Enrico's soul sickened, his brain reeled; the din of the torrent rushing, rolling, roaring—above, below—almost maddened the wretched man! A strange idea possessed his mind, that it was Raphael's prayer which suspended him now, as it were, by a hair above the gulf, of not only temporal but eternal destruction. If Raphael should cease, even for a moment, to pray, the half-frenzied Enrico believed that the waters would have their wild will, and bear him crashing down to perdition, swathed in the white shroud of their foam!
Thus passed the fearful time till brief twilight deepened into night. Still Enrico clung to his crag, its shape enabling him so to support his person that its weight did not rest on his hands, though all their strength was needed to enable him to resist the constant pressure of the furious waters. He was contending with a foe that could never grow weary. Often Enrico cried aloud for help, with a bitter consciousness of the improbability that such cry would reach a human ear, since he had never yet known any one come to the top of the cliff, less from the difficulty of reaching it, than from a superstition which clothed the Cascata della Morte with supernatural terrors. The forest path, indeed, was not far distant, but it was lonely and wild, and never trodden save by members of the band. It seemed to Enrico as if the din which perpetually roared in his ears completely drowned the sound of his voice. He could hardly hear it himself; how could it reach a distant ear?
The robber had become calmer, though not less wretched. His mind now reverted to the past. Each event of his life—every error—every sin—seemed to rise up before him distinct as the white spray in the moonlight, hissed in his ears with the roar of the fall. Had not his position for years been imaged by his position now? Carried away by his passions as by the flood, hurled over the brink of crime in full rapid career towards endless ruin, yet caught—suspended—restrained—as it were, by the prayers, entreaties, example, of one who remained amid the whirl, the rack, and the rush, yet unshaken and firm as the crag.
In that hour of extremest peril, the sinner's cry arose to his God. Raphael had spoken of mercy; might not that mercy be extended even unto him, not perhaps to save him from impending death, but from the more fearful death of the soul? Words that his brother had read from the Scriptures flashed back on the mind of Enrico:
"'He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by Him.'"
The drowning soul clung to that truth, even as the numbed hands clung to the rock. Enrico knew the utter impossibility now of saving himself; he felt that he deserved no mercy from an offended God; but there was One who could save "to the uttermost," One who had died to save, One who could draw him yet out of the horrible pit, and set his feet on a rock, and order his goings.
While thus hanging, as it were, between earth and heaven, Enrico heard the call of Horace. He doubted not for a moment that the Almighty had sent his brother to his aid. When the rope of knotted strips was thrown down the cascade, it seemed to the poor penitent as an emblem of heavenly hope. Then sudden darkness hid it from his view, and in vain his hand groped in the chill waters to find it. The gloom of despair seemed to settle on his soul. The cloud rolled away, and the straining eyes of Enrico beheld the rope once again. He sought to grasp it, and failed.
Was it that mercy, even the mercy held out to all contrite sinners, was not to be reached by him—that he who for so long had tried the patience of a long-suffering God, was to perish at last even in sight of the means of salvation?
"Raphael is praying, and I will hope," thought the struggling sufferer; and when Horace shouted down the direction to spring. "Raphael bids me, I obey," was the reflection which nerved him for the one desperate leap upon which he staked his existence.
Even when the rope was grasped, so great was the sufferer's exhaustion, so benumbed and stiffened were his fingers by the drenching of the flood, that he could scarcely retain his hold. Yet it was as though an angel whispered as he was dragged upwards through the dash and the foam, "Hold fast—hold fast the hope set before you!" It was not merely the action of a drowning man grasping a cord, but of a perishing soul clinging to its last hope of grace.
As soon as the fearful effort was crowned with success, exhausted nature gave way. In a stupor which must have had fatal consequences had it overwhelmed him two minutes earlier, Enrico lay with his dripping head supported on the knee of Horace Cleveland. The stupor continued for some time. At length the pale lips parted and sounds came forth. Horace bent down to listen, and caught the words,—
"Oh, Raphael, I knew it was your prayer!"
Then the large black eyes suddenly opened. They rested not on Horace, but looked wildly around, as if seeking some other face; and half raising himself on his arm, Enrico exclaimed:
"Where is he—where is my brother?"
Horace did not answer, for at that instant his attention was arrested by the sound of a distant report. He sprang to his feet—there came another—another—then the rattling sound of a volley, all in the direction of the high road.
