.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 54594
   :PG.Title: Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp, Volume II (of 3)
   :PG.Released: 2017-04-23
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: James Grant
   :DC.Title: Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp, Volume II (of 3)
              or, A Campaign in Calabria
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1848
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP, VOLUME II
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      ADVENTURES

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      OF

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      AN AIDE-DE-CAMP:

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      OR,

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      A CAMPAIGN IN CALABRIA.

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      BY

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      JAMES GRANT, ESQ.

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      AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR."

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   |  *Claud.* I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,
   |  That liked, but had a rougher task in hand
   |  Than to drive liking to the name of love:
   |  But now I am returned, and that war thoughts
   |  Have left their places vacant; in their rooms
   |  Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
   |  All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
   |  Saying how I liked her ere I went to war.
   |                                SHAKSPEARE.

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      IN THREE VOLUMES.
      VOL. \II.

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      LONDON:
      SMITH, ELDER, AND CO., CORNHILL.
      1848. 

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      London:
      Printed by STEWART and MURRAY,
      Old Bailey.

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   dedication info

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   CONTENTS.

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   CHAPTER

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I.—`Italian Intrigues in Country Quarters`_
II.—`Francatripa, the Brigand`_
III.—`A Snake in the Grass`_
IV.—`The Horn Sounds`_
V.—`A Duel and a Discovery`_
VI.—`Arrival of the Philistines`_
VII.—`Adventure at "The Centaur"`_
VIII.—`Love and War`_
IX.—`Poor Luisa!`_
X.—`The Siege of Scylla`_
XI.—`The Forlorn-Hope`_
XII.—`A Rencontre!`_
XIII.—`Reggio.—An Improvisatore`_
XIV.—`Navarro—Revenge!`_
XV.—`The Cavallo Marino`_
XVI.—`A Race.—Galley-Slaves`_
XVII.—`The Revolt of the Galley Slaves`_
XVIII.—`The Three Candle-Ends`_
XIX.—`Who Is He?`_
XX.—`The Cardinal`_
XXI.—`The First Penitent.—The Nun`_
XXII.—`A Chance Of Escape Lost`_
XXIII.—`The Second Penitent.—The Cavalier`_





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.. _`ITALIAN INTRIGUES IN COUNTRY QUARTERS`:

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   ADVENTURES

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   OF AN

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   AIDE-DE-CAMP.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   ITALIAN INTRIGUES IN COUNTRY QUARTERS.

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On arriving at the base of those lofty rocks which
were crowned by the Villa Belcastro, a sound like
the baying and growling of dogs, caused Marco's
horse to snort, and mine to plunge and curvet
furiously.  On advancing a little further we
discovered by the light of the moon a sight
which filled us with disgust.  Two enormous
lynxes had been contending for the shattered
corse of the Cavaliere Galdino, which had
already suffered considerable mutilation under their
fangs.  They retired on our approach, but one
dragged the remains nearly a hundred yards,
nor dropped them until we fired our pistols and
wounded it, when they both fled over the
mountains, howling: one with agony, and the other
with fear.  We had considerable trouble in
getting our horses past the body, which lay
fairly in the centre of our narrow path; and,
notwithstanding that Cartouche was a trained
military charger, he plunged, reared, and
perspired with rage and fear, until, by dint of
spur, I forced him right over the ghastly remains
of our late entertainer.

Soon after, the moon went down: the sky
changed from deep blue to dusky grey, and
gloomy clouds hurried in flitting masses across
it; at times a solitary star shot forth, and then was
lost.  The tinkling rivulet winding through the
valley, and the silver haze which floated from
it through pine and orange groves, faded away,
and we could no longer see the track before us.
Castelermo now proposed that we should bivouac
for the night in the first eligible place, that our
nags might have better bottom for continuing
our journey by daybreak.

After a brief reconnoisance we chose a sheltered
spot where there was a little fountain; the water
bubbled away from a fissure in one of those
masses of grey sandstone so common in Calabria,
and of which the rocks of the Apennines are
chiefly composed.  We picqueted our horses within
a circle of little maple trees, which formed a
pleasant border round the rocky alcove, and
rolling our cloaks about us, were in five minutes
alike oblivious of the terrors of wolves, banditti,
and the malaria.

When I awoke, the morning sun was rising
like a globe of fire above the mountains, and
pouring between their craggy summits a flood
of yellow lustre into the misty valley where we
lay.  Afar off, the villa of Belcastro, its
casements gleaming in the dancing sunbeams like
plates of polished gold, towered on the cliff that
rose above the waving woodlands bathed in
purple and white.  A solitary fig-tree threw its
shadow across the fountain; the rude bason of
which had been built by the shepherds with the
richly sculptured fragments of some ancient
building: a relic, perhaps, of the days of Magna
Græcia.  On the moss-grown pieces were initials
and inscriptions which I had neither time nor lore
to decipher; and close by me lay, half sunk in
the flowery turf, a mossy Corinthian capital, with
a winged horse, exquisitely carved, springing
from the acanthus leaves at each corner, and
supporting on its outspread pinions the acute
angles of the abacus.  A glittering snake was
twining around it; and the contiguity of such a
reptile recalling the adventure with the gypsies,
I sprang up, shook my ample cloak, and prepared
for the saddle again.

A gallop in the pure air of a breezy morning
is delightful exercise; it refreshes the body and
enlivens the spirits, bracing the frame and
lightening the heart.  The place where we
had reposed was swampy, and a pestilential
vapour hovered about it, oppressing us with an
inclination to doze, which we had some trouble
in combating; but our gallop along the sunny
mountain-side soon shook off the drowsiness
which weighed down our eyelids, and the
numbness that stiffened our limbs.  The sensation
I mean, must have been experienced by all who
have bivouacked by night in low marshy places
in a warm atmosphere.

We passed the little town of Belcastro, the
streets of which, according to ancient use and
wont, were so encumbered with herds of wild
pigs, the common stock of the inhabitants, that
we could scarcely get our startled horses through,
and were every moment in danger of being
thrown by the snorting porkers running between
their legs.  We had a hasty repast at a miserable
albergo; but it was the best in the place,
and, as the host averred, the identical house in
which Thomas Aquinas was born.

The roads were so winding: and intricate that
as yet we were only twenty miles distant from
Crotona, and we pushed rapidly forward, resolving
to make up for the previous day's delay.

Castelermo, upon whom the adventures of the
past night had made a gloomy impression, rode
beside me for many miles in silence.  His mind
was, doubtless, reverting to a thousand
long-forgotten dreams and cherished thoughts, which
his interview with the fickle Despina and the
sound of her voice had summoned before him;
while I, on the contrary, felt light-hearted
as the distance diminished between us and the
villa D'Alfieri, which it was my intention to
visit on our way to head-quarters.  I thought
more of Bianca's bright eyes and glossy ringlets,
than the oblong despatches, returns of killed,
wounded, prisoners and missing, lists of captured
cannon, stores, &c. &c., with which Macleod had
stuffed my sabre-tache, for the perusal of Sir
John Stuart.

After a time, the wonted serenity of the
cavalier returned, and as the country into which we
penetrated became more mountainous and romantic,
he related to me many a wild legend and
tradition of blood and sorcery—of Gothic chiefs,
Norman knights, and Saracen emirs, and many
a sad story of Italian love; all of which have
long since passed away from my remembrance.
Every rood of ground was rich in memories of
the past, and covered with the moss-grown relics
of bygone nations and ages.

A ride of twelve miles or so brought us to
Catanzaro, in the principality of Squillaci, one of the
finest towns in Calabria Ultra, situated about
two miles from the Adriatic.  Catanzaro then
bore many traces of that terrible earthquake
which in 1783 devastated those provinces and
the Isle of Sicily; and it has been almost wholly
destroyed by a similar visitation in 1832.  Its
ladies were esteemed the most beautiful in
southern Italy; but I had little opportunity of
judging for myself: we had the pleasure of seeing
only one handsome girl, who, during the hour or
two we halted, displayed a formidable sample of
the worst traits in the Calabrian character.  A
small party of Italian troops, sent over from
Palermo, were quartered in the town.  Their
uniform was white, with scarlet facings and
epaulettes, black cross-belts and heavy bear-skin
caps; altogether they were very soldier-like
fellows, and their commanding officer, a gay
young Neapolitan, whom we met at the table
d'hôte, was not less so.  As we had been
acquainted at Palermo, in the course of ten minutes
we became intimate as old friends; and Captain
Valerio Piozzi, of Caroline's Italian Guard, soon
made us aware that he was the most reckless
and dissipated cavalier in Ferdinand's service,
and that he thought it no small honour to be
deemed so.  But we knew all that before: his
pranks and gallantries had long furnished
laughter and conversation for every mess and
coterie in Sicily.

Castelermo changed colour when we met him.

"Valerio Piozzi!" he whispered to me; "our
friend is the identical officer of whom our late
acquaintance the Signor Galdino was so jealous.
Basta! there was good reason to be on the alert,
and keep Despina close while he was so near as
Catanzaro!"

"I have news for you, Signor Capitano," said
Marco, as we lounged from the table d'hôte
towards a cantina.

"My friend, I am glad of that," said the
captain, with a half yawn, "'tis so deuced dull
here, that one seems quite out of the
world—entombed—bedevilled!"

"Il Cavaliere di Belcastro—"

"Ha!" exclaimed the captain, changing
countenance, and turning briskly to Marco, whom
he keenly scrutinized through his glass, which
never left his eye.

"My gay Valerio, I have a tale to tell which
will harrow up your heart, if you have one."

"The deuce!"

"The husband of Despina is dead—"

"The devil! is that all?" exclaimed the
captain, with an almost uncontrollable burst of
laughter.  "That makes me merry," he added,
stroking his mustachios, which were well
perfumed and pointed with pomatum.  "The
particulars, Caro Signor: slain by the brigands, I
presume?"

"No, by his own evil passions."

"Faith, they nearly slew even me in Venice,"
replied Piozzi, who, on hearing of our visit to the
villa, tossed his cap into the air.

"Che gioja, what happiness!" he exclaimed;
"I must to horse, and away to Despina (I saw
poor Marco's brow cloud).  Ola, my horse!
Annibale Porko, seek my servant," he cried to
a sergeant who passed, "and order my horses
in an hour."  The soldier saluted, and withdrew.
"Per Baccho! 'tis joyous news: old Galdino
gone to the Styx.  Amen!  Devil go with him.
What a merry bout we shall have.—And his
property—all settled on the Cavalieressa—bravo,
Valerio! luckiest of dogs!  Here, Signor
Cantiniero, wine—wine!  What shall we have,
Marco—say Signor Dundas—you are a judge:
Muscatelle?"

"Basta! no—we have had enough of that,"
said Castelermo shrugging his shoulders.

"Ha—ha!  I forgot," replied Valerio with a
reckless laugh—"ruddy Burgogna then—golden
Andaluzia—sparkling champagne, gleaming like
diamonds in sunbeams?'

"As you please, I am no connoisseur," said I,
and two large crystal jars of the last were speedily
summoned.

"Corpo di Baccho! it is a punishment for a
Carthusian to reside here in this dull place on the
Adriatic shore," said the captain, as we lounged
on the rustic sofas, beneath the vine covered
verandah of the cantina, and pushed the wine jars
about the well polished table; "positively I am
ennuied to death, and would give a year's pay to
find myself once more at Naples, or even at
Reggio—there are some sprightly girls there."

"And yet the women of Catanzaro are considered
the fairest in Italy," observed a smart
young fellow, with whom we had been conversing
on various topics for some time past: he had
followed us uninvited from the table d'hôte, where
his very handsome features and long fair locks
had won him our favour.

"Handsome they may be; but I would not
give a lively sewing-girl of Naples for the fairest
lady in the Calabrias.  Ah! had you heard
Italian whispered by the dulcet tongues of
Venetian girls, you would turn with disgust from the
guttural Greek of these poor provincials."

"'Tis a matter of taste," replied our boyish
friend, sipping his wine to conceal the rising
colour which glowed on his beardless face.  "I
am a stranger here and pretend not to judge
of the beauty or vivacity of the ladies: so I
presume is this British Officer; and the Cavaliere di
Malta cannot be expected to venture an opinion
on such topics."

"Now by all the gods of accursed heathendom!"
cried the Italian officer, showing all his
white teeth as he laughed boisterously.  "Heaven
help thine ignorance, most gentle signor of this
barbarous land.  I have seen at the windows of
the Maltese knights fairer faces than all the
towns of these wild provinces could produce.
These cavaliers are greater connoisseurs than a
Turkish dealer in such commodities; for the
portentous cross on their breasts does not in any
way freeze the heart below, or render it insensible
to such impressions.  By grey dawn, many a
pretty damsel shrouded in a loose domino have I
seen stealing away from the portal of the knights'
palace at Naples: though these cavaliers deport
themselves demurely enough by day, the stars do
not look on merrier revellers or more joyous
companions; and the Cavaliere Marco knows well the
truth of what I affirm.  All Italy knows the
famous military *dis*-order of Saint John."

"The Cavaliere Marco would advise your lively
valour to speak more gently of his order.  Some
irregularities are doubtless committed by my
brethren of the sword and mantle; but you must
bear in memory, the saying of the cunning
Lucchesi—'There are good and bad people every
where.'  Signor, speak not against my order!
When I remember what it was but a few years
ago—when the church of St. John was hung with
the shields of four thousand Knights; its marble
floors covered with the achievements of those who
were gone; and its dome filled with the captured
trophies of the Infidels—when the unsullied
banner of the order waved from the ramparts of
Sant'. Elmo, and we had gallies at sea and soldiers
on the land, my mind is filled with sorrow and
regret.  When I look back to the glorious days of
our illustrious grand master, old Villiers de
L'Isle Adam, to those days when six hundred
knights shut up in the island of Rhodes defended
it for six months against two hundred thousand
Turks, my soul is filled with exultation and
chivalry!  So beware, Signor Valerio!  The
Knights of Malta have suffered so much of late
from the usurpation of Buonaparte and the unfulfilled
and often reiterated promises of Britain, that
they have grown somewhat petulant and hasty."

"Enough, signor—I sit rebuked, and submit
quietly, knowing that I may be a little in error,"
answered the frank officer.  "But to change the
subject: if I am not soon recalled to head
quarters, I shall have to quit this Catanzaro without
beat of drum.  The air of the place is getting
quite too hot for me: I have been here only three
weeks, and in that time contracted debts to the
amount of some thousand ducats.  I tried the
rouge et noir—abomination! they only made
matters worse, and the villanous shop-people,
the Podesta, the Eletti and the tipstaves, are all
ready to pounce upon me en masse: worse than
all, the women of the place are at drawn daggers
about me."

"You are quite to be envied!" said the young
Calabrian with an air of impatient scorn.

"You shall hear whether it be so," replied the
captain.  "Ah! the uniform of the Queen's
Italian Guard is something new here; and in
truth we have been rather free with our favours:
myself in particular.  Three narrow escapes have
been the consequence (these Calabrians are
wondrously prone to assassination): once from the
knife of a rascal hired by some frail fair one
unknown, and once from a dose of bella donna,
with which an angry damsel contrived to drug
my chocolate the other morning: when I was
just about to drink it, she threw herself at my
feet in an agony of sorrow and horror, imploring
my pity and forgiveness; so, after abundance of
tears, threats, upbraiding, and all that sort of
thing, I quietly put her outside the door"—

"And the third, signor; the third?" said the
young Calabrian impatiently.

"Was from the poisoned weapon of a furious
brother, whose sister I had jilted and grown
weary of.  Ah! the cowardly dog! he called it
honour, I think: rather amusing in this rustic
land of fauns and satyrs.  But the adventure
would have gone otherwise with me, had not
my trusty serjeant, Annibale Porko, sucked the
wound, and bathed it with brandy.  Behold! 't
is yet far from well," he added, pulling up the
richly laced sleeve of his white uniform, and
showing a long scar above the wrist.

"Faith!" said I, "if you have many such
scrapes, Captain Piozzi, you are likely to be cut
off, and suddenly: an Italian seldom brooks a
wrong."

"But I cannot comprehend the nature of
these unpolished Calabrians," replied this heedless
harum-scarum gallant, into whose empty head
the wine was rapidly mounting.  "Per Baccho! they
are mere savages—hottentots!  Will you
believe it?  if I venture to pay a compliment to
the mistress of my billet, or to kiss her daughter
(which I am often disposed to do, the said
daughter being rather fresh and pretty), the
Maestro di Casa jerks up his Messina sash, twirls
his whiskers, and plays so ominously with the
haft of his knife, that I am compelled to keep
my gallantry within very narrow bounds.  I
must even refrain from those little acts of
cavalier-like politeness, by which some obliging
citizens of Naples would consider themselves
duly honoured: more especially if it were a noble
gentiluomo of the Queen's Guard that deigned
to salute one of his family.  O! for joyous
Venice, and its money-making mothers, who for
sixty sequins—"

"Basta!" interrupted Marco, "you let every
one hear you, Valerio, by speaking in such a
key.  By St. Antony—!"

"Hush Marco, 't is quite unfashionable to
swear by these old saints: the newest canonizations
are always most in vogue.  St. Antony,
indeed!  The ancient fool; I would rather swear
by his gridiron, which the monks show at
Rimini.  But to resume.  Here, in this cursed
province, if one but looks at a woman, cold iron
is thought of instantly, and one may be dead as
Brutus in less time than one can utter a
credo.—What the deuce can delay my rogue of a
groom?"

"You labour under so many annoyances, that
I am astonished you have survived them,"
observed the young provincial contemptuously.

"By the jovial San Cupido! you know not
half of them.  As my soldiers are apt to imitate
their accomplished commander in many things,
the king's service has lost several smart fellows
in these domestic brawls.  But courage, Valerio!
It is quite a godsend, this sudden death of that
bear, old Belcastro; and as the charming
Despina is so near I shall hope to pay her many
a visit of condolence.  Nay, frown not, Marco,
my love for her is of the most pure and Platonic
description.  Besides, I have sent a most
heart-rending memorial to the queen, and it is so
well seconded and flanked by the Duchessa di
Bagnara, and other fair ladies who are impatient
for my return, that I have no doubt my party
will soon be ordered to rejoin at Palermo,
without my troubling our gruff commander-in-chief,
Giambattista Fardella.  Then adieu to
Catanzaro, its wickedness, and its women."

"And Signora Teresa with the rest?" asked
the Calabrian, with a low voice and a flushing
cheek.

"Ha! know you Teresa Navona?" asked
the captain, scanning the fine features of the
youth with a keen glance.  "Do you belong to
Catanzaro?'

"Yes, signor,—no.  That is, not now,"
stammered the boy, with angry confusion.  "But
I once resided here, and have only just returned
after a long absence.  You know Teresa?"

"As well as man can know such a compound
of fascination and subtlety as an Italian woman,"
laughed the handsome guardsman.  "You are to
learn, gentlemen, that this is the escapade I spoke
of: the duel with the devil of a brother.  There
was a judge of the grand civil court of Cosenza,
who died here lately, after living in retirement
since our friends the French crossed the Alps.
This learned old fellow had two daughters,
Pompeia and Teresa; the first I have never
seen, but the last, who resides with her mother
here, has been for some time past the happy
means of cheering my dreary detachment duty
in the towns hereabout: and truly the girl is a
magnificent creature for a Calabrian!  Her bright
eyes and ruby lips are Italian; her white skin,
full bosom, and long flowing hair have come
with the Greek blood; and her vivacity is quite
oriental."

"*Was*, you should say," muttered the young
man.  "Alas! signor, her vivacity has fled since
you knew her."

"In short, Captain Piozzi, you have had an
intrigue," said I.

"Right, signor," he replied, composedly; "but
one fraught with the due proportion of mystery
and cold steel which usually accompany an
Italian intrigue.  It being discovered that I had
carried the fortress by a *coup de main*, the girl
Teresa was consigned to that convent yonder,
the campanile of which you now see shining in
the sun; and the mother solaced herself with
strong hysterics and strong waters until the
arrival of her son, a fiery young subaltern of the
Sicilian volunteers, who galloped across from the
camp of St. Eufemio, with the express purpose
of parading me.

"Three days ago, when returning from this
wine-house, and just under the Madonna at the
street corner yonder, this young spark assaulted
me sword in hand; flinging his hat on the
ground and his cloak round his left arm, in the
most approved duellist fashion.  So furious was
his onset that I had scarcely time to stand on
my guard, but we thrust and cut at each other
like any two bravos on the boards of the San
Carlo; my superior skill soon overcame the
Herculean strength of the Calabrese officer,
and the fifth passado laid him dead at my feet."

"Madonnia mia!" exclaimed the Calabrian,
smiting his breast with horror.

"The devil!" I exclaimed; "poor fellow, and
you really killed him?"

"Not quite, signor; but old Porko, I believe,
brained him with his halberd," was the cool
reply.

"The villain, Porko, shall answer dearly for
this mutiny and murder!" exclaimed Castelermo,
with an aspect of severity.  "And so,
Signor Piozzi, you have gone from bad to worse;
first outraged the confiding sister, and then
destroyed the spirited brother!"

"Cospetto!" muttered Piozzi, "I know these
things will sound ill at the court, and in old
Fardella's office at Palermo, whatever they may be
thought of at our mess-house on the Cassero."

"But how will they appear in the court of
Heaven, on that dread day, when all men will be
judged by their deeds?" asked the Maltese
commander, with a stern expression: which, however,
did not abash our volatile friend.

"Admirable!" he replied, waving his cigar;
"you act the military monk to the life.  That
sort of air did very well in L'Isle Adam's days, but
it won't pass now, Marco; so pray lay it aside,
or assume it only in the convent at Malta, or the
palace at Naples, and for the present be the
frank cavalier of the last hour.  A proud spirit
cannot brook an admonitory tone.  Ah! here
comes my rascally groom at last: while he loiters
with that girl yonder, let us drink to la
Signora Teresa.  Her family, if they be wise, will
hush the matter up, and she may yet marry
some honest artisan; who will deem her none
the worse for having a few ducats from Valerio
Piozzi, captain of the Royal Italian Guard,
knight grand cross of San Marco, and Heaven
knows what more."

