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Title: The robbers' cave
        A tale of Italy

Author: A. L. O. E.

Release date: May 20, 2024 [eBook #73660]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago: The Bible Colportage Association


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROBBERS' CAVE ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.]



                          The Robbers' Cave

                           A TALE OF ITALY


                                  BY

                              A. L. O. E.



                               CHICAGO
              The Bible Institute Colportage Association
                      843-845 North Wells Street



                              CONTENTS

CHAP.

    I. THE CALABRIAN INN

   II. A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER

  III. BITTER WORDS

   IV. SEPARATION

    V. ROUGH COMPANY

   VI. THE ROBBERS' CAVE

  VII. MUSIC AND MADNESS

 VIII. A DASH FOR FREEDOM

   IX. ANXIOUS HOURS

    X. THE LONE SENTINEL

   XI. THE ORPHAN'S TALE

  XII. HOW THE LIGHT WAS LIT

 XIII. FAILURE

  XIV. TIDINGS

   XV. ONWARDS

  XVI. A PERILOUS PASS

 XVII. ONE EFFORT MORE

XVIII. VICTORY



Printed in United States of America



                        The Robbers' Cave.

                         A TALE OF ITALY.

CHAPTER I.

THE CALABRIAN INN.

"Lazy dog! Can't he drive faster—keeping us grilling here in the heat!
I should like to have the use of his whip for a few minutes and try
its effect upon his shoulders!" Such was the impatient exclamation of
Horace Cleveland, as for the third time he thrust his head out of the
carriage window.

"I wish that we had never come to Calabria at all!" sighed his mother.
Horace was resuming his lounging position in the carriage, after
hurling a few Italian words of abuse at the driver, as she added, "It
was a nonsensical whim of yours, Horace, to bring us into this wild
land, when we might have remained in comfort at Naples, with every
convenience around us, such as my weak health so much requires."

"Convenience!" repeated Horace contemptuously. "Would you compare
the luxuries of Naples, its drives, its bouquets, its ices, its idle
amusements, with the glorious scenery of a land like this? Look what
a splendid mountain rises there, all clothed to the very summit with
myrtle, aloes, and cactus, where here and there stands a tall palm,
like the king of the forest, overlooking the rest. And see what an
expanse—what an ocean of olives stretches yonder!"

"I do not admire the olive, with its rugged stem and dull dingy
leaves," observed Mrs. Cleveland.

"Not when the breeze ruffles those leaves, and shows their silver
linings? Look there now,—how beautiful they appear under the brightness
of an Italian sky!"

"I am too weary to admire anything," said Mrs. Cleveland with a yawn,
"and it seems as if we were never to reach the inn at Staiti. The heat
is almost suffocating."

"I say," halloed Horace to the driver, "how long shall we be in
arriving at Staiti?"

The Italian shrugged his shoulders, and without taking the trouble to
turn round made reply, "We shall not be there till twenty-four o'clock,
signore."

"Twenty-four o'clock!" exclaimed Horace; not surprised, however, by the
expression, as the reader may possibly be, as he was familiar with the
Italian mode of reckoning the twenty-four hours from sunset to sunset.
"Is there no inn,—no locanda, where we could rest on the way?"

"Si, signore," answered the Calabrese, pointing onwards with his whip
to a small, irregularly built house, which seemed wedged between two
masses of rock overgrown with cactus, and which was so much of the
color of the cliffs, that one might fancy that it had grown out of them.

"It looks much more picturesque than comfortable," observed Horace,
drawing back his head, and showing the inn to his mother.

"Let's stop there—or anywhere," gasped Mrs. Cleveland, fanning herself
with the air of one whose patience as well as strength is almost
exhausted. "I can go no further to-day."

"We can stop and bait," said Horace; and again he leaned out of the
window to give his orders to the driver in the haughty tone of command
which he seemed to think befitting an English "milordo."

It was clear at a glance that Horace Cleveland regarded himself as one
of the lords of creation, and, from national or family or personal
pride, considered himself superior to all such of his fellow-creatures
as he might meet in Calabria. His manner, even to his mother, was
petulant and imperious. Horace Cleveland had had, indeed, much to
foster his vanity and strengthen his pride. Horace occupied a proud
position in his school, and he plumed himself not a little upon it.

"The boy is father of the man," sang the poet; and on the strength of
that aphorism, Horace built up a high tower of airy hopes. He had been
accustomed to be admired, imitated, followed, in the little world of
a public school, and he expected to hold the same place in the great
world, which he soon must enter. Horace felt himself born to command.

The youth's triumphs at school had hardly tended to make him more
agreeable at home. He was an only child, and his widowed mother
regarded him as her all in all. Very proud was Mrs. Cleveland of his
talents, very proud of his success: with fond admiration she gazed on
his open, handsome countenance,—the high forehead, the clear gray eye,
and thought that amongst all his companions none could compare with her
son. And yet Mrs. Cleveland was by no means altogether contented with
Horace. She would have been better pleased had he exhibited less spirit
and more submission.

Horace was eager to claim a man's independence; Mrs. Cleveland clung to
a parent's authority. It is probable that the lady would have retained
more influence over her boy, had she exercised it more judiciously. She
had been as an unskillful rider, who, instead of keeping a light but
firm hand on the bridle, alternately threw down the rein and caught it
up to jerk the mouth of his restive steed, and irritate its temper.
Delicate health and weak nerves had combined to make the widowed lady
sometimes peevish, and even unreasonable: and her will often clashed
with that of her son to a degree that caused a painful jar upon the
feelings of both. Thus those who were dearer to each other than all the
world besides, were each not unfrequently a source of annoyance and
irritability even to the being best beloved.

"I am sure that it was great folly to come to Calabria at all!"
exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, as the chaise drew up at the door of the inn.

Now this was what Horace could not endure to hear, since it had been to
gratify his wishes, and quite against her own judgment, that his mother
had quitted Naples for the mountainous south of Italy. Moreover Horace
had heard that same exclamation nearly ten times already on that day,
and the effect of heat and weariness had drawn largely on his stock
of patience. Ready to vent his ill-humor on the first thing that he
touched, Horace flung open the door of the chaise as he might have hit
at a foe, and rudely pushed aside a young Italian who had come forward
to help the lady to alight.

The hot blood rose to the stranger's sun-burnt cheek, and a look of
anger, instantly repressed, passed like lightning over his face.

Mrs. Cleveland caught the look, transient as it was, and as she walked
into the inn, laid her hand on the arm of her son, and whispered to him
in English:

"For mercy's sake, do not treat these people with rudeness. You
know that all these Italians carry stilettos in their vests; we are
alone—amongst strangers!"

