe endureth for a night,Joy cometh in the morning!"For many weary ages pastHath sin's dark night prevailingA gloom o'er all the nations cast,Whence rose the sounds of wailing!The idol-gods have many a shrineWhere, bound in chains of error,Myriads, shut out from light divine,Crouch down in shame and terror!But in the cast Hope's rosy lightProclaims a brighter dawning;Though woe endureth for a night,Joy cometh in the morning!"Like Cynthia from her silvery car,The Church could darkness lighten;Each high example, like a star,Shone forth to cheer and lighten.But I shall need not star nor moonIn that clear day before me,The sun of righteousness shall soonBurst forth in cloudless glory!Yes, in the east, Hope's kindling lightProclaims a brighter dawning;Though woe endureth for a night,Joy cometh in the morning."
"Hark!" exclaimed Horace suddenly. "The robbers are in the wood!"
The music had scarcely died on the lips of Raphael. His eyes were fixed upon the sky as if already beholding in its blue depths the signs of the coming triumph. He turned them now towards the forest, and something of the brightness of hope lingered in them as he said, leaning over the rocky parapet to gaze:
"They bring no prisoners, I see no spoil. They have been disappointed again of their prey."
The gang of robbers wore a very different air from what they had done in the morning, as slowly and sullenly, one by one, they swung themselves up to the platform in front of the cave. On Enrico's face alone, Horace fancied that he could detect an expression of relief, as his eye met that of his brother.
"They never came, though we watched for them from sunrise till sunset!" cried one of the band. "I take it they've put off their journey till the morrow. Some woman's whim, I'll be bound, for we heard there's a signora in the party."
"We'll make them pay dear for our lost time," growled Matteo with an oath, as with the back of his rough hand he wiped his heated brow.
"I say," exclaimed Beppo, with a malignant scowl at Raphael, "we'll never have luck with such a preaching, praying heretic amongst us. What's the use of our burning candles to the Madonna, or vowing what best we can spare to the saints, if we've him praying hard against us?"
"The saints and the blessed Virgin Mary wouldn't listen to him," cried Marco, crossing himself as he mentioned the Madonna's name.
"I take it that his prayers go higher and straighter than ours go, Marco," said Beppo; "and they can do something down here below, or Enrico would not have hung back as he did to-day."
"I did not hang back," fiercely retorted Enrico.
"You'll prove but a hollow reed at the pinch," said Beppo, who looked quite ready to defend his opinions with something harder than words. "Did not that psalm singing brother of yours do all that he could to prevent you from going about your business this very day?"
"He did not," stammered forth Enrico, avoiding meeting the gaze of Raphael.
"Did you not?" cried Beppo, turning to the improvisatore, upon whom every eye was now bent.
Horace was almost startled at the short affirmative "si," which was the only reply of Raphael.
"You did—did you?" exclaimed Matteo, striding up to the speaker, while his hand fumbled in his leathern belt.
"And you prayed that our quarry might escape us!" cried Beppo.
"You did—did you?" repeated Matteo, more savagely than before.
Raphael met his fierce gaze with unblenching eye, and again briefly answered "si."
Horace held his breath, as one who sees a wild beast crouching for his deadly spring on a defenseless victim; he expected every moment to see Raphael laid dead at his feet. When Matteo contented himself with growling out a curse and a threat, and with the other robbers sauntered into the cave, the youth could hardly believe that the improvisatore bore not indeed a charmed life, and that some invisible circle of protection had been drawn around him by a hand unseen.
"How could you dare to brave so his fury?" exclaimed Horace to Rossignol. "I thought that he would have struck you to the earth."
"He that speaks for the truth must hold to the truth," replied Raphael, as, taking up his instrument, he followed the banditti into their dark retreat.
TIDINGS.
Horace was awakened very early on the following morning by the sound of voices speaking in earnest whispers near him. His rocky recess, as the reader is aware, was shared by the brothers Goldoni. The struggling light of dawn was too dim to enable Horace to discern their figures, but the tones of Raphael's voice in their peculiar sweetness were distinguishable from all others even in the lowest whisper.
"So young—his poor mother," these were the only words that reached the captive's ear, but he felt assured that they related to himself. Enrico seemed to be resisting some urgent entreaty, the nature of which, however, could not be gathered from his hurried, murmured reply.