The eyes of the young Calabrese flashed fire.

"And think you, base ruffian," he exclaimed,
in a voice shrill and tremulous with rage, "that
old Albanian Greeks, though now sunk to the
grade of mere Italian citizens, will forget that
their blood has descended to them from the long
line of the princes of Epirus, and permit these
foul wrongs to pass without retribution?"

"Insolent brat, I neither know nor care!"
replied the captain, grasping his riding switch,
and regarding the bold youth sternly; "and but
that your chin is smooth as an apple—poh!  I
can bandy word and blow with any blusterer in
Italy, and shall not shrink from a peasant or
woodcutter of this rustic land: but now, since the
days of chivalry have passed away, tell me, my
pretty Messerino, who will become the champion
of this fallen star? and, save myself, to whom can
she look for redress?"

"To the right hand of her sister, since death
has left none other to avenge her," cried the
youth, in a voice rising almost to a shriek; and
the bright barrel of a pistol glittered in the
sunlight which streamed between the vine-leaves of the
trellis.  Levelling it full at Valerio, she fired, just
as I struck up her weapon.  From the tone of
the voice, and the despair that glared in the eye,
there flashed upon me a suspicion of the sex and
purpose of this youth.

The ball dashed to pieces the head of the large
waxen Madonna, which occupied a lofty niche
at the corner of the street.  A cry of "sacrilege,
and murder!" arose, and the people rushed
towards us from all quarters.  As the smoke
cleared, we discovered the imperturbable captain
stroking his moustache, and smiling grimly, but
with an air of exquisite nonchalance.

"Thrice my heart failed me; but he is
destroyed at last!" cried Pompeia, in terrible
accents, as she cast away the pistol (which she
had fired with both her eyes closed), and sinking
back on the rustic sofa, burst into a passion of
tears.

"Holy St. John of Jerusalem, and of Rhodes,
look here!" exclaimed Castelermo, while I seized
her that she might not escape.

"Wretch!" muttered Marco.

"I am wretched, indeed!" she replied bitterly,
still keeping her eyes closed; "yet I do not deem
myself so abject as to be grasped thus with
impunity.  Unhand me, signor: I have only slain
the destroyer of my sister's peace, my brother's
life (perhaps my mother's too), and the fame of our
family.  Guiltless of wanton wickedness, I have
only destroyed a ribald and reckless libertine, in
the midst of his sinful boasting."

"Here is a devil of a damsel!" said Valerio,
with a laugh.  "Per Baccho! a pestilent
narrow escape it was.  But for you, Signor Claude,
I might have been chaffering with Charon for a
passage across the Styx, and squabbling,
perhaps, with old Belcastro on the voyage.  To
your care I commend this amiable sample of
her sex, while I canter off to the villa of
Despina."

His servant at that moment rode up with a
led horse, and he leaped into the saddle.

"Wretch!" shrieked Pompeia, "hast thou
escaped that death so richly merited?"

"Safe and sound, my pretty termagant—aim
better next time," replied the officer, caracoling
his horse, to push back the clamorous crowd.
"Adieu, Caro Marco! adieu, Signor Claude! your
most humble servant, my pretty Pompeia.
Ola! keep out of my horse's way, signori, the
rabble: and so, buona sera, good-evening to
everybody;" and, with a reckless laugh, he
dashed off at a gallop through the street, which
was darkening fast, as the sun had set.  He was
followed by a volley of execrations from the
crowd, some of whom he tumbled into the
kennel, as he pushed headlong through.

"Unhand me, signor," said the damsel, with
an assumption of dignity.  "I am a Calabrese
woman, and all Calabria will applaud the deed!"

A shout arose from the admiring populace;
yet the girl trembled with shame, sorrow, and
anger.

"But not so will He into whose awful presence
you were about to hurl a fellow-being,
with many grievous sins and follies accumulated
on his head.  You would have destroyed him,
body and soul: he would have passed away
unbidden, unconfessed, and unforgiven!  Heaven
judge between him and thee, woman! but in this
matter you have acted unwisely.  Madonna
grant forgiveness to you both!" added Marco,
signing the cross.

"Madonna grant it!" muttered the rabble
round us, bowing their heads.

"I am not a child to be preached to, either
by canon regular or church militant!" retorted
this fiery damsel.  She was a noble-looking
beauty, about twenty, with long dark lashes,
silken hair, and ripe pouting lips, which
consorted oddly with her broad hat and black
surtout of the newest Neapolitan cut.  The colour
was fast returning to her pallid cheek, and the
fire of her eyes had never dimmed.  "Lead me
to the Podesta of Catanzaro! by him will I be
judged; but not by a knight of the Maltese
cross."

"No, signora," replied Castelermo, "I am not
prosecutor in this matter: to your own sorrows
and conscience I leave you—adieu!" and she was
led away by the people, her face buried in her
mantle, and utterly deserted by that stern
confidence which had sustained her throughout this
wild affair.

Sergeant Annibale Porko we reported to
the officer next in command, who promised to
send him to St. Eufemio for trial by court-martial:
a pledge which he never redeemed.

About an hour after Ave-Maria rang, we
quitted the mountain town of Catanzaro, and
struck directly across the country, with the
intention of visiting the villa D'Alfieri.

Not long after this affair I remember Castelermo
handing me, with a cold and grim smile,
a copy of the "Gazzetta Britannica," in which
there was a paragraph, announcing that our
wild friend the captain had been married to the
widow of Belcastro, with great splendour, at the
archiepiscopal residence of the Bishop of Cosenza.

From that hour I never again heard him utter
the name of Despina.





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.. _`FRANCATRIPA, THE BRIGAND`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   FRANCATRIPA, THE BRIGAND.

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I was aware that, according to strict orders, I
ought to have proceeded forthwith, without
deviation or delay, to Scylla; but a detour of
twenty miles, to visit my gentle Bianca, could
not in any way injure the service: and how
seldom is it when campaigning that the impulse of
one's own heart can be obeyed.  Too often does
duty interfere with the best and tenderest affections
of the soldier; sending him forth with a heart
seared and almost broken, to fight the battles
of his country; or, still worse, to close a long life
of expatriation, by perishing amid the pestilent
swamps of the West, or the wars and diseases of
the East Indies.

We were now getting within the vicinity of
the redoubtable brigand Francatripa, and his
terrible handiwork became manifest at every
mile of the way, as we neared his stronghold in
the forest of St. Eufemio.  In a solitary pass we
found a carriage, apparently from Naples, a
wreck by the way-side, with its springs broken,
and one of the mules lying shot between the
traces.  The trunks, which had been strapped
before and behind, were rifled; the morocco
lining had been ripped and torn down in search
of concealed valuables, and the gilt panels were
riddled by musket-balls.

The unfortunate traveller, scarcely alive, lay
half out of the vehicle, his head on the ground,
covered with wounds, and bleeding profusely:
he seemed to have offered a desperate resistance,
for one hand grasped a discharged pistol, while
the other yet clenched a poniard.  We raised him
gently, and laid him on the slope of a grassy
bank, where his clammy white face and glazing
eyes glimmered horribly in the cold moonlight.

"Signor," said Castelermo, as he knelt down
and held his crucifix before the eyes of the dying
sufferer, "tell us who committed this detestable
outrage?"

"Francatripa!" muttered the quivering lips
of the dying man, who immediately expired.
We then placed the body within the carriage,
and after fastening the doors to protect it from
the wolves, rode towards a village which lay
about a league off, to rouse the peasantry.

A little farther on we passed a poor
country girl, weeping over the body of an aged
shepherd, whose dog sat whining at his feet.
The old man had been slain by a blow from the
butt of a musket.  His daughter supported his
head in her lap, bedewing it with tears, and
wiping the blood from his pale lifeless face and
silver hairs with her linen head-dress, while she
mingled with her prayers many an anathema
on the name of "Francatripa!"  Around lay
the ruins of their hut: the old man had perished
in defence of his flock; and the extreme youth
of the girl had alone saved her from being carried
off to the stronghold of the brigands.

As we approached the village, the white
cottages of which shone in the moonlight on the
dark-green mountain side, a lurid flame shot
across the sky: they were in flames!  Then the
reports of musketry were heard: a skirmish
had ensued between the brigands and the armed
peasantry; the latter had been defeated, and the
unrelenting lieutenant of Francatripa, after laying
their dwellings in ashes, leisurely retreated up
the hills with his band.

"Satan seems abroad to-night!" said I, as the
wailing of women and children was borne past us
on the night-breeze.

"Since the days of Marco Sciarra, such outrages
as these have been matters of daily occurrence
in our mountain provinces," replied the
cavalier.  "These villains have probably been
foraging in the valley; and desolation and death
invariably attend resistance.  But, perhaps, the
villagers may have been guilty of some disloyalty
to our cause, and have thus brought upon them
the vengeance of Francatripa; who is one of
Carolina's robber-knights, and by her authority
bears the rank of colonel.  Alas! signor, you see
how war calls forth all the worst traits of the
Calabrian character.  When I look on these
things, I blush that I am an Italian."

"Truly," said I, "we have seen some things
which make me suppose that there is more of
truth than malice in the old Italian proverb
applied to the Neapolitan people."

"*Naples is a paradise inhabited by devils!*"
replied Marco.  "Ha!  I fought a Tuscan on
the ramparts of Valetta one morning, for
uttering that impertinent saying."

On reaching the hamlet we found the greater
number of the cottages burned down; and the
only answers our inquiries received were, "the
king of the forest, Francatripa—the
hunchback—the devil!"

A man warned us not to proceed, for the
banditti were still hovering about; but as
only one pass of the mountains lay between
us and Maida, we determined to push forward
at all risks.  After examining our girths and
pistol-locks, we dashed at a gallop into a gorge
of the hills, which seemed doubly dark after
leaving the blaze of the burning hamlet;
being also deprived of the moon, whose light
was intercepted by a gigantic peak of the
Apennines.

The hoofs of our galloping horses alone broke
the stillness around us, until we had reached
the centre of the pass, or chasm, where the
frowning cliffs arose on each side like sable
walls; their summits, in some places, overhanging
the base: when, hark! the shrill blast of
a Calabrian horn, waking the echoes of that
dismal hollow, caused us to rein suddenly up and
prepare for action.  As the reverberations of the
horn died away, a glare of crimson light burst
through the gloom: it burned steadily, increasing
in radiance and splendour, tinging hill and
rock, the forms of ourselves and horses, with
the hue of blood, and shedding over the whole
landscape, woodland, hill and hollow, the same
sanguine tint.  This effect, at any other time,
or under other circumstances, we should have
admired; as it was, our lives were in jeopardy,
and delight gave place to apprehension.

An enormous red light, blazing on a pinnacle
of rock, distinctly revealed our position and
appearance to a horde of banditti, in conical
hats or long blue caps and gay parti-coloured
garments, who swarmed on the cliffs above and
around us, barring advance or retreat, with their
levelled rifles.

"Basta!" exclaimed Castelermo, his voice
faltering with shame and chagrin.  "O! for thirty
cavaliers of John de Valette, or old L'Isle
Adam!  Must we yield—and to wretches such
as these?"

"Surrender or die!" I replied, considerably
excited: "the path is open before us; but we
should assuredly be blown to pieces before we
had moved a horse's length."

We were immediately surrounded, and
peremptorily commanded to dismount.  I saw how
the fierce spirit of my companion blazed up within
him as he obeyed the order; and my own
indignation was not less.  Our swords were next
demanded; and, knowing the futility of resistance,
I submitted to be deprived of my sabre
and despatches.

"My good fellows," said I, "remember I am
a British officer!"

"Base vagabonds!" thundered Castelermo,
while his pale lips quivered with rage, "at least
respect the garb *I* wear!  You may keep my
sword now, for to me it is useless, after being
sullied by such dishonourable hands; but bear
in mind that this night you have committed a
most horrid sacrilege!"

"We will bear the weight of that easily,
cavaliere," said one fellow, "and pay our blessed
Mother Church a moiety out of your ransom.
We must obey our orders; and if Ferdinand IV.,
or even the grand bailiff of the province passed
this way, they would be required to yield
both cloak-bag and sword to the king of St. Eufemio."

"Take the matter quietly, signor," said another,
striking me on the shoulder with insolent
familiarity; "remember you might have fallen
into rougher hands than Francatripa's free
companions."

"Bring a horse-halter, ho! ho! and bind
them!" cried a shrill voice, which I immediately
recognised.  I turned towards the speaker, who
had just dropped down from the rocks; but could
not distinguish his figure: the blaze of the red
light having now expired.

"By Heaven!  I would not have surrendered
without fighting to the last, could I have
suspected this foul indignity!" exclaimed Marco
bitterly, while I bit my lips in silence; and
Gaspare Truffi, by whose orders we were bound,
rolled on the turf yelling and grinning like a
fiend with malicious delight and exultation.

"Forward!" he commanded.  "Where did
you say we were to meet the capitano?"

"Where the Maida road intersects the ancient
way to the town of Cosenza," replied one of the
band.  "He awaits us among the old ruins of
those pagan Greeks."

"On then," replied the little man of authority.
"On: but, povero voi! keep well together when
crossing the hills, or I will blow to the night
wind the brains of the first man who straggles!"

I was surprised to find these fierce desperadoes
submitting to the incessant hectoring of a pitiful
hunchback: but after a time I observed that his
commands, although strictly obeyed, were a
source of secret merriment to the band.  I also
discovered amongst them many young men of
superior birth, address, and education; who had
been reduced to such ignoble fellowship by their
own excesses, or by preferring a state of free
brigandage on their native mountains, to bowing
beneath the yoke of France, and submitting to its
military conscription.

Some of them still retained in their manners
traces of good Neapolitan society, but the
majority were a crew of the most hardened ruffians
that ever were congregated together.  I fully
expected on being presented to the leader, to
experience the most brutal treatment; having
been always led to suppose that Francatripa was
a very demon incarnate, and save Mammone, the
worst of all the outlaws of lawless Calabria.

"Now then, gentlemen, remember that with
my own hand I will shoot the first who attempts
to escape.  Hear me! you in particular?" said
Gaspare Truffi, giving his threat additional force
by bestowing on my shoulder a smart stroke with
a pistol butt (one of my own silver-mounted pops
with rifled barrels, a present from the
General.)  At that moment, my heart swelled almost to
bursting!  I turned fiercely towards Truffi; but,
on beholding him astride my gallant grey, with
his short crooked legs scarcely reaching below
the saddle flaps, his prodigious hump, his
overgrown head and amply bearded visage
surmounted by a straw hat of the largest size, his
grotesque figure viewed by the moonlight was so
ludicrous that I burst into an uncontrollable fit
of laughter.  Even the grave Castelermo laughed
aloud, and the whole band joined in a hearty
roar of merriment.  This, though it put us all
in tolerable humour, roused the wrath of the
hunchback; who glared from one to another
without knowing on whom to wreak his passion.

"It is quite a riddle to me how this odd fellow
was ever permitted beneath the roof of the
St. Agata palace: you remember, we first met
him there," said I to my companion.

"The cursed reptile played well and deeply:
but I doubt much if he would again dare to
approach——"

"Silenzio!" thundered the hunchback, as he
forced Cartouche (whom he could scarcely
manage) toward me, sideways, and twice endeavoured
to ride over me: but the brave charger
knew me too well, and always swerved aside
when approaching too close.  Failing thus in his
object, Gaspare dealt me a blow on the mouth
with the pistol butt, which covered my face with
blood, and nearly demolished my front teeth.
The band murmured at this cowardly outrage;
and perhaps nothing but fear of Francatripa
prevented his incensed lieutenant from pistolling me
on the spot.

We had now arrived at the place appointed;
the ruins of a majestic fane, which had once
echoed the precepts of Pythagoras and the
triumphs of Milo: its massive doric columns,
the ponderous abacus, and carved entablature,
with the most exquisite specimens of sculpture,
were all hurled together in chaotic heaps, just as
the temple had been left by some tremendous
convulsion, which had levied its glories to the
dust.  The stones were mossy and green; the
vine and ivy, the scarlet fuschia and the wild
rose, and a thousand odorous plants flourished
luxuriantly and entwined the ruins with wreaths of
blossom.  But there was something melancholy in
the aspect of the place when viewed by the
brilliant moon: the same orb which had beheld the
first stone of their foundations laid, amid all the
religious solemnities of pagan Greece.

A horn was sounded; but the echoes died away,
and no answering blast awoke them again: the
ruins were minutely searched, but there was no
appearance of Francatripa.

"Maladetto!" said one fellow, shrugging his
shoulders, "the capitano stays somewhat long
with his dear love to-night!"

"Colonello, you should say, Gaetano," replied
another.  "Does he not bear the king's commission;
ay, and a sweet letter, they say, Carolina
sent him, written with her own hand?"

"Yes, and we are to become soldiers like
the men of Marco Sciarra.  Madonna bless the
day!  I am tired of this life."

"Gaetano is as bad as his master, who seems
to love a throw of the dice at the gaming-table
better than a rifle-shot on the green mountainside
in the merry moonlight."

Gaetano only answered by a sigh.

"The smiles must have been sweeter to-night
than usual," growled Gaspare Truffi; "he stays
so long at the villa D'Alfieri."

"No good will come of his going there; where
a woman is, there will always be treachery and
mischief," said Gaetano.  "May Cupid put it
in his heart to bring his girl up the mountains!"

"Welcome to the capitanessa!" said another
of the band, drinking from a leathern bottle,
which he held aloft at the full stretch of his arm,
permitting the sparkling wine to stream down
his throat—a famous feat with the Italian vulgar.

"Ho! ho!" chuckled the hunchback, "it would
be bearding the grand bailiff with a vengeance,
to follow Gaetano's advice.  But, Sfarmato! wind
the horn again!"

Once more its blast was poured to the hollow
wind: but there was no reply, save from the
echoing woods of Maida; and the banditti, as
they seated themselves on the verdant grass and
marble blocks, cursed the delay of their leader
in no gentle terms.

The villa D'Alfieri!  How my pulses quickened
at the sound.  Francatripa was then the lover
of Annina, or some of the waiting women.  I
resolved to speak with the viscontessa about the
dangerous friends with whom her household
corresponded.  How little I then knew of the
ambition and presumption of that accomplished
robber!

"Here, good fellow," said I, to the one whom
they named Gaetano, "take the handkerchief
from my breast, and give my moustachios a
wipe.  You see how freely the blood is flowing
from my mouth."

"Certainly, Signor Cavalier," said the man,
good-naturedly, raising his hand to his hat.

"Ha!" said I, "you have been a soldier?"

"Yes, signor," said he, turning pale, "I enlisted
in the Corsican Rangers, under the British:
but I knew not their fashions; I quarrelled with
a sergeant, and they flogged me like a dog; I
ran away, and so I am here."

Before he could do me the simple act of kindness
requested, Gaspare snatched the handkerchief
from his hand, and threw it away; dealing
Gaetano at the same time a sound box on the
ear, and muttering a remark, which, when
translated, meant that I might "bleed to death, and
be——"

I was extremely exasperated; and feeling at
that moment the cords which bound me
becoming a little slackened, I snapped them
asunder, and rushing upon Truffi unhorsed him like
lightning; then snatching from him his pistols
and poniard, I threw them to a distance.  He
swore a terrible oath, and grappled with me.  I
was amazed by the strength he displayed:
although barely the height of a well-grown boy,
he appeared to possess the strength of two
ordinary men, and his arms and hands were of
great size and muscular power.  My breast
burned with shame to find myself more than
matched in the grasp of a creature so despicable:
I would rather have died than have been defeated.
The brigands; aware of their little lieutenant's
great strength, confidently expected he
would overcome me; so, without interfering, they
leant upon their rifles, and with shouts of
laughter crowded round to witness a contest which
Castelermo beheld with equal indignation and
astonishment: he, of course, supposed I should
toss my adversary into the air like a cricket-ball.

At any other time, or under different circumstances,
I would have scorned to encounter in
any manner such an adversary: but, alas!  I
found myself almost mastered by this miraculous
dwarf.

Firm as Hercules, he stood planted on his
curved legs, which appeared to possess all the
unyielding principle of the arch; while his huge
head, round and hard as a cannon-ball, was
thrust like a battering-ram into my breast, and
his ample hands grasped me like a vice: he had
all the aspect of some powerful gnome, or dwarf,
of German romance; but dwarf or devil, I
was determined not to yield while bone and
muscle remained firm.

While quartered at Truro, I had been taught
a few of the tricks of wrestling by a corporal of
the Cornish Miners, and I now put all these in
practice against this crooked Italian; who, being
quite unprepared for any display of science, was
suddenly thrown off his feet, and hurled backwards
with such force that he fell on the sward
about ten yards off, and nearly fractured his
capacious skull, which was instantly buried in the deep
recesses of his conical hat.

"Ghieu!" cried he, scrambling up.  "Ho,
ho! woe betide you, povero voi!"

He was rushing forward, like a mad bull, to
renew the conflict, when a figure stepped from
behind a fragment of the ruins, and interposed
between us.

"Francatripa!" he exclaimed, recoiling with
a growl of surprise.

"Most excellent captain!" cried the thieves,
with one voice.  "Viva Francatripa!"

"Silence all, comrades," said Francatripa;
"and you, signor," he added, addressing himself
to me, "I thank you for giving my lieutenant
this rough lesson to treat my prisoners better.
But inform me, circumstantially, on your honour,
who you are, whence you have come, where you
are bound, and what is your business among
these mountains?"

"I am an officer on the Sicilian staff, bearing
despatches from the commanding officer at Crotona
to General Sir John Stuart at Scylla.  I trust my
papers will be restored me; as they can be of no
use to you, sir, and the service of King Ferdinand
may suffer by their detention."