Horace's only reply was a look to express contempt for all Italians
in general, and this one in particular, and a disregard for all
considerations founded upon personal fear. He snatched up a grip, and
one or two shawls from the chaise, and carried them into the locanda,
being too much out of humor to offer his mother the support of his arm.

Mrs. Cleveland was shown into the little inn by its master, who came
forth to meet her. He was a stout, red-faced man with one eye, and a
countenance by no means prepossessing.

"Giuseppina! Giuseppina!" he shouted.

A Calabrese girl, barefooted, attired in a bright blue dress with an
orange border, and wearing large gold ear-rings and chain, came to
answer the call. Guided by her, the weary lady entered a small, close
room which might be termed the parlor, but which was evidently put to
many more uses.

The entrance of the visitors disturbed a hen and a whole brood of
sickly chickens, which cackling and fluttering made a hasty retreat
across the threshold. On one part of the dirty earthen floor was piled
a set of empty wine-skins, the odor from which blended with the more
disagreeable scent from some thousands of silk-worm cocoons, heaped
together in a corner.

"Have you no better quarters to give us than this hole?" cried Horace
to Giuseppina in the Italian language, which he spoke with ease.

"No, signore," replied the girl, as she swept from the table a confused
litter of old sacking, chaff and oakum, in order to make preparation
for the coming meal, which Horace, with a look of disgust, forthwith
proceeded to order. Mrs. Cleveland, being less familiar with the
language, usually left such arrangements to her son.

"What can you give us?" asked Horace.

"Ebene, signore, maccaroni," replied the barefooted maiden.

"Maccaroni, of course, and what besides?"

Giuseppina glanced to the right at the wine-skins, then to the left
at the heap of cocoons, as if to gather from them some culinary idea,
shrugged her shoulders and suggested "omelet," but in a tone expressive
of doubt.

"Omelet then, and anything else that you may have, and be quick, for
the lady is weary and wants refreshment!" cried Horace.

Giuseppina showed her white teeth in a smile, and quitted the parlor.

"One is stifled in this horrible den!" exclaimed Horace, stalking up to
the window, and throwing it open. Very little air was admitted on that
sultry afternoon, but there came the sound of voices from without.

"What are the people doing outside, Horace?" faintly inquired Mrs.
Cleveland.

"Like Italians—doing nothing," was the reply. "They are merely
gathering round that young man whom we saw at the door, apparently to
listen to his singing, for he has a guitar in his hand."

"That Italian whom you struck?" inquired Mrs. Cleveland.

"I did not strike him—I only pushed him back. These fellows must be
taught to know their own place," Horace haughtily replied.

"My dear boy," said Mrs. Cleveland, leaning forward on the chair on
which she had wearily sunk, "you must acquire, indeed you must, a more
gentle and conciliatory manner. In a wild, strange place like this,
altogether out of the bounds of civilization, a thoughtless act might
bring serious trouble—a wanton insult might cost a life!"

Horace did not answer, and as he remained looking out the window, his
mother could not see on his face the effect of her gentle reproof; she
saw, however, that he was impatiently moving his foot up and down,
which was his trick when he had to listen to anything which it did not
please him to hear.

A few chords on a guitar, touched by a skillful hand, were now heard,
and immediately the hum of voices without was silenced.

"I hate to see a man play a guitar!" exclaimed Horace. As he spoke, the
tones of a voice singularly melodious and rich mingled with those of
the instrument, and Mrs. Cleveland, weary as she felt, was lured to the
window to listen.

Surrounded by a group of Calabrese stood the musician. He was simply
but picturesquely attired, after the fashion of his country; the red
jacket, not worn, but carried across the shoulder ready to be put on in
season of rain, left exposed to view the white shirt. A felt hat, of
a somewhat oval shape, shaded a countenance which, with its classical
outlines and thoughtful expression, could have formed a study for an
artist. The song of the young Italian, translated into English, might
run thus:—

   If to pine in a dungeon were e'er my fate
   When light struggled in through the iron grate,
   What view would most soothe my unwearied eye,—
   The boundless ocean—the earth—or sky?

   Oh! not the ocean!—its ceaseless swell
   With my restless grief would accord too well;
   The voice of its wild waves would break my sleep,
   And the captive bend o'er his chain and weep.

  'Twere sweet to gaze on the laughing earth,
   And view, though distant, its scenes of mirth.
   Ah, no! ah, no! they would but recall
   Life's flowers to one who had lost them all.

   The sky, the sky, unbounded, bright,
   With its silvery moon, and its stars of light,
   The blush of morning, the evening glow,
   Its passing clouds, and its radiant bow,—

   There—there would I fix my unwearied eye,
   Till fancy could paint a bright world on high,
   And earth and its sorrows would fade in night,
   With freedom before me—and heaven in sight!



CHAPTER II.

A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER.

"Who is that singer?" inquired Mrs. Cleveland in broken Italian of the
girl Giuseppina, who had just reentered the room with a large dish of
maccaroni which looked like a pile of tobacco-pipes.

"Improvisatore," answered the girl.

"What is that?" inquired Horace.

"An improvisatore," replied Mrs. Cleveland, "is one who makes poetry on
the spur of the moment. This class of minstrels is, I believe, peculiar
to Italy, the beautiful language of the country giving facility to
rapid composition. Do you suppose," she continued, addressing herself
to Giuseppina, "that the young man really made that song about prisons
himself?"

"Prisons," repeated the Calabrese, with a slight but expressive shrug
of the shoulders; "I should say that Raphael might very well sing about
prisons."

"You don't mean us to understand," said Horace, "that, young as he
seems, he has been acquainted with the inside of them?"

"Chi sa? (Who knows?)" replied the girl, with another expressive shrug,
as she placed his dish upon the table.

"He was never imprisoned, I trust, for any crime?" inquired Mrs.
Cleveland, more uneasy than ever at the recollection of Horace's
rudeness to the stranger.

"Chi sa?" repeated the girl.

"I cannot believe," said the lady, "that there can lurk much harm in
one with such a countenance, and such an exquisite voice."

"Oh, he's an Italian!" cried Horace, who rather prided himself on his
prejudices.

Giuseppina lingered, fidgeting about the table, moving the dish now to
the right, now to the left, as if she could never satisfy herself that
she had placed it perfectly straight.

"Does this Raphael, as you call him," said Horace, "earn his living by
his music?"

"Chi sa?" repeated Giuseppina, not looking up, but showing her teeth in
a meaning smile.

"Does the idle fellow do nothing but sing and play?"