"You are to me as a chain—a fetter," said Raphael, still speaking below his breath.
"It is well that you have one, or you would be using freedom to throw away your life upon some insane venture," exclaimed Enrico, his impatience causing him slightly to raise his voice.
Again there was the sound of pleading, low, fervent, as from one who was wrestling for something dearer than life. It was an entreaty to a brother, a brother beloved, to have mercy upon his own soul, to break from the bondage which held him, to grapple with the foe who was dragging him downwards towards the abyss of destruction.
"To-day may be the turning-point of your existence. As you decide for good or for evil now, so may the long, endless hereafter be to you an eternity of bliss or of anguish. There will be some dark deed done to-day. Those who are watched for will not yield without resistance. You may have the stain of murder on your soul. Oh, while there is yet time flee—save yourself—the door of mercy is open to you yet!"
More followed, which Horace could not hear. The tone of Enrico's replies was agitated; but it seemed as if he lacked resolution to take some decided step that his brother was urging upon him. The result of the conversation, and it was a long one, Horace could only guess by Raphael's closing words:
"Then no resource is left to me but prayer."
The tone in which they were uttered was not desponding, but solemn, as if, when all earthly hope had failed, he was enabled yet more firmly to grasp the promise of his God.
Soon afterwards there was a stir in the cave. From their various lurking-places the robbers came forth, to partake of their morning meal, and prepare for their expedition. Enrico carefully avoided his brother; and Raphael, who never joined the banditti at their feasts, left the cave to follow the daily avocations by which he earned his scanty subsistence.
The robbers seemed to be aware that the expected travelers were not likely to be early on the route, or they lingered in their haunt till past noonday. Horace was, as before, exposed to their coarse jests and rude banter. Beppo, in particular, took pleasure in trying his mettle, and raising apprehensions in his mind. The robber described with a minuteness which almost sickened his hearer, barbarities exercised upon former prisoners; his memory was well stored with horrors, and he took care that Horace should have the full benefit of their recital. Beppo dwelt especially on the miserable fate of Carlo, one of the band who had attempted to break from the rest, and who had perished by the hand of the captain.
Horace noticed that Beppo, while telling the tale, often glanced meaningly at Enrico. Raphael's unhappy brother assumed a defiant, half-scornful air, boldly commended the murderous deed, and seemed eager to cast from himself the slightest suspicion of an intention to follow the example of Carlo.
Right glad was the prisoner when at length the robbers arose, looked to their guns, examined the priming, and after quaffing large bumpers to the success of their man-hunt, left him to his quiet solitude.
There is natural elasticity in the mind of the young. As soon as the form of the last of the band had disappeared behind the trees, Horace breathed more freely, and the relief which he felt made his spirit rebound into hope.
"I shall have but three days more of this to endure," thought he; "the worst half of the trial is ended, and oh, how glorious it will be to fling these fetters aside, and tread the earth once more as a free man! To leave behind, once and for ever, this den of misery and horror! I shall not care to stay longer in Italy; I shall hate the very sound of the language in which I have heard such things as I have been compelled to listen to here.
"But I cannot part with Raphael; no! He has quite long enough held his hopeless post, teaching those who will not learn, pleading with those who will not hear; he has quite long enough risked his life for the sake of a worthless brother. With his talents and his earnestness of purpose, what a glorious career is before him! If his light has shone even in this dark den, what a luster will it shed in some high position, where the world can see its brightness! Raphael is so unlike all other men whom I have met with; wherever he be, he will exercise power, and that power will be exerted for good. I am sure that my mother would pay for his expenses at one of our universities. The Christian soldier will then have a wider battle-field before him; he has been trained in these wild mountains by hardship and danger for deeds which, if I mistake not, will one day make his name renowned."
From forming projects for his friend, it was an easy transition to make some for himself.
But Horace's castles in the air were different now from what they had been in the days of his careless boyhood. Adversity is a powerful teacher, and when its lessons are enforced by their visible influence upon another, when example shows how in the fiery furnace the pure gold shines more brightly, to a generous spirit, like that of Horace, its lessons are seldom in vain.