"Madonna keep his most sacred majesty!"
said the robber chief, uncovering: "your horse
and baggage shall be restored to you, and all
letters addressed to the good Cavaliere Stuardo,
the friend of Naples.  Signor, we war not with
the soldier, unless in arms against us: like our
own, his profession is a poor one, and shame fall
on the hand that would pilfer his hard-earned
ducats—the wages of sweat, toil, and blood.
But the gentleman who accompanies you?  By
the star of heaven! a knight of Malta!  This
is sacrilege!  Pardon, Signor Cavaliere, this
outrage by my people: one for which, believe
me, on my word of honour, as a free Calabrian,
I am in no way to blame.  Gaetano! restore to
these gentlemen their swords."

Unbinding Castelermo himself, he ordered our
horses to be instantly led up to us.

"Gaspare!" he exclaimed, while grasping a
pistol, "thou accursed, deformed Judas, thou
piece of an ass!  I would this instant send a
bullet through your brain, had I another to
supply your place: for, truly, there is not in all
Italy another such subtle serpent and compound
of mischief, to whom I could delegate my
troublesome command when absent.  But keep
out of my sight till morning, Messerino Esop!
Signori, he has the eyes of Argus, and is worth
his hump in gold to me, so that I could ill spare
him.  Meanwhile, to make all the amends in
my power, this night you shall sup with me, and
to-morrow pursue your journey.  Please to step
this way, gentlemen, and we shall see what my
cook has in preparation for us."

He led us behind a lofty mass of the ruins,
where heavy green laurels and clusters of ivy
and vine overhung the marble blocks and
fragments of fluted columns, which yet remained in
their original position.  A whole roebuck was
roasting and sputtering before a wood fire,
which cast its red and varying glare on the
shattered temple, the waving foliage, the glancing
arms, and fierce swart visages of our captors;
whose well-known bandit costume completed the
striking effect of the scene.

A beetle-browed and bare-legged rogue, clad
only in yellow breeches and a blue shirt, the
sleeves of which were rolled up, superintended
the cooking; while the contents of a hamper
(taken probably from the carriage we had seen
some hours before) were spread upon the turf:
light pastries, fruit, and a few flasks of
continental wine.  After posting a few well-accoutred
scouts on the neighbouring roads and eminences,
Francatripa sent away his band to join the main
body in the forest, where several hundred wild
spirits served under him.  After seeing them off,
in a manner which was a burlesque on military
order, this formidable chief—who afterwards
fought so many severe battles with the French,
and whose name was soon to become like that
of Marco Sciarra in Italy—rejoined us.  I had
then an opportunity of recognising in him one of
the mutilators of the poor tanner (mentioned in
volume first), and I also remembered his face as
one I had often seen in the fashionable
gaming-houses of Messina.

He was an eminently handsome man, between
thirty and forty years of age; and being closely
shaved he had rather a more civilized aspect
than his rough, whiskered, and bearded associates.
Though to us polite and courteous in the
extreme, to his band he acted the furious and
swaggering bandit: stern firmness and sullen
ferocity alone seemed to keep their mutinous
spirits in check, and they quailed beneath his
sparkling eye whenever it turned on them.

He was habited in one of those richly-laced
scarlet uniforms, which Queen Caroline sent
from Palermo to Benincasa, the miller of Sora,
and all the brigand chiefs of those provinces; and
on his breast shone the star and enamelled cross
of St. Constantine: the gift of the same politic
princess, who endeavoured to prop the tottering
throne of her husband by the support of the
brave banditti of southern Naples; just as the
Venetians, in 1590, courted the aid of the chivalric
Sciarra and his followers against the Grand
Duke of Tuscany.  A plume of white ostrich
feathers, clasped by a golden band and diamond
madonna, drooped from his broad hat over his
right shoulder, imparting a peculiar grace to his
figure.  His belt sustained a very handsome
sword, poniard, and pistols; which, with a short
rifle, completed the arms and accoutrements
of this gallant robber: his air and aspect
were very different from those of the desperado
who, under his name, usually figured in the
accounts published in the Neapolitan and Sicilian
cities.

We supped heartily.  The wine was excellent:
and if Francatripa came by it lightly, he
did not spare it on his guests.  The flasks of red
and white capri were numerous and potent
enough; but when I remembered the unhappy
proprietor, whom we had found weltering in
blood by the wayside, it was not without
considerable compunction that I regaled on the
contents of his plundered hamper.  However,
the affair lay between Francatripa and his
conscience.  Castelermo and I soon fell asleep,
under a sheltered part of the ruins which had
witnessed the midnight carousal.

When we awoke, the morning sun had risen
far above the hills of Maida; our horses with
our arms and valises, all in perfect order, stood
picqueted beside us: but our late host and his
followers had departed, leaving no trace behind
them, save the well-picked venison bones, and
the ashes of the fire which had cooked it.  My
mouth was still painful, and a little swollen by
the blow from the hunchback: whom I hoped to
repay at a future time; but I sprang gaily up to
rub down Cartouche with a tuft of dried grass,
and shook off the dreams and odd fancies which
had floated through my brain: caused, doubtless,
by the Capri wine, and the stories related
by Francatripa of his mountain friends.  My
ears yet rang with the exploits of the Abbot
Proni, who drove the French from Abruzzi; of
Frà Diavolo, the cruel and vindictive bandit of
Itri; of the miller of Sora, and Benedetto
Mangone, who was so savagely executed at Naples
by being beaten to death with hammers.

Mammone of Sora was no ordinary bandit, but
a fiend in human shape, out-Heroding in cruelty
all the monsters of romance: he could boast
of having slain with his own hand four hundred
fellow-beings; he never dined without having
"a bleeding human head placed on the table," and
in his mildest mood is said to have drunk human
blood "gushing from his victims."

These, and such as these, were the brigand
leaders of Italy, and the terror of France, before
the merciless General Manhes—"the man of
iron"—brought the Calabrian war of extermination
to a close, by almost depopulating the
country.





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.. _`A SNAKE IN THE GRASS`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.

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Passing through Maida—a large and substantial
town, built on an eminence equidistant from the
Tyrhene Sea and the Adriatic, at the narrowest
part of the peninsula, and situated among those
pine-clad mountains which overlook the scene of
our victory and the vale of the Amato—we
visited the battle-ground; but nothing remained
to mark that glorious day, save the burnt cartridge-paper
fluttering about among the graves of those
who fell: the mould was yet fresh, and the new
grass just beginning to sprout above the great
burial-mounds; the sight of which at that moment
filled us with sad thoughts.  The sun shone
brightly, pouring his noon-day glory from above
the wooded Apennines across the warm and
misty plain; bees were humming, birds chirping,
and wild flowers blooming, above those
"scattered heaps" where so many brave men were
mouldering into dust.

This melancholy train of thought, and the deep
solitude around us, were broken by a most
unexpected shout of "Hark forward! tally-ho!"
coming from a distance; and presently two noble
English greyhounds, in full chase after a spotted
lynx, bounded from the banks of the Amato, and
swept across the plain towards the hills.

"There they go, neck and neck,—Bravo,
Springer!" cried a well-known voice; and,
crashing headlong through the vine-trellis of some
poor peasant, Oliver Lascelles, the general's extra
aide, dashed up to us, breathless with a long ride.
Oliver was the most determined sportsman in the
regiment, and contrived to take his horses and
dogs wherever he went, in spite of barrack,
ordnance, and transport regulations.

"There go the gallant dogs, and I have no
horn to recall them," he cried.  "See how the
spotted devil doubles!—the water now!  Ha! the
scent's lost, and Springer's at fault.—What on
earth are you doing here, Dundas?  Moralizing,
eh?—Buon giorno, Signor Marco; happy to see
you.  By the Lord! had I got that lynx's brush,
I would have stuck it in my cocked hat, and
ridden with it so to old Regnier at Cassano.  Ha!
Dundas, at home you never roused such game as
that, by the Muirfute Hills, or in Arniston woods;"
and the light-hearted Englishman, laughing at his
own conceit, hallooed on his dogs till the blue
welkin rang.

He congratulated me on my promotion to a
company in the Regiment de Rolle, from which I
was re-gazetted to my old corps: a double favour,
which I had no doubt was to be attributed to the
general's favourable mention of me in his
despatches, and my good fortune in capturing the
eagle.  This trophy, by-the-bye, may now be seen
in the hall of Chelsea Hospital, in company with
thirteen others.

Poor Oliver! he found his grave beneath the
towers of the Castello d'Ischia; where the waves
roll over the bones of many a bold Calabrian
and Ross-shire Highlander.  He was barely
twenty when he was shot at the head of his
stormers.

After a hurried ride over the well-known
positions of the third of July, we separated;
Castelermo and I to pursue our journey to St. Eufemio,
and Lascelles to continue his to General Regnier's
camp: he was the bearer of a copy of Sir John
Stuart's third proclamation, dated 18th July, and
issued in consequence of the barbarous cruelties
exercised by the French troops on those Italian
royalists who unhappily fell into their hands.  In
that official document, after a long statement of
appalling facts, Sir John reminded the French
general that three thousand of their soldiers were
prisoners to the British arms, together with many
of Buonaparte's well-known partisans.  "If,
therefore," concluded the manifesto, "such violence is
not put an end to, for the future, I shall not only
deem myself justified, but compelled by my duty,
to have recourse to the severe but indispensable
law of REPRISALS!"  This determined threat had
some effect on the iron-hearted Regnier, and for a
time we heard less of slaughtered peasantry and
priests shot before their altars; of nuns and poor
country girls torn from their homes and hiding-places,
to become worse than slaves in the camps
and bivouacs of the French: who were yet
entrenched at Cassano, awaiting the advance of
Massena's division.

Not choosing to be seen so far out of our proper
road by any of our troops cantoned in St. Eufemio,
or encamped around it, we took a solitary path
across the plain towards the villa; and, as there
was no ford, we had to swim our horses across the
Amato, in a part where the stream was both deep
and rapid.  We then sought the shelter of an
orange-grove, where, having poured the water out
of our boots, we passed the noon-time until the
intense heat passed away.  It was a still and
solitary place, where the silence was broken by no
ruder sounds than the hum of the bee, the flap of
the plover's wing, the murmur of the Amato, the
notes of a shepherd's zampogna, and the faint
tinkling bells of his flock afar off on the green and
verdant mountains.  We remained nearly two
hours in that delightful grove, through the thick
foliage of which the hot rays of the sun never
penetrated: the shining river swept slowly past us
to the sea, with its smooth surface glittering in the
sunlight, and the whole air was fragrant with the
perfume of the wild flowers blooming among its
sedges, and the orange-trees which shaded its
rocky banks.  The ruddy fruit hung in rich
golden clusters above us; and though, from the
appearance of some of the trees, the winds of a
hundred years had swept their branches, they
were yet, in a "green old age," bending beneath
their load of produce.  The Calabrian knows well
that the oldest trees bear the sweetest oranges:
those that are soft and juicy, with thin skins: the
thickly rinded are always the fruit of young
saplings, and are seldom cared for by the orange-gatherer.

Cavaliere Marco—who had not such reasons
as I for visiting the villa, and whose knowledge
of the world led him to suppose that his
presence could, perhaps, be dispensed with—suddenly
recollected that he had a gambling affair
with Ser Villani, the lawyer (there was only one
in the province), and rode on to St. Eufemio,
promising to rejoin me in a few hours.  Meanwhile
I pursued my way to the villa alone; and passing
through its luxuriant orchards, reached the terraces
unperceived by any of the inhabitants.

Leaving my horse under the portico, I passed
through a white marble corridor into the lofty
and superb saloon; where, through a cupola of
stained glass covered with heraldic blazonry, the
sun poured down a flood of variegated light upon
three rows of gilded galleries, and a bronze
fountain: the Neapolitan emblem, a winged
horse, vomited forth a jet of sparkling water.
Save the ceaseless plash of the fountain, the place
was silent: no sounds of life were heard.

After a time, however, the laugh of the giddy
Annina rang merrily in one of the vast corridors,
where she was flirting with the old Greek
chasseur, Andronicus; but only to drive away
ennui in the absence of her cavalier Giacomo,
whom with his party the visconte had sent back to
Crotona.

"There can be nothing amiss, when Annina
laughs so joyously," thought I; "and yet this
great Italian villa, so gloomy and so silent, looks
like a vast catacomb by the evening light.  Ola!
Annina!"

"Ecco, signor," cried the damsel, as she
danced into the saloon: she evidently expected
a stranger, and could not conceal her astonishment
on beholding me; but assuming a prim
air, she placed a little finger on her ripe pouting
lips, and, with a glance full of archness and
mystery, imposed silence.

"My pretty Annina, I am not inclined to
flirt just now," said I, kissing her cheek with
jocose gallantry, in proof of my assertion: though,
indeed, the girl of Capri was attractive enough
to tempt one to be gallant in good earnest.
"Where is your lady?"

"My lady, the viscontessa, has gone to
confession at the Sylvestrian monastery; old Frà
Adriano surfeited himself with choke-priest, and
was unable to officiate this evening."

"Tush!" said I, drawing her into a deep
alcove, "I mean, la Signora Bianca."

"She is in the garden with the colonel."

"What colonel?  Is Luigi here?"

"Signor Claude, you are so impatient!" she
replied slowly, while her black eyes twinkled
provokingly, and raising their arched brows with
affected surprise, she added, "Have you never
heard of the colonel?"

"Colonel again! no, no!  Who the devil is
he?" I muttered impatiently, jerking up my
sword-belt, while I ran over in my memory all
those I knew who were likely to rival me.  "Who
the mischief?—it cannot be De Watteville, he is
too old; Oswald, he is at Scylla; or Kempt—Annina,
tell me, and you shall give me a kiss in
exchange for as many ducats as will buy a
magnificent embroidered panno to set off these jetty
locks of yours."

"A girl of Capri would rather give the kiss
without the ducats: it would look so like selling the
secrets of the signorina, otherwise;" and while
a blush suffused her face she began to sing, with a
coquettish air, "O sweet isle of Capri," &c.

"You shall have both: the kiss now, and the
ducats hereafter," said I, saluting the Madonna-like
cheek of the pretty Italian; and then it
blushed red as the ruby wine of her own rocky
isle, while her eyes sparkled like the waves that
roll around it in the sunshine.

"Signor," she whispered, "truly I wish you
well; but beware of the Colonel Almario, who is
daily at the villa, and is even now with my young
lady in the garden—in the walk; you know it,
shaded by the great laburnums."

"Almario!  I never heard such a name before—sounds
well enough, though: but how the deuce
came he here?"

"On horseback, signor: he rides a beautiful
black Barbary horse, which Signora Bianca seems
to admire more than your dashing grey."

"The mischief she does!  Who introduced
this colonel to the family?"

"He is a great friend of Father Petronio, the
bishop of Cosenza; and all the world allows that
*he* is a saint."

"Your world, Annina, is this little corner of
Italy.  Well, and the viscontessa met him at a
*conversazione* at Nicastro?"

"Exactly so, and won from him a hundred
pieces of gold: he lost them with so good a
grace that my lady was quite enchanted with
him; for the more the colonel lost, the more
merry he became.  San Gennaro!  I think he is
a sorcerer, who can coin ducats from vine-leaves.
He scatters a handful of gold among the servants
every time he comes here! so you may easily
imagine how much they are devoted to him.  He
is either Satan or a rich man, and has a way with
him that makes all the men his slaves, and the
girls his worshippers: that is, all save myself,
signor.  And then, such pretty things he says
to the signorina, when they play together on
their guitars!  You would imagine he sat with
the Lady Venus herself: but he says the very
same things to the old viscontessa, when at cards
after supper.  O, that Giacomo was returned!
I am sure he would not value his ducats or
dread his dagger (I know he wears one) a
rush.  No, he would trim him well with a
stout pole for presuming to make so free at the
villa."

"I comprehend the hint.  But one word
more," said I, in a husky voice, while my heart
palpitated with anxiety at this relation.  "Have
you heard aught of the visconte?"

"Only what you must surely know, that
he has fled to the mountains: to Francatripa,
they say, for abducting a nun.  Madonna mia! what
can tempt handsome young men to run off
with these pale and melancholy frights, when so
many plump and pretty women, with good flesh
on their bones, are dying for husbands both in
town and country."

"Annina, your tongue is again at full gallop.
The visconte, then, is not here?"

"No; and yet I could have sworn that I heard
him singing a barcarole in the wolf's chamber.
God's grace! 'tis a place of gloom and mystery.
Poor, dear young man!  I hope he may come to
no harm in these perilous times, when the hills
and woods are swarming with Frenchmen and
wolves, idle sbirri, starving peasantry, and
desperate robbers."

Stepping hastily and cautiously, I passed through
the beautiful garden, which extended from the
terraces to the southward.

There was now a rival in the way, whose
superior military rank, and apparent wealth,
besides his being Bianca's countryman, made him
sufficiently formidable to me: but as I remembered
her artlessness, her trembling confusion
when we exchanged our rings, and her burst of
tenderness when we parted, and how she buried
her face in the bosom of Luisa Gismondo, could
I believe that she would so very soon prove
false?  Yet I had heard so much of the volatility
of Italian girls, their faithlessness and coquetry,
that the words of the waiting-woman fell like
molten lead upon my heart.

Before advancing, like a prudent general I
made a complete reconnoissance, and discovered
Bianca walking with this redoubtable colonel,
conversing and flirting through the folds of her black
lace veil.  She opened it only at times, when I
obtained a glimpse of her pure and happy face:
her bright eyes sparkling, her cheek glowing, and
her pretty teeth shining like pearls in the sun,
as its rays flashed between the waving branches
and pendent golden flowers of the old laburnums.
The long shady walk echoed with their voices,
though they conversed in a low tone; and at that
moment the sharpening of a handsaw would not
have grated on my ears so painfully as did Bianca's
merry laughter at the jests of this confounded
colonel.

He was a tall and handsome man, apparently
in the prime of life: I had a dim recollection of
having seen him before, but when or where I
endeavoured in vain to remember.  He was
dark-complexioned, and so much sunburned that I
thought he must have seen considerable service.
From beneath a scarlet velvet foraging cap, his
dark hair descended in curling ringlets; his nose
was aquiline, and a pair of appalling moustaches,
black, bushy, and fierce, curled under it.  He
wore a sky-blue military undress frock, laced
with silver, and open at the neck, showing a
scarlet waistcoat, which was also richly laced; on
his breast glittered a medal and the star of
St. Constantine; military boots with gilt spurs,
completed his costume.  A gold belt encircled his
waist, and sustained a small poniard of exquisite
workmanship; his sabre rested on his left
arm, and on his right the jewelled hand of Bianca.

Notwithstanding the noble contour of this
colonel's features, and a certain lofty dignity in
his carriage, there was something so peculiar in
his uniform (which I failed to recognise) and in
the expression of his eye (which I did not like)
that, altogether, I did not consider him a very
dangerous rival; though he whispered to Bianca
in a way that was anything but agreeable to me,
and she maintained the conversation with true
Italian vivacity and spirit of raillery.  I was not
under the unpleasant necessity of acting
eavesdropper long; for, piqued at something he had
said, Bianca suddenly quitted his arm and
withdrew a few paces; her eyes sparkled with
unusual brilliancy, and her brow, wont to be so
pale, now flushed with indignation.  The Colonel
Almario sank upon his knee, and held in his her
right hand, which tightly grasped a rose she had
plucked but a moment before.

"Beautiful Bianca!" I heard him exclaim, while
his voice rose and fell with true theatrical cadence,
"be not offended if my treacherous tongue has
too suddenly revealed the long-cherished sentiments
of my heart.  O, most gentle signora! how
faintly can I express the deep love, the sincere
admiration, which at this moment glow within me!"

"I would give ten guineas to have a good
long-shanked hunting-whip here just now," I muttered,
exasperated by this sudden declaration of passion;
at which the poor girl seemed the image of
confusion: though its pomposity evidently excited
more amusement than pleasure.

"Signor Colonello, unhand me, if you please.
I cannot—I *will not* be spoken to thus.  Ola!
Zaccheo!  Annina!—here!  You have all been
bribed!  Oh! the treacherous——"

"For the love of all that is gracious! summon
no one."  (I really think the fellow loved her; so
touching was his tone, so earnest his manner.)  "Hear
me, lady!  I am an unfortunate and most
unhappy man.  I love you passionately——"

"And noisily——"

"Cruel!  No man can love a woman more.
Will you not vouchsafe me an answer?  Bel l'
idolo! will you not even hear me?"

"No, I will hear nothing while you continue to
grasp me thus.  Annina!  Am I a prisoner in
my own house?"

"Give me but this rose: it is a small favour,
Signora d'Alfieri, but you have placed it once to
your beautiful lips, and their touch has enhanced
its value.  Bestow it on me, Bianca, as a token
that I may yet hope—that, even though withered
I may look upon it and say——"

"Fico! hope you never shall!" exclaimed the
spirited girl, as she pulled the rose to pieces, and
scattered the leaves upon the upturned face of her
admirer; from whom she broke away, and moved
toward the villa with all the sweeping hauteur of
an offended Juno.

Almario uttered a very audible oath, and sprang
forward rudely to seize her; when, stepping from
out the shrubbery, I suddenly interposed between
them.

"Dearest Claude!" exclaimed Bianca, in a
tone of joy, as she passed her arm through mine;
while he of the sky-blue frock and star grew pale
with anger: he laid his hand on the hilt of his
sabre, and, retiring back a few paces, we surveyed
each other from top to toe, with all the stern
composure of two melodramatic heroes.

"How now, sir?" I exclaimed.  "Would you
dare to follow the young lady, and continue this
ridiculous scene?"