"He cures the sick also," replied Giuseppina; "he gathers herbs, and
has wonderful power to take away fever, and to heal wounds from sword
or from shot. But," she added, crossing herself, and shaking her
head, "the abate (abbot) says that none can tell how he came by his
knowledge."

"This Raphael is looked upon, then, as rather a suspicious character?"

Giuseppina dropped her voice, and looked as if the desire to impart
information were struggling with a fear of danger from so doing as she
made answer:

"He is certainly no stranger to Matteo."

The last word was pronounced in a whisper so low, that both Mrs.
Cleveland and her son had to bend forward to catch the name.

"Who is Matteo?" asked Horace.

Giuseppina raised her hands and eyebrows with a gesture of surprise.

"Not know Matteo! All the world knows Matteo!" she said with low but
rapid utterance, glancing around her as she did so, as if to make sure
that no third listener was present. "We don't speak of him—no one
speaks of him—but—"

"But?" said Horace with some curiosity, as the speaker came to a pause.

"Oh!" continued Giuseppina, with the same stealthy look and quick
utterance. "Did not the signori hear how the government courier was
stopped and robbed of three hundred dollars on the high road, and the
Cavaliero Donato waylaid and shot dead? It is said that they owed him a
grudge. And the Contessa Albani was attacked in her detturino and all
her jewels taken, and her servants knocked on the head!"

"By whom—by this Matteo?" asked Horace, while his mother, who only
understood half of the girl's information, clasped her hands with a
gesture of alarm.

"Zitto! (Hush!)" whispered the talkative Calabrese, who appeared,
however, greatly to relish the diversion of frightening an English
lady. Horace looked as if he could not be frightened.

"And does your government do nothing to keep down such banditti?" said
young Cleveland. "What are the soldiers about?"

"I soldati! Ah!" replied Giuseppina with an expressive nod. "There was
a party of them here to-day, horsemen, on their way to Reggio; they had
a prisoner with them, arms bound behind his back—" The girl put back
her own elbows and scowled darkly, as if acting the part of a captured
bandit.

"I hope that it was this Matteo!" cried Horace.

"Zitto! (Hush!)" again whispered the girl. "It was not Matteo—they said
it was his son."

"I suppose that the soldiers were taking him to Reggio for trial!"

Giuseppina again nodded her head.

"And what is likely to become of him?"

The girl twisted her finger in the chain which she wore, tightening it
round her neck, but only answered with a shrug, "Chi sa?" And quitted
the room to bring in the rest of the dinner.

"Horace! What a dreadful place we have come to!" gasped Mrs. Cleveland.

The youth laughed as he seated himself at the table. "It is clear that
one has some chance of an adventure in Calabria," said he.

"Keep me from adventures!" exclaimed the lady. "Did not the girl tell
us—I could hardly understand her, for she spoke so fast—of people being
robbed and murdered on the high road by banditti?"

"Ah! But the soldiers are wide awake," suggested Horace, helping
the maccaroni. "I hope that they—" (he was not now speaking of the
military) "will bring us something better worth eating than this!"

Giuseppina pushed the door open with her knee, and reentered, a dish of
omelet in one hand, a second full of snow in the other, and a bottle of
wine under her arm.

"Where will the soldiers be to-night?" asked Mrs. Cleveland with some
anxiety. "I wish that we had asked for an escort."

"They'll be at Staiti, no doubt," answered Giuseppina, setting down the
viands which she had brought.

"We'll be at Staiti to-night also," said Horace; adding in English,
"so, mother, you need fear nothing."

"Staiti to-night! No, it would be dark ere the signori could arrive
there," observed Giuseppina; "The signori can have good beds here."

"Here!" exclaimed Horace, looking around him in disgust. "The place is
not fit for a hound!"

"But, my dear child," said Mrs. Cleveland, "safety is to be thought of
even before comfort."

Horace replied to his mother, like herself speaking in English, which
Giuseppina, unnecessarily loitering by the table, tried to understand
with her eyes, as it conveyed no meaning to her ears: "You talk of
safety as if this place were safe. Have you not just heard that one of
the gang of banditti is below—a fellow let loose from a prison?"

"The improvisatore?" said Mrs. Cleveland. "I did not understand that he
was actually one of the band."

"But I did," pursued Horace, in his overbearing manner; "and I saw the
master of this very house, who, by the way, looks a ruffian if ever
there was one, in close conference with this very Raphael, who has
doubtless come here for no good."

Mrs. Cleveland pushed away the plate of untasted food before her,
nervous anxiety having taken from the weary lady all inclination to
eat. Horace, to whom a little danger was rather a pleasant excitement,
had already half demolished the omelet.

"The signora is not well, the signora must not travel further to-day,"
suggested Giuseppina.

Horace glanced up hastily at his mother; but seeing on her anxious
countenance nothing to excite his fears for her health, he impatiently
motioned to the girl to quit the room, as he felt more at his ease when
her black eyes were not watching his lips, Giuseppina with lingering
step withdrew.

"I wish that you would eat, mother; you know that you will be quite
exhausted, if you don't," cried Horace in a tone of vexation.

"I can't travel in the dark—I can't go to be waylaid—robbed—perhaps—"

"Don't you see," cried Horace, striking the handle of his spoon on the
table to give more force to his argument, "that if we stay here we are
just as likely to come to grief? Have you never heard or read of horrid
little wayside inns kept by robbers in disguise; of beds contrived
to fall down upon travelers and crush them; of stealthy footsteps at
night—and all that sort of thing? Now this seems to be exactly the
place for such an unpleasant adventure."

"Oh, why did we ever come to Calabria?" exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland,
sinking back in her chair.

Horace felt some self-reproach for thus adding to the terrors of his
mother. He hastily finished his omelet, and said in a more reassuring
voice—

"You see, mother dear, if we once get to Staiti, we'll be under the
wing of the law: you can travel with a military escort like a queen."

"But it is the journey to Staiti—"

"Never fear that, it will soon be over; anything is better than
stopping here."

Horace presently pushed back his chair, and, rising from the table,
said to Mrs. Cleveland, "I'm going to order Jacomo to put to the
horses; the sooner we're off, the better;" and without waiting to hear
his mother's objections, the youth hastily left the apartment.

"Willful, unmanageable boy!" murmured the lady to herself. "He thinks
that he knows better than every one else, and I feel too much exhausted
and worn out to oppose him. The charge of such an ungovernable child
is too much for a poor widow like me. I should never have yielded to
his entreaties, and come to this horrible, desolate place. If I once
find myself again in a civilized land, once again know the comforts of
a home, nothing on earth shall persuade me to go a second time upon a
wild expedition such as this."