Young Cleveland now thought less of commanding his fellow-creatures than of serving them; of being a victor in earthly warfare than of approving himself as a good soldier of the cross. He saw that his first post of duty must be home—the second, the circle of his school companions; he felt that his pride and self-will, the sins which most easily beset him, must be resisted and overcome there. Obedience to his parent would be the test of his obedience to God. His wild, undisciplined spirit must be brought into cheerful subjection.
"Henceforth, I will be a different son to my mother," thought Horace; "she shall never again shed a tear for word or for action of mine."
Thus in pleasing and not unprofitable musings passed the hours of the summer afternoon. Ever and anon Horace turned his watchful eye towards the wood, and listened for the sound of signal-whistle or pistol-shot in the distance. There was nothing, however, to tell that anything of human guilt was marring the peace of that beautiful scene. All was tranquil in the rich glow of sunshine; and but for the chains on his ankles, Horace could have enjoyed the sense of calm repose in that bright, luxurious clime.
There was something of romance in his own situation which was not without its charms; and the youth smiled to himself as he thought what a theme for a tale of stirring interest his adventures would be when the social circle of friends should be gathered round the blazing logs of a Christmas fire. None of his companions would be able to tell of such hair-breadth escapes, or a life so wild and so strange. It was very amusing to Horace to see in imagination the wondering, curious, half-incredulous looks on familiar faces, and to fancy that he could hear his mother's ejaculations, now of thankfulness, now of terror.
As he was busy drawing these pictures of imagination, Horace saw the figure of the improvisatore coming toward him from the wood. At first glance, he was struck by a change in the mien of Raphael, perceptible even at a distance. The firm, elastic tread habitual to him was exchanged for a slow, lingering step, like that of an invalid, and twice he raised his hand to his forehead as if oppressed by dizziness or pain.
Horace left his seat beneath the oak, and advanced to meet Raphael as far as the rocky parapet, beyond which he could not proceed. He called out the Rossignol's name, but Raphael neither replied nor raised his face to greet him with his usual kindly smile. Instead of mounting the rough mass of rocks almost with the lightness and ease that wings might have given, Raphael seemed for the first time to experience some difficulty in climbing, and Horace observed, as he gained the top, that the face of the young Italian was even more pale than usual.
"Raphael, you are ill!" exclaimed Horace.
The Rossignol shook his head.
"Something painful, I am certain, has happened. Come, sit down on this rock; or shall we go yonder to our favorite oak?"
Raphael seated himself on the rock, and turned his face from his friend.
"You have had something to grieve or to alarm you? The lad whom you visited is dead?"
"He is better," the Rossignol replied.
"But you feel dull and gloomy, as I felt yesterday; such a cloud came over me then, it seemed as if everything were dark around. You cheered me then, Raphael, it is my turn to cheer you now. I have been forming such golden plans for the future, plans for you as well as for myself;" and in a few rapid sentences Horace described some of the hopes which had been brightening his solitary hours.
Raphael only responded with a sigh so deep-drawn that Horace saw at once that no light trouble, no passing cloud could cast such a shadow on his soul.
"You have heard bad news," cried young Cleveland; "do they regard yourself or—or me?"
Raphael's silence was sufficient reply.
"Tell me the whole truth!" exclaimed Horace.
"Could you bear it?" answered Raphael, slowly turning round, and fixing his large dark eyes upon Horace with a gaze of unutterable sadness.
"Yes; I can bear all, must know all!" exclaimed Horace. His heart was beginning to throb fast, while a sensation of cold crept over him, assuredly not caused by the weather.
"All is said in few words—Otto was hanged this morning."
Prepared as he was for a painful communication, the tidings came upon Horace like a blow. He had been so full of hopeful anticipation, he had had such confidence in the power of his mother's tears, and her gold, that he had little reckoned upon having to suffer anything beyond a seven days' captivity. Now Matteo's horrible threat, that threat which he had not dared to translate to his mother, rose up in his mind like a spectre.
"Are you quite certain—quite certain that the tidings are true?"
"Quite certain," was the mournful reply.
"Does Matteo know all?"
"He can hardly know it, or—or I should not have found you here alone. But he will be sure to know it before the morning; evil tidings fly on swift wings."
Horace grasped the hand of his friend with a convulsive pressure. "Oh, Raphael, you will not—cannot see me murdered in cold blood by that merciless man. For my mother's sake—for God's sake—for the sake of Him whom you serve—release me—save me from this horrible fate!"