"I am noble—an Italian gentleman, and my
purposes are not to be questioned by any foreigner,
especially one of subaltern rank," he replied
through his clenched teeth.  "Signor, learn that
I am a colonel of cavalry in the Neapolitan service,
and shall not permit this insolent interference
to pass unpunished."

"It may be so: but I do not recognise your
uniform."  His face grew scarlet, and his eyes
sparkled with rage at my insinuation.  "You
must be aware," I continued, "that I have merely
done my duty as a gentleman and soldier in
rescuing the signora from your impertinent
importunity; and it is well for you," I added,
considerably ruffled, "that I have neither a
whip nor cane wherewith to chastise you as you
deserve."

"And well it is for you likewise, signor.  By
Heavens! were such an indignity as a blow put
upon me, I would destroy you on the spot; and if
you escaped that vengeance which my hand must
shortly take for this insulting threat, a thousand
stilettoes would be on your track!  Not in the
caverns of Scylla, or the wilds of La Syla—not
amid all the guards and gates of Malta and Messina,
would you be safe from my revenge."

"O signori!" implored the trembling Bianca.

"Sir, I have very great doubts that you are an
officer, but none that you are both a knave and
fool to rant in this manner," I replied, with
provoking coolness, while pressing the arm of the
agitated girl to my side.  "I comprehend nothing
about those thousand knives of which you speak
so pompously, but here is my card, Signor
Colonello: I will be at the villa until near noon
to-morrow, and any communication with which you
honour me will reach me there.  I am not to be
terrified by the blustering of any man; therefore,
sir, it is quite unnecessary to 'get up in your
stirrups' when addressing me."

"Good!" said he, haughtily; "I have not my
card-case with me, but I can understand this,
signor.  By noon to-morrow, I must be on the
march to join the chiefs of the Masse in the
Upper Province."

"Your regiment is, then, in the neighbourhood?"

"My regiment!" he stammered, while again
the flush crossed his olive cheek and haughty
brow.  "Yes, yes—undoubtedly; and one it is
that will be heard of ere long.  Signor, you have
treated me somewhat cavalierly; which, considering
the difference of our rank and years, I deem
considerable presumption on your part: but you
British behave so to all foreigners.  Ha! that *I*
should colour at the taunts of a mere boy!—I,
who have heard more bullets whistle in a week
than he has done since he first girt on a sword!
Behold this medal!—on the ramparts of Andria, I
tore it from the breast of the traitorous Count of
Ruvo, whose savage followers, giving all to fire
and sword, made an earthly hell of beautiful
Apulia.  Ha! boy, you never witnessed such a
leaguer as that."

He jerked his sabre under his arm, bowed profoundly
to Bianca, and was swaggering haughtily
away, when I followed him.

"Sir, then you will not grant me a meeting?"  He
wheeled sharply round, and muttered, in a
fierce and rapid whisper,

"When a horn sounds over the lawn this
evening, I will be awaiting you on the road
which leads to the ruined hospital of the Maltese
knights.  Fail not to come; as a recourse to arms
can alone decide now, whether you or I shall
possess this girl and her ducats."

"Enough!" said I, scornfully, and we separated.





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.. _`THE HORN SOUNDS`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


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   THE HORN SOUNDS.

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I led Bianca into the villa, where she flung
herself upon a sofa, and, overcome with
excitement, gave way to a passion of tears.  I very
naturally seated myself close by, to console and
pacify her.

"Dear Bianca, this is quite foolish, now!" said
I, putting an arm gently round her: "why are
you weeping?"

"This colonel—this Almario——"

"Upon my honour!  Bianca, I shall send
expressly to the camp for Bob Brown, my groom,
to horsewhip him, for making you weep thus.
He is unworthy my own——"

"O no, no!" she exclaimed, weeping very
bitterly; "I do not wish Signor Bob Brown to be
killed on my account.  But promise me? dear
Claude, that you will never seek or meet him in
a hostile manner," she added, looking up, and
smiling so imploringly, that I quite forgot what
I meant to say, and so kissed her in my confusion.

"Claude," she continued, taking both my
hands in hers, and looking me full in the face,
with her clear and brilliant eyes,—"Claude,
promise me that you never will.  Ah! my heart
would break—it would—it would, indeed, if blood
were shed on my account."

"Well, then, dear one!  I will never seek the
presence of the colonel.  But the service, you
must be aware—my character—O, the devil!—let
him beware how he summons me!"

"Swear it on this Agnus-dei!" said she,
taking a little bag of perfumed satin from her
bosom.  To please her, I kissed the amulet which
reposed in so adorable a place, and the innocent
girl was satisfied.

"When we are married, I will cure her of all
this nonsense," I thought, and ratified the treaty
of peace on her flushed and dimpled cheek.

"And now, caro," said she, in a soft, low
voice, "I have a great secret to entrust you
with.  Of course you know all about poor Luigi's
wild adventure?"

"My bones ache at the recollection thereof; I
narrowly escaped hanging, shooting, and drowning:
all of which were proposed in turns by a
little hunchbacked fellow, a follower of Francatripa,
who chose to make himself very active on
the occasion.  And do you know, Bianca, that I
was immured in the thieves' cage at the end of
the town prison: a good joke, is it not?"

"I heard it all from Annina, whose last
love-letter from Giacomo (written, of course, by an
itinerant scrivano) was filled with a history of
the affair.  O, the madness of my dear and foolish
sister!  How bitterly I wept for and deplored it!
Believe me, Claude, had an Italian cavalier been
put into that horrid cage, his soldiers would have
set the town on fire: but you, British! oh, you
take some things very quietly.  Yesterday a
mounted sbirro brought me a letter from my
sweet little friend Luisa Gismondo, who is with
her father in the camp at Cassano.  O, what
dreadful things she tells me of!  And Massena,
that very bad Italian, he is gathering together an
army, who boast that they will soon clear Calabria
of the British."

"But where is Luigi now?"

"Just behind you, signor, and most happy to
congratulate you on your promotion, I saw it
in the *Messina Gazette*," said the visconte,
coming from the recess of a window, where,
unseen he had been a smiling spectator.  Grasping
my hand, he continued, "How I rejoice that
you escaped from the villanous Crotonians.  On
my honour!  Dundas, nothing but fear for my poor
Francesca restrained me from putting back to
save or avenge you: and we all imagined those
base paesani would have respected your uniform
and character——"

"No more apologies: but say, how does the
Signora Francesca?'

"Indifferently, indeed.  She bemoans her
degraded situation incessantly (here Bianca
reclined her head on my epaulette, and sobbed
audibly).  Torn from her convent, to which she
dare return no more, she is still a nun; and, until
her vows are dispensed with at Rome, I cannot
make her my wife.  I now see that her position
is deplorable, and hourly wish that I had been
less rash: but what will not a wild spirit dare,
when love leads, and the fiend prompts?  I have,
perhaps, blighted her prospects for ever, and
placed myself in most deadly jeopardy: every
hour increases our peril!  The Bishop of Cosenza
(so famous for his pretended piety) has taken up
the matter hotly, and placed us under the ban
of the church; while, armed with warrants,
procured from the Grand Criminal Court at Palermo,
his sbirri, aided by those of that old blockhead
the Barone di Bivona (who owes me a thousand
sequins, lost at Faro), are searching all Lower
Calabria for us: I expect them here every hour.
King Ferdinand, anxious to flatter our priesthood
and please his bigoted subjects, has declared
himself my enemy, and we dare not venture
to Sicily, even could we reach its shores: the
commissaries of the townships are everywhere on
the alert, and we could never, unless escorted
by some armed followers, embark on the Calabrian
seas.

"To pass into the Upper Province would only
redouble the danger: Francesca would become
the prey of the bishop, or the brutal Massena;
who would, undoubtedly, order me to be shot.
Ha! the French have not forgotten certain
exploits of mine, when I first unsheathed my
sword beneath the walls of Altamurra, on that
great day when, on the eve of battle, Ruffo
performed high mass before the whole Calabrian
line.

"I never dreamt that the toils of my adversaries
would close so tightly round me!  But the
villa is well provided with lurking-holes, and
I have little doubt of being able to baffle
completely any band that may come in pursuit of
us here.  Were my old sbirri under its
roof-tree—were Benedetto del Castagno, Marco of
Castelermo, and my trusty Giacomo by my side,
I would yet shew them that the Visconte of
Santugo was not to be hunted like a wild boar.  No,
by the gods!  I would make good the house against
the bishop's rascals, though backed by the papal
guard.  San Gennaro! rather than surrender, I
would blow it into the air, and flying to the
Grecian isles, there hoist the red banner of piracy,
as many a reckless Italian noble has done before."  His
eyes glared, as black eyes only do: he
laughed bitterly, showing his white teeth beneath
the sable moustache, and he panted rather than
breathed, as he continued, "Our king,
Monsignore Macheroni, should remember the feeble
tenure on which he holds his tottering throne,
and be wary of raising enemies in this last
stronghold of Italian independence.  Palermo will not
always have a British fleet to protect its walls
from the cannon of France: withdraw your
frigates from the straits of the Faro, your red
coats from the ramparts of Messina, Milazzo,
and Syracuse, and the power and throne of the
lazzaroni king will fall prone to the earth, like a
house of cards!"

"Hush! dearest Luigi," exclaimed his timid
and terrified cousin, when a pause in this long
tirade permitted her to speak.  "This is all
treason, every word; and you know not who may
be within hearing."

"If there are any within hearing who would
prove false to the race of Santugo, I would crop
their ears like base Jacobins, and then bore their
tongues with a hot bodkin, that they may the
more glibly tell their story at Palermo.  Corpo di
Baccho!  I defy and scorn them all!" and
snatching a large cup of wine from a marble
cooler, he drained it to the bottom; then casting
himself upon an ottoman, he tossed the cup to
the other end of the apartment with such force,
that it dashed to pieces a rich Etruscan vase.

"Dundas, my good friend," he continued,
"hot and high words are but a poor welcome to
you, after coming so far out of your way to visit
us: yet I am so exasperated about this matter—this
elopement with my cousin!  Queen Caroline,
she too has become an enemy.  I had the ill
fortune to please her eye once, and she could
forgive me for any scrape in which a woman
is not concerned: you comprehend?  In fact, I
was quite a rival to Master Acton—your half
countryman—the ci-devant apothecary, whom all
the world knows about."

"O Luigi, Luigi!" exclaimed Bianca.

"Tush!  I tell you, Bianca, that once when I
was waiting on the king—per Baccho! what am I
going to say?"—he paused and coloured.  At
that moment the blast of a horn came, in varying
cadence, on the evening breeze: I started at
the expected signal.

"Ola! what may that portend?" said the
visconte, whom it relieved from his embarrassment.
"I shall be glad to learn who dares to sound a
horn within the bounds of my jurisdiction?" he
added, taking up his sword.

"I will accompany you."

"Good: then let us go!"

Glad to have a decent pretext for quitting her
presence, I pressed Bianca's hand to my lips with
trembling anxiety, while there stole over me a
dismal foreboding that we might meet no more.
My promise to her was forgotten: could I keep
it?  Impossible!

"Luigi, beware of a quarrel; and, dear Claude,
for the love of Heaven! curb his rashness.  I can
depend on you" said she, as we hurried down the
staircase; and her words sank deeply into my
heart.  Too well I knew the deadly mission on
which we were bound; and the shrill mountain-horn
poured another warning blast, which, as it
seemed more faint and distant, made us quicken
our steps.  The visconte's horses stood in their
stalls, saddled and bridled ready for any
emergency; and, summoning Zacheo Andronicus to
bring forth a couple of nags, we mounted, and,
accompanied by him, galloped in the direction of
the signal, with the purport of which I acquainted
my friend, as we rode on.

"Cospetto!" he exclaimed; "then this quarrel
is mine.  I cannot permit you to jeopard life or
limb for any member of my family; of whose
honour I, as chief and head, am the defender and
guardian.  I will in person meet this Colonel, of
whom more has been said at the villa than I cared
to listen to.  He is one of my mother's gambling
friends, picked up at that select resort, Father
Petronio's palace; and is, perhaps, some barefaced
charlatan, who assumes the name of Almario and
the rank of colonel."

"But there are many officers of the Masse and
other irregular corps, whose uniforms are so
motley and fanciful, and whose names are not borne
on any authorized list, that it is impossible to say
what he is."

"True; but time shall prove all: and I——"

"Santugo! it was to me, and with me alone,
that defiances were exchanged: I cannot permit
another to fight in my quarrel."

"But the quarrel is my pretty Bianca's, and I
am her only kinsman."

"And I her betrothed husband: behold this ring!"

"Buono! but I am an unfortunate dog, who
would more willingly be shot to-night than live
longer."

"And leave Francesca alone—alone in her
misery and helplessness?"

"O Madonna!  Yet I will meet the Colonel."

"On my honour you shall *not*," I continued,
with equal pertinacity.  "I must fight or
horsewhip him.  But if I am winged, or knocked on
the head, you can take up my ground, and parade
him in turn.—By-the-by, have you not been
somewhat rash in venturing forth with me this
evening before dusk, when so many enemies are
hovering round and ready to pounce on you?"

"I am aware of it: but you have need of a
friend; and when I heard this horn blown within
the boundaries of my estate, the thought that the
base banditti, the ungrateful shepherds, or the
carbonari, presuming on my outlawry, were poaching
or plundering under the very eaves of the
villa, aroused my anger——"

"Excellenza," said Zacheo the chasseur, riding
up with alarm in his countenance, "a party of
horsemen are now entering the Valley of Amato."

"Armed, too," I added, as, following the eye of
the venerable retainer, I saw about thirty mounted
men riding, three deep, at an easy pace across the
broad and level valley, through which the river
wound like a gilded snake; "well horsed and
armed.  See how their appointments flash in the
sun!"

"They are about a cannon-shot distant," replied
the visconte; "and should they prove to be
authorities from Cosenza, we can still baffle them,
even if they come up with us."

"Three to thirty?" said I, inquiringly.

"And what of that?  We have good Calabrian
cattle under us; the free mountains, the deep
rivers, the dense forests, and a bright moonlight
night before us: all glorious for a flying skirmish;
and we may empty a dozen of their saddles yet
before the stars go down."

"And what if they search the villa?"

"I trust to Madonna that the same secret place
in the round tower which saved my ancestor from
the followers of Carlo of Anjou, will avail my
Francesca now: save by terror or treachery, it
cannot be discovered.—I hope, Master Zacheo,
that the contents of the holsters are in service
order?"

"Most carefully flinted and loaded, excellency,"
replied the Greek from the rear.

"But these may be neither the sbirri of the
bishop nor his meddling friend the barone; and,
as they do not pursue a way leading either to the
villa or to us, let us avoid them, in God's name!
We have business enough of our own to settle
before the night closes."

At a hand-gallop we passed the redoubts, garrisoned
by part of the Regiment de Watteville, and
which they had erected on the day of our
disembarkation.  On the turf bastions the sentries
were pacing briskly to and fro; and as we left the
fort behind, the evening gun was fired, its echoes
rolling along the hills with a thousand reverberations,
and dying away in the distance.  The gaudy
union descended slowly from the flag-staff; while
the fifes playing, and the drums beating, in that
peculiar time which is called "the sunset, or
evening retreat," awoke the gentler responses of
the woods and winding shore, when the hollow
boom of the cannon had pealed away on the
passing wind: it was "Lochaber no more," a plaintive
northern air, often played by our bands when the
sun is setting, announcing that another day has
rolled into eternity.

Its slow-measured beat, and melancholy notes,
are among the domestic or home-sounds of the
barrack-square: then the captain of the day,
sulky at being obliged to leave his wine, lounges
forth with a cigar in his mouth, and leaves the
mess-room to parade the inlying piquet, who are
mustered in their dark great coats by the
indefatigable sergeant-major: the gates are shut, the
drawbridges lowered, and the canteen cleared of
its noisiest revellers: the last flush of the sun
has died away over the distant hill, and a stillness
settles over the whole community, only broken
by a laugh now and then from the mess, or by
the tread of feet and clash of arms, as the
sentinels are relieved at their posts.

I listened sadly as the music faded away in the
distance; and truly my deadly mission began to
press more heavily upon me than before.  Never
again might I hear those well-known sounds, and
when the same drums were beating the merry
reveille and the lark was soaring aloft to greet
the rising sun, where might I be?  I strove to
divert the current of my thoughts, and not to
think of it; but the same obstinate and gloomy
idea ever thrust itself before me.  The affection
of Bianca d'Alfieri, my recent promotion, and the
chances of still further advancement, now made
life seem of some value.  I never experienced
these depressing thoughts on the eve of a battle,
or assault: but the cold-blooded and deliberate
preparations for a duel give one time to *reflect*,
and reflection may damp the courage of a man
who otherwise would hear, without wincing, a
salvo of cannon-balls whistling about his ears.

I thought of my old familiar friends at the
regiment, who were, doubtless, at that moment,
enjoying their iced Sicilian wines, with the
mess-room windows open, while our matchless band
played to the ladies and cavaliers promenading
on the Marina; and I wished myself amongst
them.  I thought of my home—my happy boyhood's
home—where the Esk flowing down from
the heath-clad hills, sweeps onward to the ocean,
and I wished the colonel where Empedocles went.
But enough of this, or the reader will be
supposing I felt inclined to "show the white
feather."





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.. _`A DUEL AND A DISCOVERY`:

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   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A DUEL AND A DISCOVERY.

.. vspace:: 2

All those depressing thoughts evaporated the
moment I obtained a glimpse of my adversary;
he was leaning against a tree, smoking a cigar,
and stroking the nose of his boasted black horse,
whose bridle reins were thrown negligently over
his arm.  Remembering only his taunts and
defiance, his presumption and rivalry, I was ready
to rush into hostilities with him, and wage life
against life.

He awaited us near the ruinous Preceptory
House of the Maltese knights, through whose
ivy-clad arches, rent walls, and windows choked
up with grass, the last flush of sunset was poured
in strong columns of light; around us flourished
gigantic green laurels, and many a glittering ilex,
which completely screened us from the eyes of
any stray passenger, and from the sentinels on Sir
Louis de Watteville's field-work.

"I trust, sir," said I, saluting him, "that we
have not detained you long?"

"Not very," was the cold reply; "but we must
be quick, or this affair will scarcely be settled
before dusk."

"You have no friend with you?"

"None, save my usual weapons; but you have
come pretty well attended.  Two gentlemen well
horsed and armed to the teeth!"

"His excellency the grand bailiff, and one of
his servants," said I.

"My lord, the visconte, rarely rides abroad at
present, and I think his presence here is
somewhat unwise," said Almario, bowing to Santugo;
who was piqued at the observation, and, nodding
coldly, replied,

"I cannot permit your coming to blows with
this officer, in the quarrel of my cousin.
By-the-by, to what branch of the service do you
belong?—the cavalry?"

"The irregular troops of the Masse," replied
he, with a dark frown.

Luigi bowed and said, "I am the guardian,
the only protector and defender of Bianca
d'Alfieri; and I claim this quarrel as mine."

"I never meant to insult the Signora Bianca,
or quarrel with her family—nothing would be
further from my thoughts; but if my respectful
declaration of a sincere passion offended, I am
most heartily sorry, and will make any amends
to which an Italian gentleman may stoop without
dishonour."

Luigi bowed again, in reply to this apology,
and reined his horse back a few paces.

"But with you, Signor Capitano," continued
the colonel, addressing me, "the quarrel is too
serious to be satisfied so easily.  We have
mutually defied each other, and my honour
demands redress.  Am I to understand that you are
the challenger, and that by receiving your card it
is at your request I am here?"

"Assuredly, sir!" I answered haughtily.

"Good!" said he, throwing his snaffle rein
over the branch of a tree; "then with me lies
the choice of weapons.  Is it not so, visconte?"

Santugo merely bowed again, but with evident
hesitation; and dismounting, we gave our horses
to Andronicus, who immediately drew off a little
way.

By so frankly avowing myself challenger, I had
fallen into a regular scrape: an Italian would,
perhaps, have prevaricated; yet I could hardly
believe that the Colonel would make so cowardly
a choice as to select the national weapon—the
poniard.  But it was so: after rolling his
cloak round the left arm, with the utmost care
and deliberation, he drew off his gloves, turned
up his right sleeve to leave the hand and wrist
perfectly free; buttoned his light blue military
frock lip to the throat, threw aside his sabre, and
offered me a pair of poniards, saying, briefly,
"Choose."

They were daggers of Campo-forte, with elaborately
carved ivory hilts, and blades about nine
inches long, triangular, and fluted on two sides
like bayonets.

"Colonel," said I, "although in acknowledging
myself challenger, I may have placed at your
disposal the choice of weapons, if you suppose that a
British officer will condescend to fight with knives
or poniards like a drunken lazzarone, a hired
bravo, or any brawling coward of Naples, you
labour under an unhappy mistake.  I have pistols
in my holsters, and with these will meet you on
equal terms."

"By heaven! you greatly over-rate my good
nature, if you imagine I will engage you with
any weapons save those of my own choosing.  Any
other Neapolitan would have dispatched this
business, by bestowing three carlini on some bold lad
of the knife to tickle your ribs in the dark."

"Your language is not that of an officer."

"We fight with poniards, or not at all!"

"Must this be?" I asked Santugo.

"Formal duels are seldom fought in Italy:
secretly or openly, the knife generally ends all
disputes," replied the visconte; "but the
challenged usually has the choice of weapons in all
countries.  Castelermo, a great authority in these
matters, has—but I am astonished that Colonel
Almario, as a soldier and a gentleman, should
resort to this vulgar and antiquated mode of
settling disputes."

My friend seemed under considerable anxiety
on finding that I had fallen into such a
dilemma—about to fight with a murderous weapon
in the management of which I was totally
unskilled.

"Captain Dundas, you had better make up your
mind," said Almario, with a sneering aspect; "or
our meeting may be ended in the dark like those
of the bravos you so greatly despise."