CHAPTER III.

BITTER WORDS.

Horace found Jacomo the driver seated outside the door of the inn,
enjoying al fresco (in the open air) a large plateful of maccaroni. As
Horace came towards him, the man looked a thoroughly characteristic
specimen of his nation—half supporting himself on his elbow, while his
head was thrown back to enable him with more convenience to drop into
his mouth some six inches length of the white moist tube, to which he
was helping himself with his fingers!

"Jacomo, put in the horses at once: we must make good speed to reach
Staiti to-night," said Horace.

The Italian stared at the speaker with a look of surprise and
dissatisfaction. "The signor forgets that the day is advanced, the
way mountainous, the horses tired, the signora faint, and the roads
not safe after dark," said the man; "it would be no wise act to start
before morning."

"That is for me to decide, and not for you," said the young Englishman
with hauteur.

"You can have excellent accommodation here—good beds, good fare—what
more can the signori require?" said the one-eyed host, pointing towards
the inn with a peculiar and stealthy expression in his disagreeable
face, which confirmed Horace in his resolution to depart.

"Jacomo, harness the horses, and directly!" he exclaimed. "If there be
any delay, not an extra carlino (a small coin) shall you have at the
end of the Journey."

The driver, with an exclamation directed to his patron saint and
some mutterings which Horace did not understand, began making
preparations to obey, moving his lazy limbs more leisurely than suited
the impatience of his employer. The host, shrugging his shoulders,
went into the inn. As Horace was about to follow him thither, the
improvisatore, who had been standing under the shadow of a neighboring
tree unperceived by the youth, came forward and crossed over between
him and the door, not looking at Horace, nor appearing to observe him,
but as he passed close in front of him, dropping the words "Do not go,"
in a low but earnest tone.

Horace glanced in surprise after the speaker; startled by so strange a
warning from the last person whom he should have expected to give one.
He would have liked to have questioned Raphael, but the improvisatore
had already disappeared.

"I wonder if it be wise to start," thought Horace, whose resolution
for the first time began to waver; "yet I have no reason to trust this
stranger, who seems to bear an evil character, even amongst the people
of this place."

"The signor has changed his mind?" inquired Jacomo with a grin—the man
having probably detected a look of indecision upon the face of young
Cleveland.

This way of putting the question fixed the determination of Horace,
who secretly prided himself upon what he thought strength and decision
of character. "I never change my mind," he said haughtily; "I shall be
ready to start in ten minutes. Let me then find the carriage at the
door, or you shall have reason to repent of the delay."

In about a quarter of an hour the vehicle stood ready in front of the
inn. The one-eyed man, who seemed to combine in himself the offices of
landlord and ostler, was there to see his guests depart. Giuseppina
was at the door, and about half-a-dozen barefooted brown urchins,
crowded together like bees to view the strangers enter the carriage, as
they had stared a few hours before at the soldiers bearing the bandit
away. Raphael stood with folded arms near the heads of the horses. He
exchanged words with no one, nor seemed to take notice of the whispered
remarks of the children who glanced at him ever and anon.

"The soldiers had him once," said one boy, pointing to the
improvisatore; "did they tie his arms behind him? I wonder whether he
has the marks on his wrists."

"How did he get away? Did Matteo break his prison, and set him free?"

"Perhaps the soldiers let him off because he sings so fine!" suggested
one black-eyed little damsel, with uncombed hair falling in dark masses
on each side of her merry brown face.

"I like Raphael; he cured my bad leg, and he speaks so kind," said
another.

"But he's a bad man, I know he's a bad man," whispered a thin, sallow
child with a solemn look, "he does not bow to the Madonna, nor touch
the holy water."

"He does!" exclaimed the former speaker, indignant at so dark an
imputation being thrown on his benefactor.

"But he does not," persisted the sallow child; "I've watched him again
and again; he never bows to the holy image, nor crosses himself; and I
don't believe that he tells his beads, or ever goes to confess. Mother
says that he's a wicked man, and prays to none of the saints."

The faintest approach to a smile on the lips of the young Italian alone
betrayed that he heard any part of the conversation of which he was the
subject.

The attention of the children was now diverted to the travelers who
were leaving the inn. "How pale the signora is! Does she not look
anxious and frightened?" were the whispers exchanged among the group.

Uneasy and irresolute Mrs. Cleveland certainly was. Horace, who,
however faulty in other respects, never concealed anything from his
mother, had told her of the warning of Raphael; and as he led her to
the carriage, lingering and reluctant, he was warmly combating the
idea that the Italian's words should have the slightest effect in
influencing their movements.

"Doubtless he is playing into the hands of this Matteo, of whose
atrocities we have been hearing, and who will be as savage as a bear
at the capture of his son. Common sense tells us that we should put
no faith in this stranger; a low musician, a jailbird, a companion of
thieves!"

These words were uttered aloud, of course in the English language, but
as Mrs. Cleveland glanced at the improvisatore to judge by his face
whether he merited the epithets given him, she again saw a sudden flush
tinge the paleness of his cheek. Raphael stepped forward, as if to help
her into the carriage, for her foot was already on the step, and again
in low tones breathed the words "Do not go," but this time in English,
though with an accent quite Italian.

Mrs. Cleveland started, and would have drawn back; but Horace at that
moment almost lifted her into the carriage, and sprang in after her
with a quickness which gave his nervous mother hardly time to think or
to breathe.

"Horace—I can't go—I won't go—stop the driver—we will get out!" gasped
the lady.

"Mother, it is nonsense; you will make us the laughing-stock of the
place!" exclaimed Horace, who had caught sight of a leer upon the face
of the one-eyed man, which had strengthened his suspicions as to the
character of the low little inn in the mountains.

The driver cracked his whip, and the jingle of the horses' bells was
heard as they moved forward on the white, dusty road.

The conscience of Horace smote him a little for the rudeness of his
manner and words. "You know, mother," he said, in a softer tone, "that
I must care for your comfort and safety."

"Comfort!" exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland with indignation. "Willful,
ungrateful boy that you are, you never care for anything but your own
selfish fancies!" And exhausted in strength, and wounded in feeling,
the irritated mother burst into a flood of tears.

"Mother, I can't stand this!" exclaimed Horace, in extreme vexation at
seeing her weep.

"You have planted many a thorn in my pillow," sobbed the lady; "you may
find them one day on your own!"

Horace could not answer. His heart seemed to be rising into his throat.
He pulled his cap low over his eyes, and leaned back in the corner of
the carriage, wishing, with all his soul, that he had never come on the
journey. He had been accustomed to chidings and reproaches, but not
to tears, and each drop seemed to fall upon his heart like a drop of
molten lead.