The earnest, imploring gaze was met by one of anguish.
"We can fly together," continued Horace, speaking with eager rapidity. "Once out of the forest we are both safe, both happy—"
Raphael interrupted him with a single word, "Enrico!"
In that name were expressed all the difficulties of his position, at least all such as might be regarded as insuperable. The fearful choice to Raphael lay but between his brother and his friend. To save the one was to sacrifice the other.
It was a moment of exquisite pain to the captive and his companion. So great was the tension of their nerves, that the sound of a whistle from below made them both start, as if it had been a death-signal.
"They come—all is lost!" exclaimed Horace.
"No—not so—there is but one man—it is only Marco," said Raphael, as the powerful form of the bandit appeared advancing to the rock.
"But he knows all—I see it in his face; he comes a death-messenger!" cried Horace.
And certainly the dark, saturnine countenance of the robber wore a deeper shade of gloom than usual, such as could not escape the notice of the anxious eyes that sought to read in it their fate.
"He may know nothing, do not betray your own secret," whispered Raphael, who, however, could not but draw the same conclusion as young Cleveland had done from the bandit's appearance.
ONWARDS.
When Marco had reached the top of the parapet, Horace drew a little hope from the trivial circumstance that the bandit did not look at him, nor appear to notice his presence. He addressed himself at once to the improvisatore.
"Your preaching to the living is over, you may now pray for the dead," he said in a hollow, sepulchral voice, crossing himself as he spoke.
"Explain yourself!" exclaimed Raphael.
"Your brother is—" Marco pointed downwards—"with the souls in purgatory."
Raphael uttered an exclamation which was almost like a cry. "Not by violence, not by violence?" he gasped forth.
Marco gloomily shook his head, and muttered between his teeth, "The Cascata della Morte!"
"How did it happen?" exclaimed Horace, giving voice to the question painted on Raphael's agonized face.
"We were all on our way to the high road," said Marco, "when some one proposed that instead of following the bend of the river, it would be well for one or two of our party to cross it, so that by making a round to the left, we might come on the travelers from behind, while the rest attacked them in front. Enrico and I had orders to cross.
"You know," continued the robber, addressing himself to Raphael, "that the only bridge there is, the trunk of the tree, thrown across from bank to bank, some twenty yards above the Cascata. Enrico went first, I lingered to tighten my belt, which was loose. I know not whether he was taken with giddiness at seeing the waters rushing on so madly beneath him, or whether he stumbled on the rough bark, but I saw Enrico suddenly go down splash into the current. He gave a cry and struggled desperately, but the rush there is so strong and rapid that no swimmer could stem it; the water bore him on as if he had been a reed on the surface, on—over—you know the depth of the fall, and may judge whether he could reach the bottom alive."
Raphael closed his eyes, as if to shut out a vision of the awful scene—the precipice and the victim dashed over it.
"Not time for a single Ave or Paternoster," said the bandit, "even had he had the grace to repeat one; but I trow that you had made half a heretic of him. There was not a saint who would help him in his need, or he would not have come to so awful an end."
Raphael turned and rushed into the cave, to hide himself from the sunshine, and give vent in solitude and darkness to the first burst of uncontrollable grief.
"Ay, ay," said Marco, following him with his eyes; "if ever one brother loved another, that brother was Raphael. He is always teaching and preaching about submission, but I take it that when it comes to a sharp, sudden trial like this, the heretic's faith and trust will be whirled away, like that poor struggling wretch who has just been dashed to pieces over the fall. It was an awful sight, even to one used like myself to rough work," added the bandit, wiping his brow; "and often when I stand sentry within sound of that deathly cataract, I shall fancy that I hear again the last cry of the miserable Enrico."
"Is Matteo returning soon?" asked Horace, who could not forget his own perilous position even in his interest in the fate of the sufferer.
"He will come when he has done his business," was the surly reply. "The sun has nearly sunk behind the hills, but the expected party have not yet appeared. The band will keep on the watch, and perhaps pass the night in the woods. I am appointed sentinel at the rock-pass till they return, and I have come to fill my wallet and my flask, as it is uncertain how many hours I may have to remain and keep guard."