"Ha!" exclaimed Horace Cleveland, "The hunters lay in wait for a deer, but they seem to have fallen in with a lion."
Then, for the first time, Enrico recognized his deliverer. "The prisoner, and free!" he exclaimed in accents of alarm.
"Ay, free—free as the air, and not likely to be soon in bondage again, if that sound of musketry, as I believe, tells that soldiers are at hand."
Enrico struggled to his feet, passed his hand across his brow, and listened with a look of bewilderment and fear.
"Enrico, you also are free—free from worse bondage than mine. Remember that the robbers will deem your life forfeited. Surrender yourself up to justice, and I pledge my honor that every effort shall be made to secure your safety and your pardon."
"Pardon!" Enrico repeated the word, clasped his hands and looked upwards;—he was not thinking of the pardon of man.
ONE EFFORT MORE.
We will now return to Raphael, who with keen and breathless interest had watched from the shade of the forest Horace's passage along the perilous ledge. When Marco's hand had been laid on the shoulder of the youth, the Rossignol could hardly refrain from springing forward to the rescue, and scarcely had Horace himself experienced greater satisfaction than did his friend when that startling danger was past. When the fugitive had disappeared from his view, Raphael, for the first time, appeared to have leisure to think of himself. To aid in the escape of a prisoner was, as he well knew, a crime to be atoned for only with life. Raphael was young, and notwithstanding the recent bereavement, which had been like the wrenching away of a heart-string, life was to Raphael a precious thing, not to be parted with lightly.
As he stood with folded arms under the of the waving boughs, a sense of the loveliness of nature came on his poet-soul with a soothing, softening power. He felt loath to leave God's beautiful world. How divinely fair looked the scene before him, beneath the silvery rays of the moon! How wooingly breathed the night-breeze upon his feverish brow! How sweet sounded the nightingale's song, warbled soft through the stilly air! Hope, even earthly hope, was not dead in that young bosom; there was still a desire for human love and for human happiness there. Raphael thought of Horace, blessed with friends, a mother, a home; not, indeed, with envy, but with the instinctive yearning of a tender and loving nature for the sympathy of human hearts, of which he had known so little.
Thus the improvisatore had no intention of awaiting a violent death with folded hands; he revolved all possible means of escape. From Matteo's mercy he expected as little as he would have done from that of a lioness whose cubs had been slaughtered before her eyes. He must not await the burst of frantic fury of a father bereaved of his son and balked of his vengeance. Nor could Raphael count upon the protection of any of the band, though he knew that on some he had the claim of gratitude. No, he must rely upon the aid of God and his own efforts alone.
Raphael resolved to wait just long enough to give Horace a fair start, which might be essential to his safety, and then to follow himself in the same track as that which his friend had pursued. It was true that Marco must be passed on the perilous rock—that the bandit had pistols in his belt, and that his bullet always levelled his victim. But Raphael deemed it possible that the man would be reluctant to slay a comrade, alone and unarmed. Marco was savage, ignorant, blinded by superstition, a fanatic who regarded murder itself as a venial offence compared with heresy; but he was not so utterly hardened and depraved as were Matteo and Beppo. The fate of Enrico had seemed somewhat to move even his rugged nature. At all events, Raphael felt that of two dangers the lesser one was to be chosen;—better to try the chance of passing Marco, than to await the return of Matteo and his gang.
After recommending himself to the protection of his heavenly Father, in submission to the divine will, whatever that will might appoint, the young Italian quitted the shrouding shade, and with a firm step advanced towards the sentinel, whose eyes were at that moment, turned in an opposite direction. Raphael had, as we have seen, divested himself both of hat and mantle. His face was calm, but very pale;—the expression that of a man who knows that he is facing death, but who has nerved himself to face it without flinching. The mass of rich dark hair thrown back from his high, pale forehead, fell almost to his shoulders, damp with the dews of night.