Horace had never but once before seen his parent weep upon his account,
and the occasion which drew forth those tears was one of the most
tender recollections of his childhood. Horace remembered the time when
he had lain in his little cot, parched by fever, and when awakening
again and again in the long, wretched nights, he had ever seen, by the
dim light of the shaded candle, the form of his mother, ready to offer
the cooling drink to relieve his burning thirst. He remembered how, as
long as his danger continued, her calm courage had never failed her,
faith and love supporting her through sleepless nights and miserable
days; but that when the doctor had said at last, "The crisis is over,
he will do well," her over-strained feelings had at length given way,
and she had wept tears of thankful delight over the child who lay on
her bosom!

How different from those glad tears were the drops which the wounded,
disappointed parent was shedding now! A painful sensation came over
Horace as the doubt suggested itself to his mind whether his mother
would have felt such transport at his recovery had she known all that
his petulance would cost her; nay, Horace was not certain whether, on
the whole, her only and much-loved son had not given her more pain than
pleasure. It was too true that he had thought more of his own selfish
fancies than of the wishes of his tender parent; that he had often
treated her with disrespect, and even with actual disobedience.

Horace's conscience told him that he had not honored his mother, nor
made her happy; and he was so painfully stung by its reproaches that he
was half inclined to call out to the driver to go back to the inn, as
a kind of practical way of showing his parent that he regretted having
preferred his own opinion to hers.

But the carriage was now plunging down a road so steep and narrow, that
it we have been almost impossible to stop it, and quite impossible
to turn. The utmost attention of the driver was required to keep his
horses on their legs, and every now and then a tremendous jolt made
Mrs. Cleveland grasp the side of the vehicle to prevent herself from
being jerked out of her seat. She had ceased crying, but she was
thoroughly displeased with her son, and was not disposed to address him
again, even if the roughness of the road had not rendered it difficult
to speak.

Horace knew that he ought to ask his mother's forgiveness at once,
as he had often done when a child; but pride shrank from that simple
course. As a compromise between conscience and pride, he said, with a
little hesitation:

"I am sorry that I spoke so unguardedly about that mysterious Italian;
though who could have dreamed of any one here comprehending the English
tongue?"

Mrs. Cleveland made no reply, but continued gazing out of the carriage
window in an opposite direction.

"And I am sorry," continued Horace with an effort, "that I said or did
anything to vex you."

Still silence—still the averted face. This had not been the first, no,
nor the fiftieth time that Horace had offended his mother, and such
offences, though apparently trivial,—

   "Make up in number what they lack in weight."

Constant friction produces on the mind the same effect that it does
on the body—a rankling sore, more painful than the result of one
sharp blow. A few affectionate words, a filial embrace, had often
seemed sufficient reparation for an ebullition of hasty temper; love
readily forgets and forgives; but when the conduct repented of to-day
is repeated tomorrow, when hastiness becomes habitual, when pride
and self-will gain increasing strength, what wonder if a feeling of
resentment mingle even with maternal affection?

Mrs. Cleveland was in a state of nervous irritation, and not disposed
to meet the constrained advances of her son. Deeply mortified by her
silence, vexed with his mother, but far more vexed with himself, Horace
again threw himself back in the carriage. No enjoyment could he find in
surveying the exquisite landscape around him, over which the beams of
the setting sun were now throwing a golden glory.



CHAPTER IV.

SEPARATION.

Scarcely had the upper rim of the golden sun dipped below the horizon,
when the dark curtain of night was thrown over the landscape, spangled
with tremulous stars. Horace was startled from his disagreeable
reflections by what seemed almost like sudden darkness; and Mrs.
Cleveland became yet more nervously alive to the dangers of the road,
when she could no longer see their approach.

Having reached the bottom of a long, steep hill, Jacomo got down from
his seat, and lit the carriage lamps. In reply to the lady's anxious
question as to whether it would not yet be better to go back, he
replied that it would now be as easy to proceed to Staiti as to return
to the inn, for the road down which they had just descended was one
fitted for goats rather than for horses. Jacomo muttered and: grumbled
a good deal, as he remounted his seat, about the folly of having
started at all; and words, though but half understood, did not tend
reassure Mrs. Cleveland.

The momentary glare which the lamps threw in passing on gray rock,
or gloomy thicket, seemed to make the darkness beyond more deep and
oppressive; and the jingle of the horse-bells, and rumble of the
wheels, but drearily broke the stillness of that unfrequented road.

Horace knew well that his mother was in an agony of nervous
alarm, dreading to catch sight of a bandit behind every bush; and
notwithstanding his natural courage, he began in some measure to share
her apprehensions. Raphael's warning rang in his ears—and the more
vividly memory recalled the countenance of him who had given it, the
more Horace wondered at himself for having allowed so little weight
to his words. Horace had often longed for an adventure; but night
traveling through a wild and desolate country, known to be infested
by robbers, has in it more of romance than of pleasure even to one of
courageous spirit.

The road now lay through the deep recesses of a wood, where the boughs,
meeting and intermingling above, formed an arch over the way, and
blotted out from view the few stars that had gleamed in the sky.

Suddenly there was heard the sharp report of a pistol, which made Mrs.
Cleveland start and shriek. The next moment, the horses were thrown
violently back upon their haunches, and the lamplight dimly showed
indistinct forms glancing like phantoms through the darkness. Then came
wild, fierce faces at the window; the door was forced open and the
travelers dragged out of the carriage almost before they had time to be
certain that all was not some terrible dream!

Horace's first impulse was to defend his mother. All unarmed as he was,
he struck at the man who had seized her, but received himself a sharp
blow on the arm which made it drop stunned to his side. He glanced
round, and that glance was sufficient to assure him that resistance
would be utterly hopeless. There were at least five or six robbers
around, most of them already busily engaged in rifling the carriage;
and strange sounded their laughter and their jests as they drew forth
now this thing—now that—dragging cloaks, bandboxes, dressing-case,
umbrella, fan, to be piled in a heap on the road.

The bandit who had seized Mrs. Cleveland had already torn from her neck
the gold chain, and with it the watch which she wore; and plunging his
coarse hand into her pocket had turned it inside out, to make sure
that none of its contents should escape him. Trembling as in a fit of
ague, the poor lady had been constrained to pull off her gloves, and
draw hastily from her icy fingers the jeweled rings which adorned them.
Horace was half-maddened at the sight, but he had no power to protect
his mother, he could but pass his left arm around her to support her
from sinking, and glare at the spoilers with the vain wrath of one
whose strength does not equal his spirit. Jacomo was on his knees,
invoking the Virgin and all the saints to defend him! The robbers
took little notice of him, save that one spurned him with his foot in
passing and another sternly bade him cease his whining or he would dash
out his brains.