So saying, the robber went to the entrance to the cave, pushed aside the plants which almost concealed it, and stooping his tall, gaunt figure, entered in. Horace felt an almost irresistible impulse to try once more the descent of the rocks, impossible as he had found it to be to climb down while the shackles confined his ankles. He was almost bewildered by what he heard, evil tidings succeeding evil tidings with a rapidity which had overpowered for a time the stronger nature of Raphael, disciplined as it had been by conflict and suffering.
Horace attempted to pray, but could not collect his thoughts; only the only words of Scripture that came into his mind were,—
"'Oh, that I had wings like dove!"
And that aspiration, the poor doomed captive uttered from the depth of his soul.
In about a quarter of an hour Marco emerged from the cave, and proceeded towards his allotted post. He stopped as he was about to pass Horace, and looked at him with a scrutinizing eye.
"One might deem that you had been the one to lose a brother," he observed, "or that you had just seen the ghost of Enrico. You look white as a corpse on the bier."
Horace made no answer, and the robber went on his way.
Scarcely had Marco reached the wood, when Raphael came forth from the cave. He was now perfectly calm, but almost stern in his sadness, and Horace saw more distinctly than he had ever seen it before, the Rossignol's likeness to his brother. Raphael made a gesture to the prisoner to place his foot upon a large stone which was near, and then, to the surprise of Horace, threw himself on his knees beside him.
"When I besought God to make the path plain before me, I thought not of this answer," said Raphael in a low tone; "but just and true are his ways;" and the moment after, with a file which he had brought in his hand, he was working at the chain of the captive.
The mingled feelings of hope, fear, delight, impatience, which struggled together in the bosom of Horace pass description. Thought Raphael filed with the full power of his right arm, it seemed to Horace as though the stubborn iron would never give way, and the noise caused by the instrument sounded to him so loud, that he was in terror lest it should reach Marco, and awake his suspicions. At the first pause made by Raphael, though it was but to shake back the dark locks that had fallen over his brow as he stooped, Horace caught the file from his hand and used it himself with the desperate energy of one who felt that his life might be the sacrifice of even a few minutes' delay; but he found that better progress was made when he resigned it again to Raphael.
Not a single word was uttered by either until the work was completed, and Horace stood unfettered beneath the deep blue sky, which was already darkening into night. He would have leaped and bounded in the rapture of recovered freedom, but for an instinctive delicacy which forbade demonstration of joy in the presence of the bereaved brother of Enrico.
"Now, put on my mantle and hat," said Raphael.
"Why so?" asked Horace. "Surely we shall escape together; I shall have your guidance through the forest?"
"Through the most intricate part you shall have it; but when we reach the post guarded by Marco, we must separate; it is only wrapt in disguise that you will be able to pass him."
"He is but one man—there are two of us," began Horace, all his natural courage rising at the prospect of a struggle.
"One man—but with two pistols at his belt, and with a hand that, when it draws a trigger, never fails to hit its mark. Remember also that the sound of a shot would be sufficient to draw the whole band upon us. Do not delay putting on this disguise; time is precious to you now."
Horace promptly obeyed. Though he had not yet attained the stature of Raphael, the difference between their heights was not great enough to be striking, and the almost sudden darkness of southern latitudes was now falling upon earth.
"There is the moon," observed Horace; "her light will serve to guide us on our way."
"I need it not," the Rossignol replied, "every step of that way is familiar to me;" and he began descending the rocks.
Horace followed, rejoicing in his newly-restored powers of activity, though their exercise was cramped not a little by the necessity of moving with caution in the darkness. Before he clambered over the rocky parapet, he turned one last glance towards the old oak, the dim outline of whose branches he faintly could trace.
"Farewell," thought the released captive, "farewell for ever to the place where I suffered so much of evil, and learned so much of good; where I have seen more of the wickedness of man, and more of the grace of God, in a few days, than in all my former lifetime!"
In profound silence, save when a pebble fell, dislodged beneath a climbing foot or hand, the twain descended those rocks down which the prisoner had so often gazed, measuring their depth with an anxious and at length a hopeless eye. A few more steps, and the fugitives had entered the depths of the forest. Here the light was almost entirely shut out, for rarely was a glimpse of the silver moon seen behind the thick branches. Over moss-grown roots, between the knotted, gnarled trunks of old trees, now bending low to avoid being struck by their boughs, now thrusting aside plants whose long trailing tresses concealed all trace of a path even during the day, Raphael guided his companion.