Marco was repeating an Ave for the soul of the miserable Enrico, when, chancing to turn round, he suddenly beheld the tall figure approaching him in the moonlight, bareheaded, in its spirit-like stillness and calmness, with the gaze of its large, thoughtful eyes riveted on his own. It came along the path by which, not an hour before, he believed that Raphael had passed. The Rossignol marveled to see the fear which he was wrestling down in his own heart suddenly transferred to the man before him. Marco's eyes dilated, his lips parted, his very hair seemed to rise from his head; he crossed himself with a trembling hand, moved backwards step by step as Raphael Goldoni drew nearer, but staring at him still, like the hare fascinated by the gaze of the serpent. At last with a cry, "'E il suo spirito!" ("It is his ghost!") The strong man actually turned and fled, overpowered by superstitious terrors.
Then Raphael knew the cause of that before inexplicable alarm which his presence had inspired, and with thankfulness for the path thus cleared for him which he could never have reckoned, came a bitter pang of remembrance, as he thought on his brother, loved and lost! There appeared to be as little cause to doubt the death of Enrico as there would have been had he been dashed over the Falls of Niagara; no human foresight could have calculated upon the singular accident to which he owed his almost miraculous preservation.
Scarcely had the Rossignol entered the wood on the further side of the pass, with a feeling of deep melancholy as he approached the scene of his brother's fall, when he was startled, as Horace had been, by the sound of distant firing. It was evident that Matteo and his ruffian band had lighted on no despicable foe—that they were engaged in a desperate struggle with those who would claim blood for blood, and life for life.
Raphael and Horace little guessed that a timid delicate woman, foiled in her efforts to save her son in one way, had attempted another, with the energy given by desperation to maternal love. There had been a carriage and a lady within it; there had been postilions and outriders; the appearance of the equipage had been such as to awake cupidity, but not arouse alarm. But the banditti were soon to find out that the hands which held bridles were such as had been accustomed to grasp the sword. The luggage on the carriage consisted of sabres and carbines; and the travelers within it, save one, were soldiers chosen for courage and strength. Gold had, indeed, been lavished with unsparing hand by the almost despairing mother; and now, notwithstanding constitutional nervousness and delicacy of frame, Mrs. Cleveland risked her own life amidst clashing steel and flying bullets in order to lure from their secret fastness, and draw within reach of the arm of justice, those who in perilous captivity held her only son!
What was the result of the conflict we shall hear in the following chapter.
VICTORY.
"Onward, onward! Now or never must we make a struggle for freedom!" exclaimed Horace. "If your strength fail you, Enrico, lean upon me. This is no time for giving way to weariness; and as for hesitation and doubt—"
"The firing has ceased!" gasped Enrico. "We know not who are the victors."
"The right has conquered, be sure of that!" cried Horace, whose countenance, beaming with hope and flushed with excitement, presented a strong contrast to that of Enrico, livid even to ghastliness! The young bandit in his dripping garments looked more like the corpse of a drowned man than one through whose veins the warm blood of life was coursing.
"Come on!" again exclaimed the impatient youth; and almost dragging his companion forward, Horace hurried on for a few paces, and suddenly confronted—Matteo!
Defeat, disaster, despair, were stamped on the dark lineaments of the chieftain, distinct as the blood-marks on face and hand. It was the wounded lion driven back into the shelter of his native jungle, who hears behind him the bay of the bloodhounds, the shout of the hunters on his track! Matteo had seen all his followers, save Marco, slain or taken, and then, not till then, had he dashed aside opposing weapons and plunged into the depths of the thicket. He had paused but once, and that was to reload a pistol, less to provide for defence than to assure himself that he should never fall alive into the hands of his foes.
Before this desperate man stood his prisoner, his Italian companion at his side. No thought of apparitions roused in Matteo superstitious dread; he doubted not that in mortal flesh and blood, he beheld a traitor and an escaping hostage, a hostage for the son of whose ignominious death he on that very night had heard!
A fierce joy flashed in the blood-shot eyes of the bandit; he had lost all beside, but a dying man's vengeance yet might be his. Matteo leveled his pistol and fired; the report rang sharp through the wood, a victim lay stretched on the ground, but that victim was not Horace Cleveland. Raphael had reached the spot at that crisis only in time to throw himself in front of his friend, and receive in his own bosom the bullet destined for another!
With a wild cry Enrico rushed forward and threw himself on the ground by his brother. Absorbed by one overpowering dread, the wretched young man was unconscious of all that was passing around him; he heard not, cared not for the desperate struggle of Matteo with the soldiers, his wrestling for liberty and life as a wild beast caught in the toils, nor knew that the struggle ended at last in the capture of the chief.