Amidst the confusion and terrors of the scene, Horace yet retained his
self-possession sufficiently to notice that none of the bandits kept
any of the plunder, but that they placed it together in the heap before
mentioned, probably with a view to division. The word "Matteo" was also
occasionally heard amid the tumult of voices, and presently every eye
was turned in one direction, whence came a crashing sound as if some
one were forcing his way through the brushwood. Mrs. Cleveland had sunk
on the ground, Horace was kneeling beside her, half supporting her
drooping form, when there strode into the dimly lighted space, the tall
figure of the chief of the banditti.

Matteo was a large and powerful man, with a countenance on which the
character of ruffianism was so legibly stamped, that had he appeared in
gentlemen's society under whatever auspices, with whatever name, or in
whatever dress, a child would have instinctively shrunk from him, and a
stranger's first thought have been:

"There is one whom I would rather not meet alone at night in a solitary
place."

Grizzled was the shock of coarse hair thrown back from his dark
face,—grizzled the untrimmed beard; but his thick beetling brows were
intensely black, and almost joined together in one. The most repulsive
feature was the mouth, of which the lower jaw projected, and which was
furnished with teeth so irregular and large, that they suggested the
idea of the fangs of some beast of prey. The alarm of Mrs. Cleveland
increased when the light fell on the countenance of the man in whose
power she knew herself to be. Clasping her hands, she gasped forth in
broken Italian:

"Oh, mercy—we will pay ransom—we will give anything—only spare me and
my son!"

"Ransom!" repeated Matteo in a hoarse voice. "We want from you
something more than money." And turning sharply round to one of his
companions, he inquired, "Has not the Rossignol returned?"

"Not yet," replied the young man addressed, who, though seemingly
several years older than Raphael, bore so strong a likeness to him,
that the first impression of the bewildered travelers had been that
the musician whose warning they had neglected, and whom they had left
behind at the little inn, had by some strange means overtaken the
carriage. The second glance at Enrico had however quite removed such
impression. The cast of the features might be alike,—there might be
the same classical outline, the same delicately penciled brow,—but the
expression of the face was utterly dissimilar. Instead of the calm
thoughtfulness, tinged with melancholy, which had struck Mrs. Cleveland
in the improvisatore, there was a restless wildness in this young man's
eye, like that of a hunted animal, and a nervous twitch in his lip
peculiarly apparent whenever he was addressed by Matteo.

"Why has he not returned?" growled Matteo. "And why did he go at all?"

"He went for tidings of your son, and he has not had time to return,"
was the answer.

"If he play me false," commenced the brigand,—grinding his white fangs
instead of completing his sentence.

"He has not played you false, or these birds would not be in your net,"
cried Enrico, as he pointed to Horace and his mother.

Horace at once comprehended that "the Rossignol" (the Italian word for
"nightingale") must be a cant name for Raphael; and that the musician,
whatever might have been his motive in uttering his words of warning,
must have incurred some risk by doing so.

Matteo now turned again towards his captives, and spoke as follows to
the trembling lady, using violent gesticulation, and giving emphasis to
his speech with the action of hand and foot:—

"You know, or you do not know, that the dogs of soldiers have seized
my son; that they have dragged him off to a dungeon; that the sentence
of a tyrannical judge may condemn him, as it has condemned other bold
spirits before him. You are rich; a golden key opens all doors—ay,
even the barred and bolted gate of a prison! You shall write to the
government. You shall say that you are in Matteo's hands, at Matteo's
mercy. You shall tell what conditions I offer. If Otto be set free,
you shall be set free; if they hurt a hair of his head—" Matteo half
unsheathed his stiletto, and the gleam of the cold blue steel spoke
more forcibly than words.

"There is little use in writing," suggested Enrico; "these people are
strangers—foreigners—a mere letter is thrown aside—blood is spilt while
officials take their drive or their siesta. * Let one of the prisoners
go, knowing that the life of the other hangs on the issue, and the
dullest employé will be made to hear, the slowest to act: gold will be
lavished freely, and Otto be a free man again."

   * The noonday sleep which Italians habitually take

Mrs. Cleveland glanced anxiously from one speaker to the other, unable
to catch the whole of their meaning, but understanding in a general way
the nature of a discussion in which she was so deeply concerned.

"Right! Right!" exclaimed the robber. "We'll keep the lady and send off
the boy."

"No!" exclaimed Horace, starting to his feet. "If a prisoner must
remain in your hands, keep me and release my mother."

"Oh, my child! My child!" cried the lady. "Never shall they part
us—never!" and she stretched out her clasped hands to Matteo in an
attitude of agonizing entreaty.

"I'll send her," growled the brigand; "she is a mother. She will not
spare cries or tears to wring mercy out of the merciless. Hear me,
woman!" he continued in a louder tone, to the trembling supplicant
before him. "You shall go to those high in power and plead for my
son as you would plead for your son; and pour out your gold to those
who never yet refused gold, yea, if it were the last ducat which you
possessed to keep you from beggary. If Otto be standing here in three
days—"

"Three days are not enough," interrupted Enrico, "you require an
impossibility; application may have to be made to Naples, to the king
himself."

"Ay, ay," said the brigand impatiently; "Naples is more than a stone's
throw, and time may be needed, even though love and fear alike give
wings. If, woman, in seven days my son be standing here free and
uninjured," Matteo stamped on the ground as he spake, "free and
uninjured shall your son be restored; if there be an hour's delay—"
Matteo uttered with an oath some threat which the lady could not
understand, but of its horrible nature she could judge both by the
gesture of him who made it, and by the livid paleness which overspread
the face of her son.

"O Horace! What does he say?" she exclaimed.

"Never mind, mother; it was something that you had better not
understand. You know quite enough. You know that my life depends upon
your procuring within seven days the release of this Otto, this son of
Matteo."

Horace spake less distinctly than usual, and even his lips looked
bloodless and white.

Matteo turned to the heap of plunder. "Is everything here?" he sternly
inquired.

"Everything," promptly replied several voices.

The brigand pointed to Jacomo. "Make that fellow take the reins again,"
he said, "and drive as one who drives for his life. Thrust the woman
back into the carriage; she must be at Staiti within the hour."

Two or three rude hands were instantly laid on Mrs. Cleveland, but
she clung to her son as if it were to death instead of to liberty
and safety that she was to be hurried. In that moment of terror and
anguish, all his faults and her own perils were forgotten. The mother
thought only of her child. To tear her from him was to rend asunder the
very strings of her heart!