Occasionally there was a rustle as they started some wild creature from its lair, or a frightened bird rose on the wing. A single nightingale was pouring forth its soft, melancholy lay; other sounds there were none, till a faint noise, as of a distant waterfall, reached the listening ear. A sudden turn at length brought the fugitives to a break in the forest, and Horace saw before him the same ledge of rock overhanging a precipice which he so well recollected traversing under the guidance of Enrico.
The moon, almost at the full, in unveiling brightness shone on the cold gray stone, veined with green moss and lichen, and the wooded heights which rose on one side above it, and even revealed the awful beauty of the deep gorge on the left, glimmering on a stream which, hundreds of feet below, wound like a thread of silver through the dark valley. Distinct in the moonshine, which threw his black shadow on the rock wall behind him, rose the gaunt form of Marco the bandit. He stood at so narrow a part of the ledge, that though he was almost close to the rock, the precipice in front of him yawned scarcely more than a yard from his feet. He could hardly be passed without being touched, and Horace perceived at once that, without the protection of a disguise, the attempt to cross in front of the watchful sentinel must bring inevitable destruction.
"Draw your hat lower over your brow," whispered Raphael; "the pass-word is 'Speranza.' If Marco speak to you, do not reply. Silence on my part would cause no surprise after all that has passed. The sound of water will be sufficient to guide you, till you reach the bank of the stream. Do not attempt to cross it," Raphael's voice faltered as he spoke, "turn to the right and follow its course till you reach the high road, which crosses it by a bridge. And now—God's blessing go with you!" and extending his hand to Horace, Raphael added, "here we must part."
"O Raphael!" exclaimed the young Englishman, grasping it with emotion, "I cannot desert you thus, I cannot leave you to the vengeance of Matteo—I feel that your blood would be on my head—I would rather go back to the cave!"
The two hands were yet clasped in each other, and Horace felt the warm pressure of his friend's as he replied, "You would have no chance of mercy; your young life would be the certain sacrifice; I have a thousand advantages which you do not possess. I know every man in the band—I have put most of them under obligation; every path in the forest is familiar to me as well by night as by day. If you knew the mountain's weight which will be removed from my heart by your flight, you would not dally thus with your fate."
"But do I not leave you to danger—the most terrible danger?"
"You leave me to the care of my heavenly Father. He is with me, I have nothing to fear."
"But," began Horace, still retaining his hold of the hand of Raphael, "if you should suffer for this generous act, I never should know peace any more."
"Say not so," murmured the Rossignol, with more than his usual sweetness of tone; "if anything should happen to me, think that the lone, desolate wanderer has found at last rest and a home; that the dreary warfare is ended—the long life-struggle over. I am not, as you are, a mother's hope, and pride, and comfort; I now stand alone in the world."
"I will be your brother!" exclaimed Horace. "Oh, I cannot, will not desert you!"
"You could not serve me, even were you to return to the cave," said Raphael; "I could not replace the chains; the Rubicon was passed when I filed them asunder. My chance of escape would be greatly lessened by my having to care for your safety as well as my own. Therefore go, my friend—my brother!"
Raphael drew Horace to his heart, and pressed him to it for a moment in a close embrace; then suddenly unloosing it, he turned around and buried himself in the wood.
A PERILOUS PASS.
The parting from Raphael gave a keen pang to Horace. He could scarcely have believed that in so short a space of time, any human being could have obtained so strong a hold upon his affections. Pity, gratitude, admiration had combined in a three-fold cord to knit to his heart the man whose fate had been so singularly linked with his own, and who was now freely risking life to save him. But Horace had no time to dwell on tender recollections at a moment like this. The absorbing instinct of self-preservation claimed now the first place in his mind. Every minute of delay increased the danger of the dreaded Matteo's return. Horace must pass along that perilous ledge, close in front of the ruffian whose strong arm could, were his slightest suspicion aroused, hurl the stripling over the beetling precipice to lie a mangled corpse in the valley below.
"Speranza! Speranza! Hope!" Horace repeated to himself, less from the fear that in the excitement of the moment the pass-word might escape his memory, than from an effort to draw encouragement from the sound. "God be my helper! God be my hope!" And drawing Raphael's mantle yet more closely round his form, and pulling the hat lower over his eyes, with a palpitating heart, yet a firm, brave step, Horace Cleveland strode forth into the moonlight, which had never before appeared to him so painfully brilliant.