Enrico heard not, cared not for the sobs of delight with which a mother embraced a rescued son, nor knew the deep sympathy with which both Mrs. Cleveland and Horace now bent over Raphael. Had an earthquake shaken the forest, Enrico would scarcely have felt it. His brother's head was supported on his breast; the expression of the features was serene and painless, the heavy eyelids closed, and the long dark lashes resting on the colorless cheek.
"Raphael! My brother, look at me, speak to me! This is not, it cannot be death! One word, if it be of reproach—one look, were it even in anger! Tell me that I have not this night been rescued from the jaws of death, that I have not been saved from the whelming waters to be plunged in darker depths of wretchedness!"
The young man sobbed aloud in the anguish of his soul. His nerves had been completely unstrung by the events of the last few hours; his mind was crushed by the consciousness that it had been his guilt that had led to the ruin of his brother.
"He bleeds but little; he may, he will revive!" exclaimed Horace. "I will bring water!" And he hurried away towards the stream. Briny drops were fast falling on the face of Raphael, but they seemed to have no power to arouse him.
"O God, have mercy upon me! O God, spare my brother; let him not perish through my sin! I will submit to Thy will in all things—I will not murmur—I will not rebel—only spare this one precious life!" It was the wrestling, agonizing prayer bursting from a broken and contrite heart.
"See, his lips move!" exclaimed Horace, who had just sprinkled water over the face of the dying man.
Faint sounds came forth, soft and melodious still, from those tuneful lips so soon to be silenced in death; even Enrico hushed his wild grief to listen. Low but distinct were the words:
"Joy cometh—in the morning!—see—it is brightening in the east—darkness is passing away—and for ever!"
"Raphael, do you know me?" faltered Horace, as he knelt beside the Rossignol, and pressed his icy hand in his own.
Raphael did not answer the question; the spirit fluttering on the confines of a world of light seemed already to feel the eternal sunshine on its wings! The large dark eyes slowly unclosed, but their gaze was fixed upwards, as if they beheld the vision of glories hidden from mortal eyes.
"It is over," he murmured—"all is over—the struggle—the battle is past! More than conqueror—through Him—only through Him who loved me! Ah, Marino— thou art there to welcome me, the palm in thy hand—the glory round thy brow. I knew our parting would not be for long! See the angel faces bending from the clouds—they are waiting there to receive me—light is streaming from the golden gate. Oh, stay me not—I must go!"
"He must not die and leave me!" gasped Enrico. "Raphael, live, if it be but to guide me, to teach me how to wrestle with my sins, to lead me, even me, to the Savior!"
Raphael turned his eyes upon his brother with a sudden look of joyful recognition.
"Enrico, saved!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, saved from destruction of body and soul, saved to be—"
"My joy and crown of rejoicing!" cried the dying man, the radiance of unearthly rapture lighting up his fading features. "Oh, my God, I thank thee—I bless Thee—Thou hast given me my heart's desire—Thou hast heard my prayer for my brother! Hark!" he exclaimed, suddenly. "Do you not hear the shouts—the music—loud—louder! It is the song of triumph. The angels are beckoning me upwards—why cannot I rise and join them! He is there—my Leader—my King! I have waited for Him—sought Him—I have found Him! All the mists are dissolving—the clouds are melting into light—the chain that bound me to the earth is loosening—He holds out a crown—a crown of life—and I take it—to cast at His feet."
Horace covered his eyes. The martyr-spirit had spread its pinions and soared upwards, leaving a track of light behind!
* * * * * * *
A full pardon for Enrico was ere long procured from the king of Naples. It was granted partly on account of the services of his father, partly because of the earnest pleadings of the Clevelands, who thus sought to repay some portion of the deep debt which they owed his brother.
The death of Raphael Goldoni had effected more than his life. His light, which for a brief space had shone on earth to the glory of his heavenly Father, had not been extinguished in darkness. Horace and Enrico had seen his example casting a pure though feeble radiance in the deep gloom of the robbers' cave; but it had a stronger, more abiding influence upon them when they thought of him as one of the starry host, raised to glitter for ever in the cloudless heaven above! Raphael had longed to win souls to Christ, and had sought them at the greatest personal risk, in the darkest haunt of evil. For such is the crown reserved, for such is the promise given.
"'They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever.'"