"Sir!" I replied sternly, "I am not ashamed to
acknowledge my ignorance of the management of
this pig-butcher's weapon, and so—"

"So decline the contest?"

"No!—far from it; but I will meet you with
my sabre or pistols."

"I will accept of neither; being determined to
slay you: so if you stand not on the defensive, I
will rush on and end the matter by a single blow."

This threat put an end to all further negotiation,
and I felt the devil stirred up within me.

"For God's sake be wary!" whispered the visconte,
as Zacheo bound a horse-cloak round my
left arm; "keep the guard well up to protect your
face and breast, and watch his eyes with the
acuteness of a lynx."

"Remember this ring," I muttered hurriedly
(assassination now seemed certain); "it is our
poor Bianca's—and if anything happens—you
understand me?"

"No—no—not I—if aught untoward happens,
by the blood of San Gennaro! the colonel shall
cross his blade with mine:" and he left me.

Standing now about twelve yards distant from
my enemy, I felt not unlike a recruit when a
loaded firelock is first placed in his hands: I knew
not what position to assume, and was only
restrained from protesting against the combat, by
dread of the triumph such a course would afford to
Almario.  He saw my confusion: his dark eyes
glittered with malice and joy; while my heart
burned only with hatred and rage at the prospect
of becoming a victim to an uncompromising
guerilla, who deemed himself sure of easy victory
over my inexperience.

With his hat drawn over his eyes, and his arms
folded on his breast, Santugo stood apart, regarding
us with a flushed cheek, and a stern, yet troubled
eye; while Andronicus had placed his crucifix
against a tree, and was praying on his knees
before it for my success, with all the energy and
devotion of a monk of La Trappe.

The position I assumed, with my hands clenched,
my left foot advanced, and my head well thrown
back, was rather that of a boxer, than of a
combatant in such a contest as that in which I figured.
My antagonist bent forward on his left instep,
keeping the arm muffled with his cloak before him
as a buckler, while the right hand grasped the
upraised poniard, ready to plunge it, to the hilt, in
the first unprotected place.

After regarding me for a moment with eyes to
which bitter animosity lent unusual vivacity, the
colonel rushed upon me like a tiger.

More by chance than skill, I received the blade
of the descending poniard in the thick folds of
Zacheo's horse-cloak, and—contrary to all
rule—before he could withdraw it, dealt him a
tremendous blow under the left ear, causing his rattling
jaws to clatter like a pair of castanets; when as if
struck by lightning, he measured his length on
the turf.  Though given in a moment of confusion,
it was a regular knock-down blow, which would
have charmed the English gentlemen of the fancy;
but Signor the Colonel Almario was quite unprepared
for such a mode of fighting, and seemed in
no way delighted with it.  He lay for a moment
motionless as if dead.

"Glorious!" exclaimed Santugo, while I took
the poniard from the relaxed hand of my adversary,
whose long curly ringlets and mustaches fell off
one by one (as we raised him up), and revealed the
shaven chin, close shorn hair, and firm swart
features of one well-known to us.

"Now, by all the imps of Etna!" exclaimed
Santugo, in a transport of fury and surprise, letting
him fall heavily on the turf, "'tis the
brigand—Francatripa!"

"Al vostro commando, (at your service)"—replied
that personage, bowing with perfect nonchalance.

"Rascal! and you presumed to speak of love to
Bianca of Santugo?  Carpo di Baccho!  I am half
inclined to sabre him where he lies, to teach him
the respect he owes to noble ladies!"

"Aye do, your excellency," cried Andronicus;
"slay him—the impostor! his head is worth its
weight in ducats: crush him like a torpedo—gash
him across the throat like a lynx!  Where,
cattivo! have I left my knife?  Only think,
signor—his villains the other night, burned the village
of Amato—plundered the shrine of the Virgin,
whose milk is preserved there in a bottle.  O
horror he broke off the neck and drank the contents!"

"Silence, dolt!" exclaimed Francatripa.  "You
have discovered me, gentlemen," continued the
prostrate robber, whose throat I still grasped;
"and what mean you to do now?  I am in your
power, and there is not a syndic or commandant
in the Calabrias but would—notwithstanding that
I stand so high in the Queen's favour—give a
thousand pieces of gold for my head.  However, as it
is of more use to me, they shall not have it for
ten times that number.  Maladetto! how it rings
after that crackjaw!  Do you mean to make me
prisoner?"

"No, Francatripa!" replied the generous
Santugo, in a voice which, from being sternly slow,
became soft and kind; "I am one of the Alfieri—thou
knowest me, and knowest too well I would
scorn the deed: savage and bloody though all
men term you, I have heard many a good and
generous trait of your character; and the
uncompromising hostility you have ever evinced to
France, your high courage and incorruptible
patriotism, have gained my admiration and
esteem: although at heart I abhorred the cruelties
perpetrated by your people on our countrymen—defending
our towns gallantly from Regnier to-day,
and pillaging them ruthlessly to-morrow."

The brigand, who expected to be overwhelmed
with reproaches and scorn, was confounded by this
unexpected address; and he became still more so
when I assisted him to rise, and restored his
poniard, saying—

"Let us be friends, Signor!  I have not
forgotten how generously you entertained the Cavaliere
di Castelermo and myself last night; protecting
us from the insolence of your band, and the
petulence of their lieutenant.  Receive your poniard,
and learn to make a better use of it: or rather not to
use it at all.  I esteem you as a brave man, though
an erring one; and trust that the blow I gave you
will not occasion you further inconvenience."

"Francatripa!" added Santugo, striking him
familiarly on the shoulder, "seek another path
than that which leads through the prison-gate to
the scaffold.  Carolina has sent to you, though
but a mountain robber, the same badge of knighthood
with which she adorns the noblest breasts in
Naples—the star of St. Constantine.  Learn to
deserve it and to wear it with honour.  Grow wise
in time: become honest as you are brave: lead
your bold followers against the legions of France,
instead of the poor carbonari of our hills, and the
peaceful vine-traders of our valleys.  Fight only
for Italy and honour, and, corpo di Baccho! you will
live in history and in song, like Marco Sciarra—re
della campagna—and lord of the wilderness!"

The robber seemed deeply affected by our
frankness.

"Monsignore Visconte and Signor Capitano,"
said he, saluting us gracefully, and retiring a pace;
"I am not the hardened villain the evil tongues
of slanderers would make me.  God and his
blessed Mother, who read our hearts, know that I
have been by stern necessity compelled to
witness—ay, and to participate in—many a deed of
blood and horror, from which my soul shrank with
disgust.  Yet there was a time, to which I look back
through the long dark vista of many a sinful year"
(he spoke slowly and with sighs)—"a time when,
in youth and innocence, I sat by my mother's
knee in our little cot among the wilds of La Syla,
and when she sang to me of the exploits of Sciarra
the glorious, Battimello the treacherous, and
Mangone the terrible.  Ah! how little did I then
dream of following so closely in their footsteps—of
being what I have since become!  Deeply
these songs sank in my heart, and more fondly
were they remembered than the Ave Maria and
hymn to the little child Jesus, which the same
dear lips taught me to chant every night before
the humble shrine in our cottage.  I am not a
cold-blooded and deliberate rascal.  No: a
combination of circumstances brought me to the
unenviable position in which I now stand; roused all
the evil passions of my breast, and made me an
outcast and an enemy to mankind.  My wife was
false—her seducer was noble—my knife was sharp
as my vengeance—that is my history.  The
Barone of Castelguelfo was my evil genius: but
he did not die.  I fled to poverty and despair—thence
to crime.  How easy is the transition!
There was a time—but via! 'tis past: let me recur
to it no more, but forget it; as Francatripa the
gentleman is forgotten in Francatripa the capobandito.

"Remember, excellency, that I sought not the
villa D'Alfieri uninvited: I went there on the
pressing invitation of the viscontessa; to whom, in
this disguise, I was introduced by the Bishop of
Cosenza, of whom—but enough!  The recollection
of what I have been, leads me to love that
society in which I once moved as an equal; but
from whose magic circle I am now proscribed, as
if the mark of Cain were upon me.  Between us
crime has raised up a mighty barrier, which
neither this honoured badge, the gift of a queen, nor
that commission (at which all men laugh as a
burlesque when bestowed on me) can level.  And
truly, though proud of my knightly star, I know
too well that it shines with diminished lustre on
the breast of a poor Calabrian outlaw."

His voice faltered, and his brow clouded still
more; he took his horse by the bridle, and yet
paused as if he had something more to say.

"My lord, beware of our mutual enemy, the
Baron Guelfo.  My people lately intercepted a
letter from him to the Cavaliere Belcastro,
concerning some Buonapartist plot they were
hatching.  He has been enrolling an unusual number
of sbirri, and reports are current that he intends
to raise the standard of Joseph on this side of the
Calabrian lines.  And, my lord, let the excellent
lady, your mother, be more wary in future, and
avoid inviting to her own mansion those gamesters
whom she meets at the palace of the bishop.
Would to Heaven, I had never beheld the Signorina
Bianca!—Pardon me, visconte.—Her beauty
and innocence have awakened in my breast old
feelings and long-forgotten sentiments of honour
and love, which all the sins and toils of
four-and-twenty years—wretched years of wandering and
misery—have not been able to obliterate from the
memory of the hapless, the crime-hardened, and
heart-broken robber of Calabria!"

He turned aside for a moment to conceal the
passing emotion, which caused every muscle and
feature of his handsome face to quiver perceptibly.

"Gentlemen," said he, recovering, "you imagined
I was completely at your mercy, yet you
behaved with a noble generosity which I shall
never forget.  You might have proposed to slay
me at that instant" (he darted a terrible glance at
Andronicus), "or to deliver me up to the nearest
podesta: you betrayed no intention of doing
either; but, had you made the attempt, behold
my prevention!"

He placed to his lips a bugle of black buffalo
horn, and blew a shrill signal, which made hill
and valley, wood and shore, now growing dark
and grim in the twilight, re-echo to the sound.
It acted like the whistle of Black Roderick in the
wilderness.  His followers, to the number of twice
five hundred men, sprang up from their concealment
among the underwood, the dark green
laurels, the long wavy grass, the rocks and the
crumbling ruins, and crowded around us: a startling
swarm of black-browed and ruffian-like fellows,
all clad in the gay brigand's garb, and well
armed with the Calabrian rifle, pouch, and powder-horn;
some with the spoil of the unhappy Frenchmen
massacred at La Syla and the villa of Sauveria,
but most of them with good British buff-belts,
muskets, bayonets, and cartridge-boxes, which on
our landing we had issued, perhaps rather too
indiscriminately, to the peasantry.

My friend and I confronted this appalling array
with firmness; but old Zacheo grew pale as
death: his legs tottered under him, and he sank
humbly on his knees, while the memory of the
fatal words by which he had urged us to despatch
Francatripa, caused a cold perspiration to come
over him.

"Signori, behold my followers, those free
foresters of St. Eufemio, whose fame is so terrible
through all the Neapolitan territories.  During
our whole interview they have been around us;
so you were all more in my power than I could be
in yours.  Do me the honour to keep the poniards
for my sake; and if ever you are assaulted by a
Calabrian outlaw, show him my cypher on the
pommel, and his arm will be powerless against
you, and the passage free.  Yes! fallen though
he is, the name of Francatripa finds an echo in
every Italian heart; and there is something
glorious in that!"

He vaulted gracefully into his saddle, and
assuming all his former loftiness of manner, made
a signal to his band, who immediately moved off at
a running trot towards the forest, led by my old
acquaintance the crookback, who now very ignobly
bestrode a paunchy mule.

"Buona notte, Monsignore Visconte; Capitano,
santa notte!" cried the gallant robber, waving his
cap, and putting spurs to his horse.

"A long good-bye to Francatripa, and all his
company," I replied, significantly, as he rode
away at full gallop: but Luigi, who had also
resumed his hauteur, merely gave him a cold
bow, and muttered to me—

"Pshaw!  I hate these sentimental ruffians.
Yet he is a famous fellow."

I preserved one of the brigand's poniards, as a
memorial of that strange encounter; but my
haughtier friend gave the other as a gift to his
servant, who immediately placed it in his leathern
girdle.  After watching the disappearance of the
brigands, as they retired by one of those gloomy
gorges through which the Calabrian roads
generally wind, we prepared to return to the villa,
having now been absent two hours; as we
remembered how great would be the anxiety of the
timid Bianca for our safety.





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.. _`ARRIVAL OF THE PHILISTINES`:

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   CHAPTER VI.


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   ARRIVAL OF THE PHILISTINES.

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It was now night, and the stars were shining in
the dark blue sky; the lights from the tents and
huts within the field-work sparkled amid the
deep gloom which involved the lower parts of
the shore, and shed red streaks of uncertain
radiance on the black heaving waters of the bay.
The moon, like a gigantic silver shield, began
slowly to show its white disk in the direction of
the Lipari Isles, and to throw a brightening ray of
pallid lustre from the level horizon to the shingly
beach of St. Eufemio.

"Excellency," said Andronicus, cantering up
to us, "there are armed horsemen crossing the
Amato, and riding straight upon our path.  They
may be Castel-guelfo's men: his people are not
with the Masse.  Shall we meet them or turn
aside?"

"The former of course," replied the imprudent
visconte: "why, am I to turn aside my horse every
time a mounted man appears on the road?  Let
us once be past yonder post, and we are safe
within the bounds of my own territory."

The Greek made no reply, but reined in his
horse, and fell into our rear again; yet I
perceived him unbuttoning the flaps of his holsters.
Our path lay along the skirts of the forest, and
we rode unseen under the deep shadow it cast
across the path: but the bright moon revealed
the dark outline of several horsemen, posted at
a spot where the road crossed the river; which
glittered like a broad belt of silver in the dancing
beams, when its current, emerging from the
depths of the wood, swept through the illumined
plain.  The strangers were thirteen in number,
and all well armed with pikes and carbines;
except one, who, by his drawn sabre and the
plume in his hat, appeared to be an officer.  By
their equipment, we knew them to be a party of
the Loyal Calabrese Masse; and we paused to
reconnoitre them before pushing our horses across
the stream.

"Who are you that bar our way in this manner?"
demanded Santugo.

"The bearers of a message to his Excellency
the visconte; who, I presume, now addresses me,"
was the reply.

"A troublesome one, if it requires thirteen men
to deliver it.  Who sends it?"

"The most reverend father in God, the Lord
Bishop of Cosenza, president of the grand criminal
court at Palermo," was the formal reply.
"Resistance is madness.  Surrender your sword,
Monsignore."

"To whom?" asked Santugo, with fierce surprise.

"The Barone di Bivona."

"The hereditary bailiff surrender to a mere
barone of his province!  Never, by Heaven!"
exclaimed the visconte, drawing the sword which,
as an officer of the Free Corps, he wore
continually.  "Follow me, Claude!  Zacheo, forward
and at them.  I will not be captured tamely
within the bounds of my own jurisdiction.
On! and cut a passage through them."

Although not quite so rash and hot-blooded as
my Italian friend, I had no time for reflection;
but, following his example, drew my sabre, and,
despising the Masse as all our army did, we dashed
through the Amato, splashing the sparkling water
on every side, while a volley from twelve carbines
whistled about our ears.  I lost an epaulette by
one shot, and had my right cheek grazed by
another, but luckily no harm was done; and,
charging three abreast, we fell upon them
pell-mell.  I contented myself with acting strictly on
the defensive, and used my sabre so expertly in
guarding my head, limbs, and body, that I was
invulnerable; but Santugo, whose inherent Italian
ferocity now burst forth without control, laid open
the cheek of one poor wretch, threw a second from
his horse with a thrust, and, dealing a sweeping
backstroke at them all, pushed forward at full speed.

Andronicus, who was armed with a heavy
couteau-de-chasse, which his sire had wielded in the
wars of the gallant Conte di Leyda, after laying
about him like his namesake at Tyre, followed his
master's example; which I, too, was not slow in
imitating.

The skirmish was one which I did not in the
least relish, being aware that I stood an excellent
chance of receiving a shot or a pike-thrust,
without gaining an atom of honour; and that a severe
reprimand, perhaps a court-martial, would be the
consequence, if our general learned that I was
prowling about like a wandering knight, and
brawling with the constituted authorities, when I
should have been riding, post-haste, with the
papers which M'Leod so carefully prepared for
his perusal—and for which our ambassador at
Palermo was no doubt waiting with the utmost
impatience.

The provincial horses are famous for their
strength and speed, and Santugo's cattle carried
us across the country at a tremendous pace.  We
were closely followed by the exasperated troopers
of the Masse, who now and then fired a shot after
us, by way of giving us a relish to our ride.

"Which way, visconte?" cried I.

"To the villa: it is our safest—our only
halting-place.  The mountains are too far off."

"By Jupiter!  I feel half inclined to turn and
show fight, if they continue to fire at us thus."

"Would to Heaven and San Ugo, that Giacomo
and any four of my old sbirri were here!"
exclaimed the visconte, as he fired his pistols at
random.  The last shot *told* (as we say) effectually.
A cry was heard: I looked back for a moment,
and saw by the moonlight a man rolling in agony
on the road, while his horse was rushing to the
rear at full gallop.

"It is no sinecure being on the staff here,
truly," thought I, as we pulled up in the quadrangle
of the villa, after having distanced our pursuers
by two miles.

The gruff clamour of male voices swearing in
most guttural Neapolitan, the shrill cries of women,
and the confusion reigning within the mansion,
announced to my friend that the enemies of his
peace had penetrated to the very centre of his
household; armed equally with carnal and legal
weapons, warrants of the church and state, and
assisted by the followers of Bivona, who wore the
red cockade of the Masse.

"Francesca is lost, and for me nothing now
remains but to die!  Oh! my cousin—my love—my
wife, I alone am guilty!" exclaimed Santugo,
in a piercing voice, as he leaped from his horse,
drew his sword, and rushed up the marble staircase
towards the apartment where the greatest
uproar seemed to reign.

The chamber which had concealed the fugitive
from the field of Benevento, in the days of Charles
of Anjou, had not availed his descendant now.
Dragged forth from the vault below the round
tower, we beheld the unhappy Francesca, almost
inanimate from terror, in the hands of two
rough-looking fellows who wore the bishop's livery: a
kind of monkish garb, with which their black cross
belts and cartridge-boxes, and flaming scarlet
cockades, but ill accorded.  Overcome with shame
and horror, the poor girl drooped like a crushed
flower in their rude grasp.

Never was I so much struck with her resemblance
to Bianca.  She had the same placid brow,
the same clear and brilliant eyes, the same exquisitely
gentle expression and classic contour of face,
which had gained these lovely sisters the soubriquet
of the three Italian Graces.  But now, alas! her
features wore the hue of death, and appeared yet
more ashy when contrasted with the heavy masses
of black curls which fell in disorder over her
shoulders; her teeth were set, and her eyes glared
with an unnatural lustre.

With all the tenacious energy of one who struggles
for life, she clung to the satin skirt of the
viscontessa, whose right hand yet grasped a suite
of cards, whilst her left was filled with counters.
The old lady was quite paralyzed.

On the other side clung Bianca, almost sinking
with terror, and surveying, with restless and tearful
eyes, the fierce group of armed men who thronged
the apartment.

"Heaven!—O Heaven!" exclaimed Francesca,
in piercing accents; "save me, dearest
Signora—my aunt—my second mother—save me!
Let me not be torn from my father's house by
these frightful men!  O misery! what have I
done?  O for my father's arm to shield me now!
But he died in Apulia.  Luigi, Luigi, save me,
or I am lost to you for ever!  Luigi, anima mia!"

What a voice she had!  Never did that common,
but most endearing epithet of Italian love sound so
soft, so thrilling, to my ear.  She was free, almost
ere the words had left her pallid lips.  Santugo
struck down both the men who held her, and the
flashing of their pistols in his face only served to
increase his fury.  Bearing her to the other end of
the room he defied them to come on, with a chivalric
rashness not often possessed now by his countrymen.

They were not slow in accepting the invitation:
their courage—as usual with the "swinish
multitude"—being increased by their numbers, they
pressed forward with clubbed carbines and fixed
bayonets, and a sharp conflict ensued.  Feeling
certain that Santugo would be worsted, I forced a
passage to his side, and endeavoured to beat back
the assailants with my sabre; and now came the
tug of war.

Francesca had swooned, and hung like a piece
of drapery over Luigi's arm; the viscontessa
implored mercy for her, whilst Bianca buried her face
in the bosom of Anina, who lent her powerful
voice to swell the clamour: reviling the intruders,
and encouraging us to slay them without mercy.

The outcries of the assembled household, together
with the clank of heavy boots, the clash of
weapons, the snapping of pistols, the groans and
cries of the wounded, and the imprecations of the
troopers, and, added to this, my own voice calling
fruitlessly on the assailants to fall back, to desist,
made the lofty chamber seem a very pandemonium.
Sometimes a pistol-shot filled the place with smoke:
one ill-directed ball shattered the chandelier,
scattering the wax-lights, and involving us in
comparative darkness; after which, I believe, we all
laid about us at random.  Another ball stretched
on the floor the venerable Andronicus, who had
just come to our assistance, and was cutting away
among the buskinned shins of the enemy, using
his sharp couteau like a scythe.

For a time I merely used my sabre in defending
Luigi and the unhappy girl, who hung insensible
upon him; but finding that our numerous
antagonists were repeatedly having recourse to
fire-arms, and that our safety was, consequently,
more endangered, I slashed a few adroitly across
the fingers, cleft a slice from the buffalo-head of a
sbirro, and might have performed many more
exploits, had not Castelermo at that moment burst in
amongst us, holding a lamp aloft in one hand, and
his sword in the other.

"Basta! on peril of your lives, hold all your
hands, or, by San Ermo, I will drive my sword
through the body of the first who strikes!" cried
this formidable cavalier, with the voice of a stentor.
"Croce di Malta! has hell broken loose, or are ye
mad?  What!  Italians fighting like wild wolves,
while so many Frenchmen are yet on this side of
the Alps?  Sheath your sword, Santugo—back
Signor Claude: shame upon you all!"