"Mother, dear, don't give way like this. There's no use resisting, no
use entreating. We may yet meet again. All may be well. Don't you give
these wretches an excuse for treating you roughly." And as he uttered
these broken sentences, Horace tried gently himself to unclose those
clinging arms.

It was only, however, by sheer force that the robbers tore Mrs.
Cleveland away from her boy, and her cry as they were severed, rang in
the ears of Horace like a death-knell. He had a terrible persuasion
at that moment that he was parted from his mother never to see her
again. A crowd of recollections rushed through the youth's brain: a
consciousness that he had been a self-willed, undutiful son; that his
conduct had caused all this misery; that he had forgiveness to implore
for a thousand faults, and yet that his tongue had no power to ask for
it.

Horace saw his mother dragged to the carriage, and rather thrown than
lifted into it. From her silence after that one cry, he believed that
her senses must have failed her, and was almost thankful for that
belief.

He saw a robber strike one of the horses with something that made it,
weary as it was, bound forward with such frantic violence that Jacomo
was almost unseated. His exclamation of terror raised hoarse laughter
from the lawless band, and before that laughter had ceased, the
carriage with its gleaming lamps had disappeared in the darkness, and
Horace stood, helpless and alone, a captive in the midst of banditti.



CHAPTER V.

ROUGH COMPANY.

If one feeling were more overpowering than another to Horace at that
trying hour, it was the pang of remorse—despair of ever being able to
make up by devotion in the future for ingratitude and disobedience
in the past. Oh! That the selfish and self-willed would anticipate
the hour of final separation from one whose tender love they are now
throwing away as a worthless thing, under whose reproofs they chafe,
for whose infirmities they have no indulgence! A time may come when
they will in vain wish that by the loss of every earthly possession
they could purchase one smile from the eyes, one fond word from the
lips of a now neglected parent.

Horace was roused from his gloomy thoughts by the hoarse voice of
Matteo. "Has any one brought the irons?" he said.

With a heavy clanking sound, a robber threw down on the ground an old
pair of shackles, red with rust, which had, probably at some remote
period, been worn by one of the band. Matteo pointed with his coarse
finger to Horace—a significant action which required no explanation. As
the fetters were being fastened over the slender ankles of the youth,
the chief bade Enrico take charge of the prisoner, for whose safety he
should answer with his own.

Then followed a division of the spoil. Mrs. Cleveland's dressing-case
and desk were forced open with a dagger—the contents of her purse
counted out, the various articles of her luggage placed in separate
heaps. Reserving almost all the gold for himself, Matteo distributed
his booty.

Most of the robbers looked discontented, but not one dared to utter
a murmur. Horace saw with bitter emotion his mother's most valued
trinkets in these rude hands; the Maltese cross which he himself had
given, the mourning brooch with his father's hair, nay, the very
wedding ring which had united his parents, were profaned by the touch
of fingers which might be stained with murder. These papers, some of
them priceless to her who had once owned them, were thrown away or
trampled underfoot.

Matteo beckoned Enrico to some little distance, apparently to give
him some orders, and their departure seemed to be the signal for more
unrestrained and lawless mirth. Then also the murmurs which had been
checked by the presence of the dreaded chief broke out amongst such of
the band as had been disappointed in their share of the plunder.

"What am I to make of trumpery like this?" exclaimed one robber,
holding up to view with great contempt a silver gray cloak with a hood,
a black gown, a lace-trimmed parasol, and a fan!

His appeal was answered by a roar of laughter.

"You may set up for a gentlewoman, Beppo!" shouted one.

"My share matches yours," laughed another, "you've the dress, and I've
the dressing-case!"

"Ay, with silver tops to all the bottles," growled Beppo. "I'll make an
exchange if you will."

The offer was only received with a louder burst of merriment, and the
disappointed Beppo turned fiercely towards Horace.

"Here's a garment more to my mind!" he cried. And flinging down his
bundle of woman's clothes, the robber seized hold of the indignant and
struggling captive, and by force dispossessed him of his coat.

The gang gathered around, much amused at the scene, laughing
uproariously at the vain passionate resistance of Horace.

"There's more peel on the orange," cried one, and the young captive
might have had to submit to further indignities had not Enrico come to
the rescue.

"Hold!" he cried. "The prisoner is in my charge, no one has a right to
touch him but me."

"For seven days," said Beppo significantly, "he'll want no clothes
after that." And putting out his large, coarse foot, he added with a
laugh, "In seven days, I'll have hosen and boots. I take it that his
will just fit me!"

"It's a shame to dig a man's grave before his eyes!" exclaimed Enrico.

"Shame!" repeated Beppo angrily. "Don't come it your brother over us;
it's enough to have one lunatic in a family, say I."

Without taking any notice of the insult, Enrico touched Horace on the
shoulder and bade him come with him; which the youth was ready enough
to do—it being an unutterable relief to him to be removed, even for a
short time, from the company of the rest of the lawless band. Enrico
led his captive into the deep recesses of the wood, seeming to find his
way by instinct through the darkness in which shining fireflies glanced
and played.

Horace envied them their liberty. He walked with difficulty and pain.
His fetters not only impeded his movements but chafed his ankles. He
stumbled over the inequalities of the ground, struck against branches
which he could not see, and his chain caught and entangled in brambles,
and he often felt inclined to throw himself down on the ground in utter
despair of getting on. Enrico neither pitied nor appeared to notice his
sufferings, but hurried him on through the thicket.

Horace, who, notwithstanding his fetters, grasped strongly the hope of
future escape, was eagerly on the watch for landmarks, and strained
his eyes in the darkness to find some. The rippling sound of water,
and the occasional glimpse which he caught through the trees of what
appeared to be a stream, seemed to supply something like a guide. His
hope strengthened as the noise increased so greatly that Horace felt
certain that they were approaching a cataract plunging down the side of
the mountain, the roar of waters could not be mistaken, though nothing
was visible to the eye. Before Enrico reached what must be the head of
the fall, he turned sharply round to the left, and grasping his captive
by the wrist, made him follow in the same direction.

"Is there not a cataract yonder?" asked Horace; it was the first time
that he had addressed his jailer.

"Sheer two hundred feet over the rocks," was the reply; "we call it
'Cascata della Morte (the death fall),' for a miserable wretch was once
whirled over the edge."

"And perished?" inquired Horace.

"As surely," answered Enrico, "as if he had flung himself from the
top of St. Peter's or down into the crater of Vesuvius. The remains,
when recovered from the stream in the valley yonder, scarcely retained
semblance of the human form."