"Ha, Raphael, you are not going thither! It is of no avail! You will only turn your brain altogether!" exclaimed Marco, as Horace approached him, and to the no small alarm of the fugitive, the bandit actually laid a strong, heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Speranza!" muttered Horace, shaking himself loose from a grasp which seemed to him like that of death. The fugitive could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses when he found himself actually striding onwards beyond the perilous spot. He expected every moment to be overtaken by a bullet, or to hear a sudden shout of recognition. He dared not look behind him, nor much quicken his steps, but instinctively he held his breath till he had gained the wood at the further end of the ledge. Then, indeed a low, fervent thanksgiving burst from the lips of Horace, and he felt himself really free.
The sound of falling water had every minute become more and more distinct. Horace, with eager hope, hurried forward in the direction from whence it came. Yet a little struggling through bramble and bush, trying the most direct way rather than the clearest, while still listening with painful anxiety for sound of pursuit, and the youth reached the bank of a stream which was rushing on as if eager to plunge madly down into the valley. The trunk of a tree lay over it, cutting with its dark, rough outline the path of quivering silver which the moonbeams had thrown across the waters. Here must have been the scene of the fearful catastrophe which Marco had related.
Horace shuddered at the sight of those dark, rapid waters in which a fellow-creature so lately had perished. He had now, however, no time for reflecting on the untimely fate of the wretched Enrico. Remembering the directions of Raphael, Horace was about to track the upward course of the stream, when he was startled by a faint cry, as of a human voice, which mingled with the rushing noise of the cataract. Horace was not of a superstitious nature; but it is no marvel that, when his nerves were quivering from the tension required for a great effort—at that hour of night—in that desolate place—on the very spot where he believed that, but a few hours before, a miserable man had been swept into eternity— that cry should seem to curdle the blood in his veins.
Again it rose, more distinct than before; and now superstition—if such a feeling had for a moment arisen—gave place to one more worthy. Horace was many yards from the head of the cataract, though he could see its spray white in the moonlight; the way to it was very thickly overgrown with brushwood, through which mortal foot had never yet made its way.
He held a short debate in his mind as to the course which he ought to pursue; whether he should seek his own safety by going to the right, or whether he should force a difficult passage to the top of the fall, in hopes of giving aid to some fellow-creature in distress. Was it not possible that Enrico, saved by some incomprehensible miracle, might be there in a position of peril from which he had no power to extricate himself? Might not Horace give aid to the brother of Raphael? That last thought destroyed every doubt, every selfish calculation of personal risk. Horace only considered how he might reach the place, and though not yet daring to answer the cry, he began with all the activity and energy on which he once had prided himself, to make his way to the edge of the cascata.
When the English youth had accomplished his object, how wondrous was the scene which presented itself to his view as he bent forward to gaze down the cascade. The body of water was not large, but the depth of the fall was very great, and one sheet of white foam overspread the stream which plunged seething, hissing, roaring—down—down—down—till it was lost in the cloud of spray which, hundreds of feet below, veiled the bottom of the cataract. Exquisite was the beauty of the fall, especially as now seen by the misty, silvery light of the moon, which gave a ghastly grandeur to the wild, bold, wooded rocks, which the cataract seemed to be cleaving asunder like an archangel's glittering sword. But the eye of Horace was riveted on one dark object in the midst of the foam, not many feet below the summit. At the first glance, he deemed that it might be a fragment of rock that had endured for ages the dash and fret of the restless waters; but no; it moved—it clung—a human being, suspended as it seemed by miracle, was living—breathing in the very heart of the dizzying roar and rush!
"How can I help you?" shouted out Horace, forgetful of everything but the frightful situation of Enrico.
"A rope—quick—my strength is giving way!" Hollow and strange came the scarcely articulate sounds.
Horace struck his brow with his hand. "What can I do? Oh, what can I do? A rope were worth the ransom of a king!"
"I can't hold out long; the rush will bear me down." The voice was fainter than before.