On hearing this determined threat, and
beholding the Maltese cross, the troopers of the
Masse shrank back respectfully: but the furious
visconte, whom the protracted conflict, the helpless
state of Francesca, and a wound he had received,
had worked up into a perfect frenzy, yet defied
them once more to the encounter; and fear of
abandoning his charge, even for a moment, alone
restrained him from rushing upon them.

"Anathema! a curse upon ye, cowards!" he
exclaimed; "away from my house, or abide the
consequences!  Corpo di Caio Mario!  O that
the thrice villainous Bishop of Cosenza, or his
contemptible minion di Bivona were here, to receive
at my hands the reward of all this outrage!"

"I am here, excellency," cried the tough old
barone, bursting through the throng, and
confronting the fiery Santugo.

He was a thickset, hard-featured man, and
wore the scarlet cockade and scarf of the Masse,
with a military sword and buff belt; though otherwise
he was attired as a civilian.  His gray hairs
glistened in the light; he bent his keen, hollow
eye on Santugo with a stern careworn aspect,
and his sword flashed as he stood on his guard
with the air of a perfect fencer.  With eyes
absolutely blazing with animosity, the visconte was
rushing upon him; but faint with loss of blood,
he reeled, fell upon the floor, and lay still,
without signs of life.  His mother uttered a piercing
cry: Bianca covered her face, and knelt beside
him.  I, too, thought him dead: his classic
features expressed all that combination of mental
and corporeal agony, stiffening into rigidity,
which the pencil of Guido Reni has so powerfully
portrayed in some of his works.

In the confusion which the visconte's fall
occasioned, the bishop's officials easily possessed
themselves of the inanimate Francesca, and
bore her away in a close carriage.  I was
disposed to interfere, but Castelermo grasped my
hand.

"Signor Claude," said he, "I honour the
sentiment which prompts you to defend this
unhappy lady; but contending in her favour is to
fight against the Church, whose cause is ever the
most popular in Italy.  The consecrated bride of
God, sworn to Heaven at the blessed altar,
D'Alfieri cannot make her his either by force or
fraud.  For the bosom of a lover she has left that
of the Church, and back to it she must return; to
be chastened and mortified, but I trust not
abandoned in the flesh!  No, the days when that
dread phrase was used have passed away.  Had
Santugo been more religious and less rash, her
vows would have been dispensed with in the
usual manner, and she might have been his
happy bride; but *now*, alas! after all that has
passed, they must part to meet no more.  The
dungeons of the castle of Cosenza, or the still
more horrible vaults of Canne, must close over
her, and, perhaps, for ever.  Madonna, be
merciful to her soul!"

The voice of Castelermo faltered, as he
deplored the miseries to which the wretched
Francesca would be subjected by his bigoted and
superstitious countrymen.  With these miseries
I was then unacquainted, as I knew not the secret
horrors those living tombs of Canne were yet to
unfold to me, and was ignorant of the cruelties
which were too often practised within the walls
of continental convents; where a system of domestic
persecution had replaced the greater terrors
of that mighty engine of ecclesiastical tyranny,
the Holy Office, whose punishments for broken
vows were founded on those to which the Roman
vestals were sentenced by the law of Tarquinius
Priscus.

The bishop's followers having departed, the
Barone di Bivona collected his horsemen and
withdrew; threatening, however, to call the
visconte to a severe reckoning on some future day:
indeed, his dangerous wound and Castelermo's
intervention, alone prevented his being carried
off prisoner, as the bishop's warrant included him
in the charge of sacrilege; but events which soon
after occurred prevented that prelate from
troubling him again about the matter.

Bivona had been despatched with thirty horsemen
from the army of the Masse, in pursuit of
two fugitives suspected of treason and of tampering
with the enemy; and as he passed southward
had been requested by the bishop to assist in the
capture of Francesca, whom for certain reasons,
yet to be explained, that pious prelate was most
eager to have in his power.  The baron departed
for Jacurso in pursuit of the runaways; but
our unlucky acquaintance with him ended not
that night.

The visconte's senses returned on his wounds
being bound up; but he nearly suffered a relapse
on discovering that Francesca was away, and in
the power of the bishop's people.  In his ravings
he cursed us all; he called for his horse, his
sword and pistols, and before day dawned he was
in a raging fever, which brought him to the
brink of the grave.  Alarmed at his danger,
dreadfully agitated by the scene acted before
them, and in excessive sorrow for the fate of
Francesca, his mother and Bianca were scarcely
less ill; so the whole household was in a state of
disorder.

Mistrusting the skill of the neighbouring
physicians, I despatched a note to the camp for
Dr. Duncan Macnesia of ours, who was still with
the medical staff.  He arrived in a short time,
and the visconte was committed to his care.
Remembering my encounter with Francatripa, and
knowing well how little a brigand's word could
be relied on, I applied to the commandant at
St. Eufemio for a guard to protect the
villa till quieter times.  Early next morning,
a Serjeant and fourteen rank and file of De
Watteville's corps arrived.  After seeing them
quartered, and giving a few orders relative to the
posting of sentinels, &c., accompanied by my
cicerone, I once more set out, very unwillingly,
on my mission to Scylla; congratulating myself,
however, that my opportune return to the villa
had freed it from a dangerous personage, and
Bianca from a suitor so unworthy of her.

The visconte was too ill and too indignant to
bid us adieu; but he sent word by Macnesia that
we should never be forgiven for having permitted
his cousin to be carried off, and that he would call
us out the moment he recovered.  He said he had
sworn by Madonna, by the body of Bacchus, and
of Caius Marius to boot, that I must think no more
of Bianca; who parted with me in tears, and
promised, with her aunt's permission, to answer my
letters, notwithstanding his threats.  Thus ended
my long-wished-for visit to the villa; and the event
left me full of doubt and anxiety for the future.

It was evening before we were again in our
saddles and *en route*.  We hired a goat-herd to
conduct us by a short, though unfrequented, road
to Francavilla; but it proved a long journey to us:
the rogue led us the wrong way, and absconded
about nightfall, leaving us among the mountain
forests near Squillaci, on the Adriatic side of this
land of brawl and uproar.





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.. _`ADVENTURE AT "THE CENTAUR"`:

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   CHAPTER VII.


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   ADVENTURE AT THE CENTAUR.

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By the way-side we met a poor and aged priest,
travelling on foot; he was exhausted with toil, and
his gray hair and tattered cope were covered with
the dust of a long journey; he had sandals on his
feet, a wallet on his back, and a long staff in his
hand.  I could not ride past him: I, who was
young, stout, and active; so dismounting, I
marched on foot for six miles, while the thankful
canon rode my caparisoned grey to Squillaci.
He was a Greek priest, travelling from Rossano,
where there were several monasteries of the
order of St. Basil; all afterwards suppressed by
Murat.

My kindness was repaid by his superior, the old
Abate of the Basilians; to whom he reported our
arrival in the decayed and solitary town, which
was then involved in the gloom and obscurity of
night.  We heard no sound as we entered, save
that of our horse's hoofs ringing on the old Roman
road, and the distant roar of the Ionian sea, as it
rolled on the reverberating shores of the gulf—the
Scylletic gulf of classical antiquity, famous for the
shipwreck of "wise Ulysses;" who, as tradition
asserts, with the survivors of his disaster, founded
the city.

We were hospitably received by the Abate, who
was a true Calabrian and staunch royalist; and
he made the purple wines of the province flow like
water, in honour of Ferdinand and Carolina of
Naples—"il Cavaliere Stuardo, and the brave
soldiers of his Britannic Majesty—Evoe, viva!"

As we had ridden our horses at an easy pace,
they held out admirably; but seventy miles of such
miserable roads as those we had travelled—ways
suited only for mules, goats, and buffaloes—were
equal to a hundred on level ground.  By the
war-like operations of the French, the Masse, and the
brigands, the rustic bridges were everywhere
broken down, and the roads trenched and cut up
to hinder the passage of cannon and waggons; so
we had to make many a weary detour among the
hills, following sheep-tracks, at one time at the
summit, at another at the bottom of a precipice:
too often we had no better road than the dry
channel of a mountain stream afforded; and on
such a path it required the utmost powers of spur
and bridle, and all the rider's skill, to prevent the
horse breaking his knees by slipping on the wave-worn pebbles.

On quitting the monastery next morning, we
beheld the ceremony of a military salutation of the
consecrated host, by a party of the Sicilian
volunteers belonging to Kempt's brigade, then lying
there in cantonment.

The host was borne aloft through the streets by
the venerable Abate, followed in solemn procession
by his Greek basilians, carrying crosses, banners,
relics of saints and martyrs, smoking censers and
lighted tapers, which filled the air with perfume.
They moved to the sound of a low chant; and the
whole population knelt bare-headed on each side,
as they passed.  The Sicilian infantry formed a
lane, with the ranks facing inwards—the commanding
officer kneeling in front, while the arms
were presented—the colours levelled to the dust,
and the drums beat a march on the flanks.
Castelermo dismounted, and knelt on the pavement;
but I, like a heretical presbyterian, kept my
saddle: yet the sour looks of the watchful fathers
softened when I uncovered my head; for I was
well aware that it would have been gross disrespect
not to have done so, on an occasion so solemn.

Turning our horses eastward to regain our lost
ground, we passed through the village of Jacurso,
and the town of Francavilla, crossed the stream of
Angistola, and ascended towards Monteleone;
whose castled height, and groves of oak, burst at
once upon our view, as we turned an angle of the
mountain path.  At our feet spread the Tyrrhene
sea, calmly rolling, and stretching like a vast blue
mirror from St. Eufemio to Castello di Bivona;
whilst its waves flashed golden in the sun, as
they broke on the distant promontory of Tropea—the
Portus Hercules of the Romans.  Further
westward, the dim but sunny horizon was streaked
by the light smoke ascending from the peak of
Stromboli, nearly fifty miles distant.  Around us
the country was like a beautiful garden: the
maple, the vallonia oak, the dark sepulchral
cypress, the wild acacia, the towering pine, the
pistachio, the sweet-chestnut, and the walnut-trees,
all displayed their varying foliage on the lowlands;
while the quivering aspen and evergreen oleander
waved their leafy branches from the sandy rocks.
Sheltered by graceful weeping-willows and lofty
Judas'-trees, little cottages peeped out on the
green hill sides; whilst the ruddy orange, the
golden-apple, the pomegranate, the almond, the
grape, and the plum, were flourishing around in
glorious luxuriance beneath the warm light of an
unclouded sun.

Spangled with myriads of flowers, the green
and lofty hills reared their verdant or wooded
summits to the azure sky; numerous flocks
browsed on their sides, beneath the shepherd's
care, and the cawing rooks wheeled in airy
circles around them.  We were always greeted
with a wave of the hat by the guardians of this
modern Arcadia; who lay basking on the grassy
sward, or sat beneath the brow of an ivy-clad
rock, or a shadowy tree, where they had slept
away the night in their rough tabarri.  Each had
by him his keen-eyed wolf-dog, courageous in
spirit, strong, muscular, and beautiful in form,
with bushy tail and long hairy coat whiter than
snow.  These dogs watched alternately the browsing
herds, the twittering birds, and the dark eyes
of their indolent masters; who spent their solitary
hours in smoking home-made cigars, sucking
liquorice root, carving cudgels, scraping reeds for
the zampogna, or improvising their mistresses on
the three-stringed guitar.

The breeze from the Tyrrhene Sea swept over
the fertile shore, making the morning air delightfully
cool and agreeable; but when noon approached,
we were glad to halt at Monteleone,
until its fierce glow and suffocating closeness had
passed away.

Monteleone (a marquisate which Buonaparte
had bestowed on one of the most famous and
favoured of his officers) lies close to the base of
lofty mountains, which are covered with the
richest foliage during the greater part of the year:
they form a part of that mighty chain which runs
through the centre of all Italy.  Its regular streets
and handsome houses, built in the picturesque
style of the country, were securely enclosed by a
fortified wall, where the bayonets of our sentinels
were gleaming through loop and embrasure.  On
the towers of its castle, which were half-hidden
amid a wood of lordly oaks and pines, the standard
of Naples drooped listlessly; every breath of wind
had died away, and the air was hot and still:
profound silence reigned in the streets, and the
white sunny pavement appeared new and strange
to us, after riding so long on the green velvet turf
of the country.  Both piazza and street were
lonely and deserted; the citizens were enjoying
their forenoon nap, and the sentinels kept close
within their boxes.

We put up at an inn, or hotel, over the arched
portal of which projected a hideous centaur,
holding loft a sign-board, on which a long string of
verses informed us that Andrea da Fossi gave the
best entertainment in Italy for man and horse.
Beneath this peeped out a coat armorial, cut in
stone, time-worn and decayed; but the collar that
surrounded it bore the Order of the Crescent,
instituted by Rendler of Anjou on his conquering
Sicily.  Above this was the coronet of the Princes
of Squillaci, to whom, in happier times, the edifice
had been a palace; and, though partly ruined,
altered, and transmogrified, it still bore traces of
its ancient grandeur.

"We shall be well quartered here," said Castelermo,
with a sigh of weariness, as we dismounted;
both feeling inactive enough after our long
morning ride: "but if Signor da Fossi promises more
than he can perform, why, then, basta! my riding-rod
shall cultivate acquaintance with his shoulders.
We gentlemen of Malta like not to be trifled
with."

The ostlers received our horses, and with much
ceremony we were ushered up-stairs by mine host
himself (who, indeed, was seldom troubled with
visitors), and led into a magnificent room of the
old palace: the cushions of the sofas and chairs
were of scarlet silk, figured with gold; the
hangings were of crimson velvet, edged with the same
costly material; the ceiling was in fresco, and the
floor of fancy tiles; while the tables were slabs of
white or yellow marble, on columns of gilded
wood.  Above a sideboard, stood a little Madonna
in a niche, with a lamp before it, before which, on
entering, Castelermo made a most profound
genuflexion: we afterwards found it very convenient
for our cigars.

Wine and iced water were the first refreshments
we summoned; then throwing open the
windows, which faced the west, to admit the cool
breeze from the distant sea, we drew the dark
thick curtains to elude the glaring sun, and each
threw himself upon a sofa, overcome with fatigue
and lassitude.  What a relief I experienced when
divested of my sash and belt, and its heavy
appurtenances the sword and sabre-tache; and when
I exchanged for a light shell-jacket, the tight
regimentals: in which it was no joke to be
harnessed and buttoned from waist to chin in a
climate so sultry.

Among novelists and narrators, an inn has
always been famous as a place of introduction, a
starting point, or the casual scene of unexpected
rencontres and adventures; and so "Il
Centauro" proved to us: we had not been two hours
beneath its roof before we became involved in
a very heart-stirring affair.

The waiter had cleared away a hasty luncheon,
and the glittering decanters of well-iced
champagne and gioja, the salvers of cool, refreshing
grapes, and little maccaroons sweet as sugar and
almonds could make them, were all receiving
due justice from myself and cicerone.  The sun
was verging westward, the air grew more cool,
and we were beginning to breathe again; when
a bustle was heard at the gate of the inn-yard,
and an elderly man, armed like an officer of the
Loyal Masse, and dressed in a suit of light green,
bare-headed and with his long white hair
streaming behind him, dashed through the archway on
a swift and powerful horse—one of the true
Barbary breed, clean-legged, compact, black as
jet, and full of blood and fire.  It was covered
with foam, and seemed to have been ridden far
and fast; for no sooner did the fierce rider pull
impetuously up, than the noble horse staggered
back upon its haunches, threw up its head wildly,
and then rolled in the dust beneath the weight
of its double burden: for a young girl was seated
across the holsters.  She clung to the officer with
a degree of terror and affection, which at once
excited our interest and curiosity; and uttering
a cry of despair, as their last hope, the brave
horse, sank beneath them, she fainted: but the
old cavalier, disengaging himself from the falling
steed, bore her up harmless, and in a manner so
graceful and adroit, that Marco clapped his
hands and muttered "Basta!"  The days of the
Barbary courser were ended: stretching out his
long yet slender legs, he beat the gravel with
quivering hoof, and protruded a dry white
tongue; a spasm convulsed his form, the dark
blood gushed in a torrent from his dilated
nostrils, and the brave horse moved no more.

"Horses, fresh horses for Scylla," cried the
cavalier.  "Quick! as you value life—fresh horses!"

"Maladetto," muttered Andrea da Fossi,
nonplussed, "we have not had such a thing these
three years as relays of horses.  When Signor the
Marchese di Monteleone——"

"Enough—the old story.  Are there British
troops in the town?"

"In the castle, signor."

"Blessed be Madonna, then we are saved!
Farewell! my faithful Barbary, that has borne me
through the hot perils of many a dangerous day:
thou hast failed me now!" said the old officer,
turning to his dead horse, and gazing wistfully
upon it.  A tear shone in his eye: it was the
feeling of a moment; other and weightier cares
pressed close upon him, and he advanced to the
inn-door with the inanimate lady.

The burly Andrea seemed rather unwilling to
admit guests who came in such a questionable
manner; but Castelermo and I cut the matter
short by conducting the strangers into our
apartment; while their horse-furniture was pounced
upon by the innkeeper, to make sure amends
so far for any trouble or expense he might be put
to on their account.  His wife and the female
part of the household, used all means to restore
the inanimate girl; after which I had leisure to
observe her companion.  He was a fine-looking
old man, somewhere about sixty, with all the
*beau-ideal* of the gentlemanly old soldier in his
figure, aspect, and address; his thin hair and
moustaches were silvered with age, and his cheek
had been well tanned by the fourteen years'
campaigning of the French invasion; his coat was
laced with silver and girt with a scarlet
sash, after the fashion of the Masse, and he
wore a heavy sabre of Eastern fashion, which,
when he laid it on a side-table, Andrea da Fossi
also secured unobserved.  So deep was his
anxiety, so vivid his excitement, while the young
girl slowly revived, that he had not as yet
addressed us; but kept his face closely bent over
her.

We became deeply interested in their fortunes.

"'Tis some wild love-adventure, like poor
Luigi's," whispered Castelermo: "may it end
less fatally!  The cavalier is none of the youngest;
but this pretty donzella has quite won my
friendship."

At that moment the heavy velvet curtains
were withdrawn, the bright light of the setting
sun poured into the room, and the stranger turned
towards us.

"Major Gismondo!" we both exclaimed, now
recognising him, for the first time, through the
dust which powdered his altered features.

"The same, signori," said he, with a grave
bow, and, grasping our hands.  "Thank God
you are here: we are safe, then: Signor Dundas
can protect us—my daughter is saved!"  He
covered his face with his handkerchief, while
Marco handed him wine.

"Poor little Luisa!" said Castelermo.  "Claude,
saw you ever a girl so beautifully fair?  But, in
Heaven's name, what has happened?—speak,
Signor Gismondo."

"You shall hear, when these people are gone—when
Luisa recovers.  My tongue can scarcely
articulate: patience—but a minute!"

He was dreadfully exhausted and agitated.
Castelermo might well term Luisa fair: one
excepted, her face appeared to me the most
enchanting I had yet seen in Calabria.  Though
less showy and stately than the three sisters
D'Alfieri, her beauty was, perhaps, more touching
and girlish.  A tight satin vest, with sleeves
that reached only to the elbow, displayed the
full outline of her bust; whose whole proportions
were equally just and delicate.  The thick white
lace which edged her boddice, and fell in folds
from her short sleeves, could not rival in
whiteness the snowy arms and swelling bosom; of
which her disordered attire revealed rather more
than usual.  Her complexion was remarkably pale
for an Italian girl: but the arch of her brown
eyebrows, the length of her lashes, and the delicate
little lids they fringed were perfectly beautiful;
her cheeks were full and round, almost
imperceptibly tinged with red, and, as Marco
said of her mouth, so pretty and pouting, it
"seemed formed only for kisses."  The girl was a
very Hebe! and not more than sixteen.  The glossy
ringlets of her long hair streamed in the sunlight,
like a golden shower, over the shoulder of the old
man on whose arm she rested, and who hung over
her with all the tenderness and anxiety she
merited.  After a time she sighed deeply,
disclosing a row of little white teeth, pure as those
of an infant, and opening her eyes she became at
once alive to the scene around her.  The vivacity
which sparkled in those bright blue orbs, together
with the crimson blush which overspread her
face and polished neck, made her appear a
thousand times more attractive than before.  "It
was the hectic of a moment:" it died away.
Alas! the poor girl was utterly exhausted, and almost
speechless.

"My daughter! have I saved you only to see
you perish from fatigue?" said Gismondo, in a
faltering voice.  "Luisa, look up—'tis your poor
father who speaks!  Hear me, little one!"

She embraced him closely and burst into tears.

"Luisa!"

"Caro padre, are they near us yet?"

"About three leagues in the rear, perhaps," he
replied in a troubled voice.

"And these gentlemen?"

"Our friends, and I trust our saviours!  You
remember the Signor di Castelermo?"

"O yes; and Signor Claude," she added, in a
faint voice.

"May their timely presence and intervention
avert that most dread catastrophe, of which even
the contemplation is horror."

"You may depend upon us—ay, to the death!"
said we both at once.

"You are pursued, I have reason to believe;"
added the Maltese knight.

"Yes, and wish to continue our journey."

"Where to, signor?"