Horace hardly paid attention to the concluding words, he was so
carefully surveying the path before him. He had left the thick wood
behind him, and had now to pass along a ledge of rock, which seemed
like a shelf jutting out of the mountain, and which overhung a
precipice of whose depth there was not sufficient light to enable him
to judge. To Horace a vast chasm of darkness appeared to spread to the
right.

Here Enrico and his prisoner were challenged by a robber who had been
left as a sentinel to guard this dangerous post.

"Chi va là?" (Who goes there?) cried the man.

Enrico gave the word "Morte," and passed on with his captive.

"I think that I might possibly find my way back from hence to the high
road," thought Horace, "with the sound of the water to guide me, were I
only freed from these shackles. But if a sentinel be always placed here
on the watch, it would render escape well-nigh impossible. One blow
would send one reeling over that rock into depths that it makes the
brain dizzy to think of!"

Enrico now again struck into the forest, and here the path became so
very intricate that Horace soon lost all idea even of the direction in
which he was going, all clue by which he might find his way back. The
path was so much tangled with thicket, that the progress of Enrico and
his prisoner became necessarily very slow, and Horace soon became not
only exhausted, but despairing. It was some time since a word had been
exchanged, but as they toiled on through the brushwood, Enrico said
abruptly to his companion:

"You need not fear insult from me, for I, like yourself, am a gentleman
born. My father was of good family, he was an officer in the royal
army, and died in the service of the king."

"Then how can you—" Horace stopped short, being afraid of saying
something that might offend.

"How can I consort with such ruffians? You would ask. No matter; that
is no business of yours. Men may be bound by other kind of chain than
that which you drag so wearily along."

There was extreme bitterness in the young man's tone, and though Horace
could not see the face of the speaker in the gloom, he imagined how the
thin lip was twitching and the restless eye wandering around.

Horace was anxious to ascertain to a certainty whether Raphael were the
brother to whom reference had been made, and who had been spoken of as
"the Rossignol," but he was afraid of drawing the e improvisatore into
difficulty or danger by letting it be known that he had ever seen him.
As a leading question, Horace asked Enrico whether he knew English,
remembering that Raphael had uttered his second warning in that
language.

"No; is it likely that I should?" answered the robber.

Foiled in his first attempt to gain information, Horace made another.
"Why did that fellow call your brother a lunatic?" said he.

"Because he is one!" replied Enrico impatiently. "None but a madman
would be always putting his head into the lion's mouth, certain that it
must be bitten off at last!"

"Does he belong to the band?" asked Horace.

"Yes—no—what is it to you?" cried Enrico.

This rebuff put an end to the conversation, though it increased the
desire of Horace to know more of the mysterious Raphael; for he was now
certain that the stranger at the door of the inn was the brother of the
bandit Enrico.

At length the long tangled forest was passed, and the way opened on
a rocky space, where, by the faint star-light, no longer hidden by
foliage, Horace saw a bold, partially-wooded cliff rising before
them, a gigantic mass of gloomy shade. Horace had little opportunity,
however, of remarking anything but the difficulty of the ascent, as
progression here took the character of climbing, which the fetters on
his limbs made a terrible effort.

"It is impossible for me to get up, chained as I am!" exclaimed Horace,
after having rubbed the skin from one of his ankles, in a vain attempt
to raise himself to a platform of rock.

"Impossible!" echoed Enrico, with a short, mocking laugh. "It must be
done and the sooner better, or Matteo will be here to quicken your
movements with the point of his stiletto."

Once again Horace tried to get up, the moisture dewing his lip and
brow, both from the pain and the exertion; but cumbered as he was with
his shackles, he could not succeed.

Then Enrico, growing impatient, lent a strong hand to help him. Even
with this assistance, it was with the utmost difficulty that the
suffering youth reached the platform. He stopped for some moments to
recover his breath, and to wipe his heated temples.

"Could you find your way back?" said Enrico.

"The woods seem to me to be a perfect labyrinth."

"Then there is no chance of your attempting an escape?"

"I fear that I have more will than power to escape," replied the young
captive with a sigh.

"Do you know what would follow your making any such attempt?"

"Perhaps—" began Horace.

"Most assuredly," interrupted Enrico, "I should send a bullet through
your head."

"This gentleman, as he calls himself, is not much better than the
rest," was the silent reflection of Horace.

A few more steps, and the two had reached the mouth of a cave which
yawned in the mountain, its mouth half hidden by a thick growth of
cactus, which abounded as a weed in this place. Horace was glad to have
arrived at his destination, whatever it might be, for he felt that he
could not for many minutes more have endured the exhausting effort of
dragging his fettered feet over the rocks.



CHAPTER VI.

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!



CHAPTER VII.

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, addrest
   To 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 given
   By which he was proved the rightful heir
   To 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 bell
   Boom 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 dwell
     Such 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.



CHAPTER VIII.

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.



CHAPTER IX.

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!"



CHAPTER X.

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 dyed
   When 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 calm
   To the steadfast spirit, the stalwart arm
     That never flinched in the glorious fight!

   Then shall lips touched with living flame
     In 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?'"



CHAPTER XI.

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.



CHAPTER XII.

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.



CHAPTER XIII.

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 made
      But to be lost when sweetest!
    Stars that shine and fall.
      The flower that drops in springing.
    These, alas, are types of all
      To which our hearts are clinging!

   "Who would seek or prize
      Delights that end in aching?
    Who would trust to ties
      That every hour are breaking?
    Better far to be
      In utter darkness lying,
    Than be blest with light, and see
      That 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 fade
      Not 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 love
      That shall abide for ever!

   "Who that seeks the skies
      Would mourn earth's pleasures blighted.
    Weep o'er broken ties
      Soon to be re-united!
    Blest e'en awhile to be
      In darkness and in sorrow,
    Assured we soon the dawn shall see
      Of 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 light
      Proclaims a brighter dawning;
    Though woe endureth for a night,
      Joy cometh in the morning!

   "For many weary ages past
      Hath sin's dark night prevailing
    A gloom o'er all the nations cast,
      Whence rose the sounds of wailing!
    The idol-gods have many a shrine
      Where, bound in chains of error,
    Myriads, shut out from light divine,
      Crouch down in shame and terror!
    But in the cast Hope's rosy light
      Proclaims 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 moon
      In that clear day before me,
    The sun of righteousness shall soon
      Burst forth in cloudless glory!
    Yes, in the east, Hope's kindling light
      Proclaims 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.



CHAPTER XIV.

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.



CHAPTER XV.

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.



CHAPTER XVI.

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.

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.



CHAPTER XVII.

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.



CHAPTER XVIII.

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.'"








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