Horace drew Raphael's mantle from his shoulders; he tore from it strip after strip; he could think of no other means of saving the perishing man. With fingers which trembled with nervous haste, he proceeded to tie together these unmanageable substitutes for a rope. Tightly, he knotted them, and tried each knot; for the awful consequences, were a single one to give way, were too terrible to think of. His movements were quickened by the horrible dread that he would see Enrico, exhausted and despairing, whirled down to certain death at the very moment when deliverance appeared at hand.
"Haste, or I'm lost!" cried the voice from the fall.
Horace was engaged in fastening one end of his improvised rope round a tree which bent over the cataract. The stem was so slender that he almost feared lest its roots should give way with the strain which would be upon it, but there was no other tree sufficiently close to the edge to serve his purpose.
"Now!" exclaimed Horace, as he flung the thick knotted rope towards the spot where the indistinctly seen form of Enrico broke the long line of foam.
At that moment a cloud passed over the moon, which had till then been shining in untroubled brightness.
"Where is it? I can't find it!" cried Enrico, in a tone of anguish.
Horace's interest rose to agony. He had done all that he could do—he had strained every nerve—he had now nothing left but the means of prayer. Fervently he prayed for light—light on the fearful, the fatal darkness. Like a film the cloud rolled away; he looked down—almost fearing to look—Enrico was still clinging below.
"I see it, but I can't reach it!" shrieked the miserable man; the dark line of the rope lay on the foam just beyond his outstretched hand.
Horace was almost in despair; he had no power to throw it nearer; the current of the waters was gradually drawing the life-rope further away from their victim.
"Make a spring at it!" exclaimed Horace, and shuddered at his own words, lest Enrico should obey, miss the rope, and be dashed to pieces down the fall.
"He has done it! Oh, merciful Heaven!" gasped the youth, almost faint with extreme excitement. "Hold on, hold on for your life!" And with a strength beyond his years—a strength which seemed to be superhuman—Horace, throwing his whole weight on the upper end of the rope, drew it hand over hand towards him. He was in momentary dread of feeling it suddenly become light from the yielding of a knot, or from the numbed hands below giving up their desperate grasp; he was not without an undefined sense of terror lest he should be overbalanced himself, and instead of saving Enrico, be dashed with him over the abyss. Not even when Horace had passed Marco in safety had he experienced a feeling of relief so intense as when Enrico's dripping head appeared above the fall, and, a moment after, with a tremendous effort, he swung himself on the bank.
"Thank God! Oh, thank God!" exclaimed Horace.
Enrico lay motionless, senseless. His failing powers had been concentrated on that one effort, and he swooned as soon as it had been made.
Horace did all that he could to fan the flickering spark of life. He first dragged Enrico a few paces from the edge; for in that moment of dizzy horror, he could not disconnect nearness to the Cascata della Morte from the idea of danger; he longed to get beyond hearing of its roar. He then removed part of the clothes of the half-drowned man, which were torn, saturated, and dripping with water. He chafed Enrico's limbs, breathed on his lips, tried to impart warmth to the bruised and benumbed frame. He wrung the water from the long black hair which hung in tangled strands over the ghastly face, which even in its senselessness retained a look of distress which told of the agony of the late struggle for life.
While Horace is thus engaged, I will relate how Enrico had come into the strange and fearful position from which he had been thus wonderfully rescued.
Slipping on the rough tree-bridge and losing his balance, Enrico had fallen into the stream, struggling in vain with the current, and had been (as Marco had described), borne onward to the edge of the cataract. In vain had he attempted to catch at the reeds of grasses near, in vain he had shrieked for help. He had been whirled on, and then over in that awful plunge which involved almost inevitable destruction!
From the centre of the rock wall that backed the cataract, and not very far from the summit, jutted out small fragment of crag, round and over which the furious waters had for centuries dashed, bearing away articles of the solid stone by ceaseless wear, yet leaving a tooth-like projection, only visible when the flood was not full, though its opposition always whirled the spray in wider circles from that spot.
On this projection the unfortunate Enrico was dashed, stunned, and bruised. Caught by his clothes, he had been suspended for some minutes in an almost unconscious state, unable even to utter a cry. He revived, indeed, but only to become aware of the full horrors of his situation. His eyes being, from his position, turned below, he beheld the awful depth down which he expected every moment to be hurled, as the fierce hissing waters, with unceasing flow, seemed like merciless enemies determined to tear him down, to wrench him away from the one little point of refuge afforded by the projecting crag to which he now wildly clung.