"Anywhere to safety: but my poor daughter
would certainly expire with fatigue if we rode a
league further.  We have travelled seventy miles
on the spur without drawing bridle once; save
when Luisa's horse fell beneath her in the
wilderness of La Syla, when I was compelled to take
her on the saddle of my own gallant Barbary.
Often since then have we been in deadly peril:
when lynxes shrieked, and herds of forest
wolves howled behind us—when rivers foamed in
front, and the mountain robbers showered their
bullets from the rocks—I trembled and I prayed:
but only for my daughter; and God—good and
merciful—has spared her.  Cavalieri!  I am very
unfortunate: I throw myself upon your generosity;
and when did one soldier implore in vain the
generosity of another?  I trust that, like honourable
men, you will stand by me in the coming
peril: not for my sake, but for that of this poor
sufferer; whom the Mother of Mercy preserve from
the fury of those who are tracking her with horse
and horn, as if she were some wild boar of
Abruzzi, instead of the adorable girl she is.
Perdition—let them come!  The cowards shall
find that Battista Gismondo has a willing heart
and able hand, to defend the child that God has
given, and the last that war and man have left
him."  He pressed the trembling girl to his breast:
she sobbed convulsively, and nearly relapsed into
unconsciousness.

"O my father!" exclaimed she, in piercing
accents; "padre mia, my lips refuse to utter what
my heart would bid them say: I can only hang
upon your neck and sob like a little child, and
kiss your cheek and weep.  My father, I have
destroyed you."

"Say rather, Luisa, that by casting temptation
in your way, I have been the destroyer of you.
Peace, peace little heart!  Ah! how it beats and
flutters!" he added, half playfully, pressing his
fingers on her bosom.

"There are those at hand who may soon make
it cease to beat for ever," said she, in a faint voice;
and, sinking backwards on the sofa, her eyes closed,
and the pallor of her hue increased.

"Madonna, preserve my child!" exclaimed the
old cavalier, beating his breast, while his eyes
gleamed with fear and distraction; for at that
moment the noise of advancing hoofs was heard
on the hard dusty road that wound down from the
mountains.  Though the inn stood within the
Porto Nuovo of the town, we could hear the din
of the pursuers: but it sounded faint and distant.

"Major Gismondo, I implore you to tell us the
meaning of all this," said I.

"They come:" replied he, turning round to look
for his sabre, "they come; and with renewed
vigour, too, to judge by the trampling hoofs.
Perdition! all the powers in Italy, or in hell below
it, shall not separate us while hand and hilt can
hold together: but, O San Gennaro, what has my
poor child done to be persecuted thus?  I had
hopes of reaching the British fleet; when, perhaps,
we should have found safety; but I trust that with
you, Captain Dundas, I shall find that protection
which your countrymen never refuse to the
unfortunate."  I bowed, but understood him not.





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.. _`LOVE AND WAR`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.


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   LOVE AND WAR.

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"Gentlemen," he continued, when the room had
been cleared of Fossi and his household, who were
all in an agony of curiosity; "you know me well:
I am Battista Gismondo, a major of the loyal
Masse, and this is my daughter, Luisa.  After the
events of these few hours past I can scarcely deem
myself the same person: I am bewildered.  Luisa
is the last of a once numerous family; but my
sons—my sons!—they have all gone before me to
God: one perished on the walls of Andria, one in
the breach of Altamurra, and three in the hands of
the French; cruelly and savagely shot as rebels by
the Marchese di Monteleone,—whom Madonna
forgive! for I never can.

"When that unrelenting commander was attacked
by our patriots at La Syla,—where all
perished save himself and his aide-de-camp—from
the rocks above that hideous gorge I beheld the
work of death.  It was a scene of thrilling horror.
Within that narrow space, hemmed in on every
hand—in front, in rear, on each side, and
above—the rifles poured down volleys of leaden hail:
miserable was the slaughter of the unhappy
Frenchmen.

"The whole vale was enveloped in smoke, and
its dark rocks were illuminated by the flashing
musketry; the shrieks and yells of vengeance, of
despair and death, and the roar of the fire-arms
reverberated among the echoing hills; mingled
with the crash of enormous stones, which, rent from
the solid mountains, and urged by strong revengeful
hands, fell thundering on the foe beneath.
Few have looked upon such a scene: but I thought
only of my sons, and laughed scornfully as the cries
of agony—the last agony of many a parting soul—arose
from the smoky gulf below me.  The measure
of revenge was full.  Of all that gallant band, the
Marchese and his aide-de-camp alone escaped.
Brave, resolute, and maddened, he forced his
gallant horse up the walls of basaltic rock (which
on every hand enclose the valley, so that it seems
like a vast pit or well) and, missed by a thousand
bullets, he dashed down the mountains unhurt,
and disappeared.

"His aide-de-camp, a French officer, young,
and equally brave, strove to imitate his example:
spurring his horse up the rocks, he rushed from
the gloomy dell and emerged suddenly, almost at
my feet.  How terrible was his aspect! at this
moment I can behold him: the panting horse,
with starting eyes, erect mane, and snorting
nostrils; the breathless rider, bareheaded and
pale—his face streaked with blood—his broken
sabre gleaming in his hand.

"'France!  France!—vive l'Empereur!" cried he,
and was dashing on, when a stray bullet struck his
horse; it plunged wildly forward and rolled dead
on the turf, hurling its rider at my feet.  The next
moment my knee was upon his breast, and my
sabre at his throat: his sword arm was
broken—he was powerless.

"'Ruffian!' he exclaimed, 'would you slay me
in cold blood?'

"'As your countrymen slew my sons,' was my
fierce rejoinder: he saw but little mercy in my
aspect at that moment.

"'Old man,' said he, with a faltering voice, 'if
you are indeed a father, spare me for my father's
sake, if you will not for my own!'

"'So pleaded my sons, perhaps—but no! they
would have scorned to ask mercy of a Frenchman.
Enough, young man; with me you are safe: like
yourself, I am an officer, and will do nothing that
is unworthy of a gentleman.'  I assisted him to
rise.  'Your name, signor?'

"'Phillipe Regnier, a lieutenant of the First
Regiment—the favourite corps of Napoleon.'

"'Would you had some other name than that
of our accursed persecutor.'

"'Beware, sir!' exclaimed the other haughtily;
'if you mean Regnier, Chevalier of the Iron
Crown, and general of division under the
Emperor—he is my father.'

"'It is enough,' I replied.  'Young man, he is
our deadly enemy: yet I will say nought to which
his son may not listen with an unruffled brow; but,
as you value life, utter not his name in the hearing
of an Italian.  You must be aware of the necessity
for this.'

"He bowed.  To preserve him from the fury of
the followers of Francatripa, I conveyed him to
my house, which was not far distant.  Night had
descended on the unfinished work of death, and
we retired unseen.  The poor French youth was
deeply grateful for my care: he suffered acutely
from his broken arm and a wound on the head,
where a ball had laid bare the temple; fever
ensued, he grew worse daily, and was brought
almost to the brink of the grave: yet I dared not
bring him any medical assistance.  Had the secret
of his dwelling at my house been noised abroad,
his doom had been sealed as a Frenchman, and
mine as a traitor: my house would have been
levelled to the ground.  He had no other nurse or
attendant than my poor little daughter.—Signori,
spare the tears and blushes of my dear Luisa, by
imagining the rest.  Both were young, handsome,
and ardent: too much so to be thrown so entirely
together, and left so much in each other's society;
as our secluded habitation, and my long and
frequent absences, compelled them to be.

"I discovered their passion at last: but I could
blame neither; having long anticipated and dreaded
it as an evil not to be averted.  I could not leave
the poor French lad to perish on the mountains,
and to none save my daughter, in these times of
peril, could I with safety and honour to myself
have imparted the secret of his escape and
existence.  Yet I could not restrain a stern reproof.

"'By Heaven, Signor Phillipe,' said I, 'you
have not acted well in smiting the hand that spared
your life on the battle-field, and has since fostered
you so tenderly: by indulging in this passion,
which with you is fleeting—thought of but for a
moment—you have stung the heart that warmly
cherished and saved you from the just vengeance
of our incensed people.  In so doing, I have placed
in imminent jeopardy my life, my honour, and the
high reputation of my family for patriotism and
loyalty; and this is my reward: you gain the love
of my daughter, on whom you can never bestow
your hand—the difference of clime, of manners,
and above all your political position, forbid it, and
raise up a mighty barrier between you.  I honour
you as a brave youth, but of an accursed nation;
I wish you well, and shall ever do so—yet in the
name of Madonna, recover your health and rejoin
your father's army.'

"'And wherefore, my dear Monsieur Gismondo,
is the barrier so insuperable?' said he,
starting from the sofa on which he reclined, and
taking my hand in one of his; whilst the other
held that of Luisa, who hid her blushing face, as
she hides it now, behind her silken tresses.—'Better
times—Oh, yes! better and happier times
are in store for both France and Italy; on whose
united throne now sits our Emperor, crowned by
the hand of Ruffo, raised by the valour of his
soldiers, and blessed by the favour of God.'

"'To the young all things seem possible,' said
I, coldly: 'to me, whose heart is seared, whose
beard is gray, whose head the hand of time has
bared, the future can never be so bright as the
past.  Believe me, Phillipe, I esteem you highly,
and know none on whom I would more willingly
bestow this fair bud—the last of my race!—than
on thee.'

"Perhaps this was too honest? an avowal—too
great a concession; but, ere I could retract it,
Phillipe exclaimed:—

"'Oh! joy, my dear major; you know not
how happy you make me—us—ah! let me say
us,' he added, drawing Luisa towards him.
'Promise me, good Monsieur Gismondo, that when
peace comes: as come it soon must, when we have
tossed all the enemies of Joseph into the sea at
Scylla, and when France and Italy have become
one—and one they shall be; for the Emperor has
so willed it—promise me that mademoiselle shall
be mine.  Oh! good sir, complete the joy of this
hour by giving a promise, which I know you will
rather die than break.'

"Their upturned faces blushed with youth and
love; their eyes beamed with delight and hope;
and the fair golden curls of my daughter almost
mingled with the raven hair of the Frenchman.
It was a picture of beauty and happiness that I
had not the heart to destroy: I promised, and
signed the cross above them.

"'I will redeem my pledge when France and
Italy are *one*,'  said I;—'but *when* will that day
come to pass?' I added, mentally, on turning
away and leaving the happy lovers together.
'Yes, ere that time comes, Charybdis shall give
up its wrecks, and Etna vomit water in lieu of
flame.'

"In truth I loved the lad, because I had saved
his life: for which he seemed sincerely grateful to
me; and I could not but admire his courage and
heroic enthusiasm, though in the cause of that bad
and renegade emperor, whose name is enough to
make the blood boil in every Italian heart.  At
that time I saw little prospect of M. Regnier being
united to my daughter: but, as it was impossible
to foresee what turn the tide of war might take, I
thought it well that Luisa had in the French
camp so powerful a friend as the general's son.
These ideas might be selfish; but I knew that care
and the hand of time were beginning to lie heavier
on me; that I was exposed to the innumerable
dangers of continual strife; and that, when God
called upon me, my poor little daughter would be
alone in the world."

The old officer stopped; he sobbed audibly, and
I saw the heavy tears which oozed from his gray
eye-lashes, falling on the fair forehead and sunny
hair of his daughter.  It was a picture.  Alas! he
heard not, as we did, the distant clang of
advancing horses; so much was he absorbed in his
story.

"To be brief," he continued, "M. Regnier
departed next day, disguised as a buffalo-herd.  I
conducted him in safety to his father's camp at
Maida; where, two days after, the British obtained
that victory so glorious to themselves, and so
auspicious to Italy.  Their foes retired with
precipitation, and the bright future which Luisa and
her lover had so fondly anticipated, became enveloped
in gloom and obscurity.  Phillipe escaped
unhurt, but lost the standard of his regiment in that
desperate single combat with you, Captain Dundas.

"I belonged to one of those battalions of the
Masse which so closely invested General Regnier's
entrenched camp at Cassano.  Luisa was with
me; and, from my tent, she could daily see the
sentinels in the blue uniform of Phillipe's
regiment, almost within musket-shot.  Hourly we were
engaged in skirmishes with the enemy, who were
soon driven to the utmost extremity.  Being
joined by Frà Diavolo, Mammone, and some
of the loyalist brigands, and hearing that
Marshal Massena was rapidly advancing, the chiefs
of the Masse directed that, an hour after Ave
Maria on the night before last, a general and
grand assault would be made on the French
encampment; and an order was circulated strictly
forbidding quarter to be shown to any of the
enemy.  For three days there had been a cessation
of hostilities, and our false leaders resolved to
fall upon our foes at a moment when an attack was
least expected.

"A rocket sent up from the mountains was to
be our signal—VENGIANZA! our watchword: but
traitors were amongst us; and, fully acquainted
with the plotting of our treacherous chiefs,
Regnier resolved to anticipate the attack, and
overwhelm them with confusion and dismay.

"Ave-Maria passed; one by one the stars
began to glimmer in the darkening sky: silently
our troops began to muster in their ranks, and
many an eye was bent to the gloomy mountains,
awaiting the red burst of the rocket.  I was
bidding a hasty and sorrowful adieu to my daughter,
who was doubly agitated with anxiety for the fate
of both her father and lover, when the roar of the
French artillery opening on our field works from
every part of their entrenchments, the clang of
their galloping cavalry, and the shout of 'Vive
l'Empereur!' as their whole light troops made a
desperate sortie, equally furious and unexpected,
made me grasp my sabre, and rush from the
presence of Luisa.

"Led by Regnier in person, the French burst
headlong on our trenches, and both horse and
foot scoured all the approaches; from which the
Masse fled with precipitation.  Three of our
chiefs, many cavaliers of distinction, and a thousand
Italian soldiers perished in the slaughter; after
which the French retired leisurely within their
defences, without the loss of a man."

"Basta! and all this took place but two nights
ago?" exclaimed Castelermo.

"But the worst remains to be told.  Not
Dante's self could describe the fierce longing for
reprisals—the wrath, the horror of our people at
daybreak.  They beat their breasts and tore their
hair: they raved like maniacs: they called on the
chiefs to lead them against the foe: the air was
laden with their shout—it was '*Vengianza!*'

"Anon, there rose a universal cry of treason!
and every man looked with dark scrutiny in the
face of his comrade.  In the midst of this, whilst
seated with Luisa in my tent, I was surprised by
seeing a hand raise the canvass wall and throw in
a piece of paper; on which was written:—

"'If you value the lives of yourself and daughter,
fly!  A letter from the son of General Regnier,
and addressed to the Signora Luisa, was
last night found in your tent, and is now lying
before the chiefs in council.  They are at this
moment deliberating on the mode of her death,
whether by the cord or bullet: she is supposed to
have acquainted the French with the projected
assault of last night—there is not a moment to be
lost—away!  *A Friend to the Major Gismondo*.'

"I felt crushed and broken to the earth: for
a time my mind was a chaos; then it was wrung
with the bitterest anguish, while my cheek glowed
with indignation and shame.  Had I been alone,
to have rushed to our nobles and repelled with
scorn the insinuation would have been the
thought and deed of a moment; but my child
made a coward of me: the wild shouts of our
lawless soldiery were ringing around us, and our
stern chiefs were sitting in council, deciding
upon the death of my daughter—my poor innocent
Luisa.

"We stole from the camp, procured horses,
and fled; but not unperceived: we have been
pursued fiercely and hotly, and have passed
through innumerable toils and horrors.  Our
only chance of safety lay in getting on board the
British fleet; or under your friendly flag, Signor
Dundas.  Thank Heaven! it waves over Monteleone;
and I trust our pursuers will respect it:
but deadly, indeed, must be the purpose of those
who have followed us so rapidly, and so far,
without drawing bridle."





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.. _`POOR LUISA!`:

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   CHAPTER IX.


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   POOR LUISA!

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Dusk had set in ere his relation concluded, and
the exhausted girl had fallen into a deep slumber
on his breast.  Just as the waiter—who,
probably, had heard the whole story through the
keyhole—brought in lights, a party of armed
horsemen galloped through the Porto Nuovo, and
halted.

"Which way, said you?" asked one.

"The Centauro, monsignore," replied a voice:
it was that of Da Fossi, our villanous host; and the
same party of irregular cavalry we had encountered
at the Villa D'Alfieri, wheeled into the inn-yard.

"They come!  O, my father—O, my God!"
cried the unhappy girl, embracing her parent.
"O, Signor Claude!—O, Cavaliere di Castelermo,
protect us!"

"My daughter!" gasped the old man.  "Ah! the
agony of this moment!  Signor," he added,
addressing me, "intercede for us.  As a British
officer you may do much: my daughter, she may
yet be saved—spared to cheer the little time that
is left me."

"On my honour! major, we will stand by you
to the last," I replied, while my heart melted at
the old man's passionate entreaties.  "Let us
close up and barricade the door, while a message
is despatched to the castle for the inlying
piquet."

"Thanks, thanks, Madonna bless you! you may
do much—and yet for what can I hope?" he muttered,
with an air of distraction, as he laid his half
lifeless daughter on the sofa, and looked round him
for his sabre.

"Signor Claude," whispered Marco, in an
agitated manner; "I can only contemplate with
horror the probable issue of this affair.  Be wary
of using your sword," he observed, as I buckled it
on.  "Innocent as the signorina may be, appearances
are against her; and the Masse carry matters
with a high hand."

Ere I could reply, we heard the following orders
by the leader of the party:—

"Surround the house, and shoot all who attempt
to escape.  Unsling carbines!"  He at the same
time leaped from his horse, and rushed up the
staircase.  A trampling of heavy boots, a jangling
of steel spurs and scabbards succeeded—the door
of our apartment was thrown open by our
half-frightened, half-officious landlord, bowing humbly,
with a candle in each hand; and our acquaintance
of the preceding evening, the stern old Barone of
Castello di Bivona pressed forward, followed by
fifteen or twenty well-armed, but motley garbed
troopers.

"Traitress! a devil of a chase you have given
us," said he, striking his sword on the floor.

"Ahi! protect me, my father! they are come—those
enemies of our peace—of my innocent love.
Save me! or kiss me and let me die."

"Die!" reiterated her father, in a dreadful tone.

"Surrender all here, in the name of the king!"
said the baron, in a loud voice; "in the name of
Ferdinand of Naples and Sicily."

"How now, my lord," I inquired, throwing
myself forward; "this is a private apartment, and
by what right do you make this intrusion?"

"In right of the name I have mentioned.  But
who are you that assume this air of authority?" he
asked, with a frown of surprise.

"What my uniform proclaims: I am one whom
you would do well in addressing more politely."

"And your friend is a cavalier of Malta?"

Marco bowed.

"Well, gentlemen, I am a Neapolitan barone,
a chief of the Masse, and commandant of Irregular
Cavalry; empowered to capture this unfortunate
fugitive, and execute upon her a sentence decreed
by the chiefs in council at Cassano: the reward
due to treason, and leaguing with the enemy.
Signori, well aware as you must be of the utter
futility of resisting the authority with which I am
vested, it will be wiser to restrain the sorrow of
this unhappy parent, than to attempt to defeat the
views of justice.  The girl must *die*!  As for *you*,
signor," he added, addressing me particularly—perhaps
because I did not seem to care much for
his "authority"—"we have met before; and if my
followers are again obstructed, a formal complaint
shall be sent to General Sir John Stuart, and
you must abide the consequence.  The edicts of
the chiefs of the Masse, are, just now, the laws of
the land.  Seize the woman!"

The soldiers advanced, the poor father threw
himself before his daughter; I started; but Marco
grasped my arm, and I observed that his dark
cheek was turning pale: he bit his nether lip, and
said:—

"Resistance is indeed vain."

"Monsignore Barone," cried the old major, in a
trembling voice; "for the love of the blessed
Madonna, spare my daughter!  By the head of the
Pope!—by the bones of the Saints!—by God
himself!—I swear to you she is innocent.  The
child that is unborn—yea, the beatified Mary
herself was not more pure.  'T is my daughter," he
added, in a bewildered manner; "O, the little
creature I have nurtured from infancy—and to
perish thus!  'T is my daughter—my child—the
last of them—she—pity me, Signor Barone—you
are very good—her mother was slain by a cannon-ball
at Altamurra—my arms were around her when
her soul went up to her Redeemer.  My daughter
is pure—innocent—innocent as Madonna!"

"Poor man! you blaspheme," said the barone.

"Spare her, signor illustrissimo—have mercy:
it is good to do so, and pleasant to the eye of
Heaven.  Think how you may one day crave it at
the throne of grace, when the deeds of this hour
will stand recorded against you in letters of fire.
Spare her, for my sake!  Remember all I have
endured and done for my country.  Behold these
scars gained when Macdonald was driven from
Terracina: her brothers have all followed their
mother; they have gone before me to heaven—they
died for Italy!  Remember, monsignore,
when Ettore Caraffa, the Count of Ruvo, took
Andria by storm, and reduced it to ruins and
ashes—remember how I saved your life at the risk
of my own; how my boy, my dark-haired Battista—O,
my God! the last of five—fought for you, and
fell at your feet covered with wounds.  I dragged
you from the press, through flames and balls and
bayonets—ha! ha!—you were then wounded,
faint, and bleeding; but you promised, in a burst
of gratitude, that if ever you could serve me you
would do it, even to the peril of your life.  *Yours*
I seek not; but the life that I gave—the life of
my daughter."  Gismondo uttered another
sepulchral laugh.  "The hour is now come, Signor
Barone, and I call upon you to redeem the given
promise—the life of my daughter."

"Sancto Gennaro!" muttered the old barone,
in a troubled voice, as he smote his forehead,
"what an hour of shame and agony is this!  Give
me back the lives of two sons now lying dead in
the trenches of Cassano, slain by the treachery of
your daughter—hear you that, Maggiore
Gismondo?—by her leaguing with the enemy!—Away
with her to the verandah, and knot a halter,
some of you.  Povero voi! entreat me not, vile
traitress!" he exclaimed, roughly shaking off the
horror-stricken girl, who clasped his knees.  "Most
unhappily for thee, I remember, at this moment,
but too poignantly the loss of my gallant sons.
Forward, some of you: seize this unfortunate
father; he must not see that which is to
ensue.  Away with him, and secure the daughter!
I would to Heaven, some other than Di
Bivona had been sent on this cursed hangman's
errand!"

"My sabre! my sabre!" cried Gismondo,
wildly rushing round the room, and dashing the
chairs and tables right and left in his frenzy.

Seized by many powerful hands, the parent and
child were torn asunder: the former was borne
away, almost senseless, to a neighbouring monastery;
happily for herself, the latter lay in a deep
swoon.

"Quick!" cried Bivona; "for Heaven's sake! get
this affair over as soon as possible."

"Would monsignore wait till she recovers a
little, to pray?" said Baptistello Varro, whom I
now recognised as one of the troopers, and who
alone seemed to recoil with disgust from the task
imposed.  "Ah! signor, permit her a little time
to pray?"

"No, no, Varro; that would be cruelty: we
have not a moment to spare for tears and
entreaties.  Diavolo! if once she opens these blue
eyes of hers, we may be bewitched: there is that
in their glance—'tis the mal-occhio!—And you,
gentlemen," he addressed us, "will do me the
favour to remain where you are, or interfere at
your peril."

Gladly would we have resisted, to save this
poor victim from those stern and unrelenting
patriots; but, as our efforts would have been
perfectly futile, and a serious compromise of our own
safety, we were compelled to become spectators of
the horrible scene which ensued—one, of which I
willingly give but a hurried description.

From one of the rafters of a covered verandah,
or gallery, which projected on rough wooden
columns round three sides of the court or
quadrangle of the inn, Baptistello suspended a strong
cord with a noose: two red torches, streaming in
the night wind, were held aloft, and cast their
fitful glare around.  The picturesque façade of the
old palace, with the rude alterations made by Da
Fossi—its broad eaves, its gloomy galleries,
vine-clad columns and gleaming casements; the motley
group of wild-looking volunteers, with their
Calabrian troop horses, and glancing buckles and
weapons; the dark visages of those who bore the poor
girl to the place of death; and the beautiful victim
herself, with her pale cheek and paler bosom, and
the dishevelled tresses of her long bright hair,
which the old man loved to stroke, were illumined
by the strong red light poured from the torches,
whilst a dusky gloom enveloped the background:
the whole scene would have formed a striking
subject for the pencil of a Salvator Rosa.

Revived by the cool night wind, the lips of
Luisa were beginning to move: she sighed deeply.
Ah! it was agony to contemplate that beautiful
bosom, now throbbing almost for the last time!—She
opened her eyes, but closed them instantly,
as a torch close by flashed full upon her face;
consciousness was just returning as the detestable
cord was placed round her pure and slender
throat.

"Madonna—Madonna receive her!" exclaimed
Castelermo, as he held his crucifix aloft to heaven.
"Mother of mercy, look on her!—O, gran Dio!"
he ejaculated, as she was tossed over the balcony.

There was a horrid jerking and cracking sound,
as the cord strained with her weight: her blue
eyes opened—oh! frightful was their aspect, as
the light of the sputtering torches fell on them;
and still more frightful were the distortions of that
enchanting form—but for a moment only.  There
it swung round vibrating, then hung still and
motionless; the fair head drooped heavily forward,
and the long bright ringlets floated in disorder on
the passing wind.

"To horse, and away!" cried Di Bivona; and
ere his party had clattered through the Porto
Nuovo, Marco and I returned to our apartment,
sickening with disgust and horror.

"Basta! let us quit this accursed den, and seek
some place of amusement," said the knight.
"There is surely some gaming-house or merry
cantina in Monteleone.  Let us go."

"With all my soul," said I.  "Some of the
Corsican Rangers are in garrison here.  I had a
brother amongst them once, and know the corps
well, having many friends in it."

"Buono: we shall be sure to fall in with the
officers somewhere, at the cafés or the promenade."

We left the inn about the same time that two
men of the Campagnia di Morti bore away the
remains of Luisa Gismondo in a shell, covered by
a pall; around it walked six others, carrying
torches, and completely enveloped in sackcloth,
having even their faces covered by a black hood,
which descended to the chin.  They formed a
grim and mysterious group, as they wound, by
the light of their links, through a dark and narrow
alley, to the entrance of some obscure and ghastly
charnel-house.

"And Luisa was the bosom friend of Bianca!"
thought I, as their monotonous chant died away.
"What a tale of horror I have to tell the family of
Alfieri!"

Of the Major Gismondo I shall have to relate
more hereafter.





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.. _`THE SIEGE OF SCYLLA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SIEGE OF SCYLLA.

.. vspace:: 2

Next evening we arrived at Scylla: the Scylla of
classical antiquity, hoary and worn with the storms
of ages, dark with the lapse of years; the stronghold,
successively, of the Greek, the Roman, the
fair-haired Goth, the swarthy Saracen, the mail-clad
Norman knight, the proud Italian prince, the
prouder Spaniard, and, lastly, the grasping Gaul.
As we approached it, Castelermo bade me remark
the roar of the ocean in the caverns beneath the
rock; which rises perpendicularly from the water,
and is still of considerable danger to mariners.
To the ancients it was terrible, on account of its
real and fabled dangers, which occupy so prominent
a place in the heroic poems of Homer, Ovid,
and others; and famous for the loves of Glaucus,
and the magic art of Circe, the daughter of
the sun (who transformed the beautiful nymph
Scylla into that tall rock, which "bulged the
pride of famed Ulysses' fleet") and the roar of
whose dogs was so terrible to Æneas and his
followers.

Opposite rose the fair and fruitful coast of
Sicily, the spires of Messina, and the green ridge
of the Neptunian hills; behind which sank the
setting sun, whose last rays changed the hue of
the ocean from blue to purple: the Straits were
studded with craft of every description, from the
stately British line-of-battle ship, to the little
scampavia, with its red and yellow latteen sail.
As we pulled up our horses beside Monte Jaci, to
view the splendid prospect, the old tradition came
to my remembrance:—


   |                              "The Italian shore
   |  And fair Sicilia's coast were *one*, before
   |  An earthquake caused the flaw: the roaring tides
   |  The passage broke, that land from land divides;
   |  And, where the lands retired, the rushing ocean rides."
   |                                      *Æneas*, iii.
   |

The roaring of the sea in the cavern of Dragara
caused our horses to snort and rear; and the
sound was not unlike the cry of some "tremendous
pest," or monster, such as Scylla was fabled
by the poets of old.  But, enough; or the reader
will suspect me of that "dull pedantry which
finds everything ancient necessarily sublime."

The whole coast bore traces of that dreadful
visitation, the earthquake of 1783; when vast
masses of the shore fell into the sea, burying
gardens, fields, dwellings: at the base of Monte
Jaci lay a mighty piece of rock, which had been
hurled from its summit to the margin of the
Mediterranean.

"On that night of horrors," said Castelermo,
"when all Calabria was trembling with the internal
convulsions of the world; when the sea exhaled
brimstone, and the whole face of the land became
changed; when rivers were choked up by the fall
of the mountains, or rolled back upon their source;
when cities, engulfed in yawning earth, were lost
for ever; when hills became lakes, and the last
day of dread and judgment seemed at hand;—the
ocean heaved up its waters to the height of
twenty feet; and, rushing on the coast for the
distance of three miles, swept back into the abyss
two thousand four hundred and seventy human
beings, who had fled to the shore for safety from
the crumbling cliffs and falling mountains.  The
heavens seemed all in flames, and the ocean rolled
on, wearing the red tint which the light reflected
on it; the promontory of Campala fell into the
waves, and not a fragment of it remained: Scylla
was split to its foundations, and the solid towers
of its castle flung from the rock upon the town
below.  The eagles screamed and grovelled panting
on the ground; whilst the wolves howled
with affright in the recesses of the woods.  All
nature seemed convulsed, paralyzed, and trembling
on the brink of destruction."

The castle was the property of Castelermo's
uncle, the Cardinal Ruffo, Prince of the ancient
house of RufFo Sciglio, and a man of political and
military celebrity: it was his principal residence,
until ruined and dismantled on his defection; but
the skill of French engineers had restored it to
more than its former strength and glory.  On the
south side lay the snug little town, terminated by
the castle rock; the cliff descending sheer down to
the sea, which rolls two hundred feet below.  An
ample tri-colour waved heavily over the dark grey
keep; and the glittering arms of the sentinels flashed
in the setting sun, over the ramparts and embrasures,
through which protruded the muzzles of
heavy cannon: their fire, during the siege, had
scared away all the inhabitants of the town below.

Evening deepened around, as we advanced; and
we soon saw the light in the Pharo di Messina
shed its tremulous rays across the rushing and
now dark waters of the Strait.

The garrison of the French marquis was completely
invested, on the land side, by the brigade
of my countryman, Colonel (latterly Lieutenant-General
Sir John) Oswald; who, at the head of
the 20th and 58th Regiments, with five companies
of De Watteville's corps, and two four-pound
field-pieces, had marched to this part of Lower Calabria,
immediately after our victory at Maida.  Two
days after the battle, he captured the town and
castle of Monteleone, took three hundred Frenchmen
prisoners, seized all the depot there, and,
pushing on by forced marches, laid siege to Scylla;
which, at the time of my arrival, had been closely
blockaded for nearly twenty days.

The twilight of eve had given place to the more
sombre shadow of night, when we entered the
town; but no chant of vespers arose from the
ruined chapels of its deserted convents: soldiers
alone crowded its streets and terraces; where the
shattered houses, roofless and desolate, and strewn
with broken furniture, exploded shells, splinters,
and cannon-shot, gave evidence of the daily work
of strife.

The quarters of the general were in an old
mansion, the gloomy and antique aspect of which,
with its vicinity to a church, declared it to have
been once the residence of an ecclesiastic of rank.
The jagged archivolts, twisted columns, and
grotesque decorations, all displayed the peculiar taste
of the Saraceno-Norman architect, who raised
the massive walls of the building; which Sir John
found a very comfortable shelter from the shot of
the enemy's batteries.

Leaving our horses with the quarter guard, who
occupied the lower part of the building, we were
ushered up a narrow wheel-staircase to a vaulted
room, where we found Sir John and Colonel
Oswald seated by a black oak-table, studying a
plan of Scylla; which divided their attention with
an imposing jar of wine and a case of cigars.

"Welcome, Dundas," they exclaimed.  "Good
news, I hope?  Crotona—"

"Surrendered on last Wednesday evening."

"Glorious fellow, Macleod!"

"We have taken six hundred prisoners, forty
pieces of cannon, and all their stores."

"Excellent!" said the general, rubbing his
hands; "and your friend—he belongs to the Free
Corps, I presume?"

"Santugo's battalion.  Allow me to introduce
the Cavaliere di Castelermo, of the military order
of Malta, who has accompanied me hither from
Crotona: no easy journey, Sir John, in such a
land as this.  The signor is now lord of Scylla
and its castle, since the defection and consequent
forfeiture of his uncle, the cardinal."

The knight and general bowed.

"We must drink your health as captain," said
Oswald, filling the glasses from the grey-beard, and
pushing the cigars towards us; "we must also
invite some of the brigade and christen your
commission—eh, Dundas!  Some of the cardinal's
wine this—plenty more in the cellars below—(this
was the house of his steward)—capital stuff, is it
not?"

"And I have to congratulate the general on the
rank he has obtained: long may he enjoy it!" said
I, alluding to Sir John's recent elevation to the
title of Count of Maida, bestowed on him by
Ferdinand of Naples.

Muttering an excuse, he tore open the covers,
and hastily conned over the despatches of Macleod.

"Capitulated—honours of war—prisoners—um,
um—I am afraid we shall not get possession of
Scylla so easily.  Here we have been for twenty
days before this place—a mere tower with
outworks—and are not nearer possession than we
were at the first hour of our arrival; we have lost
many valuable officers and men, and without
having gained any advantage to compensate the
service for their loss.  Massena may advance to
relieve the fortress, if the besieged do not soon
yield; and Monteleone, the commandant, appears
a most determined fellow: in answer to a flag
of truce, he sent me his pledged word that he
would fight to the last, and then blow up the
place; but never surrender it."

"And this man," I observed, "is said to be a
countryman of our own."

"You must not say that, Dundas," replied the
general; "it is a mere rumour, I suppose."

"He is resolved to die game," said Oswald:
"but Dundas, as you have some notion of these
things, just look over this plan, will you, and say
which you think the weakest point?"

"We were planning an assault," continued
the general, "you may examine the features of the
place to-morrow; but it is rather dangerous work
to reconnoitre within range of their long nines
and twenty-four pounders.  This is a plan of the
fort, sent to me by Francatripa, who found it in
the baggage of a French officer killed in the
massacre of Sauveria: it appears to represent the
place very correctly.  Here is the drawbridge,
there the *téte-du-pont* and fosse.  You will observe,
Claude, that the castle is built on the extreme
verge of the cliff of Scylla, which forms the
termination of a promontory washed on three sides
by the sea.  Our friend, the Cavaliere Marco, no
doubt, knows the interior well: massive walls
encompass the keep, flanked by strong towers,
defended by heavy cannon and mortars."

"The curtains are well loopholed for musketry,
which will sweep the ditches in every
direction," said Castelermo.

"The casemates are vaulted with solid masonry,"
added Oswald, removing his cigar: "they
are in the flanks of the bastions, and capable of
containing a company each.  No joke to get
into a ditch, exposed to such annoyances as
these, eh?  They have six thirty-twos to sweep
the exterior slope of the advanced fosse; in
endeavouring to cross which Colonel Ross has lost
some of the bravest fellows in the ranks of the
20th.  The place is victualled amply, and watered
by a cistern, and its garrison are resolute as their
leader.  So now what say you to all this?  It
has baffled the bravery of *my* brigade, and the skill
of M. Navarro, our Italian engineer; though he
comes of a stock which has achieved great things
in its day."

Here the colonel pointed to a little man, clad
in the scarlet Neapolitan uniform, who had
hitherto sat quietly smoking a cigar behind the
shadow of a column, unseen by us.

"Yes, Signor Colonello," said he, coming
forward, and placing a finger on the plan.  "I
am of opinion still, that there is nothing so
effectual as a mine under that part of the wall
nearest the town: I myself will volunteer to fire
the saucisson."

"The place you speak of, is protected by a
battery of thirty-two pounders," replied the
general: "you are zealous and brave, Signor
Navarro, and we thank you; but a party of
workmen could never form chambers in a place
so rocky and exposed."

"Signor Count of Maida," retorted the Italian,
"I think I have served long enough to know
something of mines, their capabilities and nature.
My ancestor, Pietro Navarro, first introduced
the noble art of springing mines, when chief
engineer to the Genoese, at the siege of Serezenella
in Florence; and they gained the town by
means of this branch of the art military, which is
as useful as it is wonderful to behold.  He also
took the castle of the Egg at Naples, when serving
with the Spaniards; and I hold the Castel
del'Ova to be stronger than the Castello di
Sciglio."

"Perhaps so: but our friend the marquis will
take care that we do not undermine any part of
his premises.  Tell me, Claude, what is your
opinion?"

Having a little smattering of engineering, I
examined the plan attentively, and found that
it was almost impossible to execute Navarro's
project of a mine: but by using the compasses and
scale, and by an observation made when approaching
the place, I discovered that the fortress was
completely commanded by a neighbouring hill;
by carrying guns to the scarp of which, the
outer and inner defences would be easily battered,
and a breach effected.  It gave me no great opinion
of Navarro's skill, that he had not discovered this
very simple and obvious method before.

The general gave an exclamation of delight
when I proposed and explained my mode of
attack; but the eyes of the little Italian, of course,
gleamed with malice and anger: which, for the
present, he chose to conceal, although he pulled
fiercely at his cigar, and kicked with his heels
against the column behind him.

"Now, then, Sir John, what ordnance have you?"

"Two curricle guns, four pounders only: they
are of little use; but Sir Sidney Smith has lent
us eight thirty-sixes from his frigate, for the
especial behoof of the marquis and his garrison.
To drag them to the scarp of the hill is no easy
task: but it shall be done, and this night too!
Scylla must be ours, at all risks.  Its position at
the gorge of the Strait renders it of the greatest
importance as a defence against shipping."

"A little Gibraltar," said Castelermo.

"And ours it shall be, if it costs us as much
trouble as ever old Gib. did," replied Stuart.
"Hallo, Pierce!"

His orderly appeared.

"Give my compliments to Gascoigne, the
brigade-major; tell him to get three officers and
one hundred and fifty privates from each regiment,
to drag the frigate's guns to the top of the
hill yonder, where they must be in a position to
open at daybreak; and desire him—or stay—I
had better give you a note, perhaps."

He scribbled one hastily on the back of a
guard-report, or some such valuable document;
and Pierce, who had stood erect as a ramrod,
raised his hand to his forehead, wheeled sharply
round as if upon a pivot, and withdrew.
Immediately afterwards a bugle sounded, and in the
course of ten minutes the parties went off at a
rapid pace with pickaxes, crow-bars, shovels, and
ropes; the former to clear the way, and the latter
to drag the cannon up the rocky, rough, and
steep hill-side.

"Finish the contents of the jar, gentlemen,"
said Sir John, filling Castelermo's glass, and
passing the ample graybeard; "mend the fire,
somebody."

Oswald gave the smoky fire-pan a kick, causing
its contents to blaze up and diffuse a very little
heat, and a great deal of smoke through the
apartment; which, like most in Italy, being
without fire-place or chimney, was warmed by a
panful of burning olive-husks, impregnating the
atmosphere with a disagreeable odour.

"O, for the coal fires of old England!" said
the general.

"Or the snug parlour of Dunnikeir!" chimed
in Oswald; thinking, doubtless, of his comfortable
mansion in the east neuk of Fife.

After half an hour's conversation, maintained
principally by myself, in describing the journey
from Crotona, we adjourned to the scene of
operations; where four hundred and fifty soldiers
were toiling along a narrow and rugged road,
dragging the heavy guns from the beach towards
the mountain.

"Beware of that little fellow Navarro!" said
Castelermo, tapping me on the shoulder; "he
regards you with no friendly eye, for the *exposé* you
made of his ignorance.  He is Sicilian bred, and
the Sicilians are slippery dogs."

A party provided with hatchets, pickaxes, and
spades, moved in front, and cleared the way by
cutting down trees and hedges, levelling walls
and fences, and removing all obstacles to the
progress of those who brought the cannon; some pulling
the ropes attached to the clumsy ship-carriages,
whilst others urged the little creaking wheels by
applying crow-bars behind.  It was a task equally
slow and laborious; but the officers, with proper
zeal, set an example to the soldiers, by sharing in
the toil, and working among them without their
coats.  On the hill all traces of road or track had
disappeared, and thickets of olives, wild vines,
ruined walls, masses of sandstone, ruts, and
gorges, obstructed the way so much, that the
hour of two in the morning arrived ere the guns
were posted and ready for service.

Our little party of artillery, assisted by some of
the infantry of the line, had them loaded,
depressed, and prepared to open fire, the instant day
began to brighten the Straits of Messina.

Meanwhile, the marquis and his garrison were
not idle: by the noise in the town below, they
became aware that something unusual was going
on; and blue balls were burned on every battlement
and pinnacle, until all Scylla seemed wrapped
in livid flames: a ghastly glare lighted up the ocean
to the west, and the mountains to the east; the
clouds above us floated in sulphury blue; and even
the spires of Fiumara and Messina glimmered in the
cold, unearthly lustre shed from those lofty
ramparts.  The castle was so distinctly revealed, that
we could have counted every stone in the massive
keep, and every bar in the grated windows; but
the night was so dark as effectually to conceal
our operations.  They fired a few rounds of shot
and shell at random, killing a few of the guards
who blocked up the avenues of the place, but
otherwise without effect; and I have no doubt
they were a little disconcerted, when dawning
day revealed to them eight thirty-sixes on the
mountain-side, and opposed to the weakest part of
their works.  A commotion was immediately
observable among them; and a still greater one
when, on firing our first salvo, a mass of the outer
bastion, above the cordon, fell into the ditch
below.

Encouraged by this, our artillerymen plied the
cannon with might and main, working in their
shirt-sleeves (it was a broiling morning); but after
an hour's firing, the carronades became heated,
and began to "kick" and recoil so much, that
they were compelled to cease operations for a time,
and permit them to cool: a process which the
French usually facilitate by introducing sponges
steeped in vinegar, when it can be had; which is
not often, on service.

The gallant garrison strove hard to interrupt
these successful operations; but as we were rather
beyond the range of musketry, and their battery-guns
could not be pointed to such an elevation as
that on which we were situated, they had recourse
to mortars: these, however, were so ill-managed that
the bombs generally fell short, and either sank into
the turf or rolled down the hill to the sea-shore
and exploded among the breakers.

When again our battery opened, we heard the
French band playing the old republican
carmagnole—a piece of mere gasconade.

"I will bet a dozen of wine we change their
tune in an hour," said the general, who was
watching the operations through his telescope.
"We will humble them yet."

"Ha! what can that be?" I exclaimed; "a sortie?"

"No; but the devil seems to have jumped over
the castle-wall into the town below," said
Oswald.  An unusual bustle took place amongst our
soldiers, who were seen running through the
streets in confusion, and exposed to the enemy's
musketry, which instantly opened on them.

An enormous carcass, 230-pounds weight, had
been blown from a mortar into Scylla; with the
intention of setting it on fire.  The combustibles
which compose this amiable engine of modern
warfare, are pitch, tallow, powder, saltpetre, oil,
broken barrels of muskets, loaded grenades, bars
of iron, chains, and broken bottles, all hooped
together in one globular mass; through these,
fuse-holes are bored, and to which lighted matches are
applied the moment before the bomb is shot forth.

This ponderous affair descended through the
roof of the general's temporary quarter; where,
luckily, there was no wood-work to burn: but the
house was shattered to its foundations, unroofed,
and blown to ruins in a moment.

"Basta!" exclaimed Cavaliere Marco, as the
carcass exploded, without doing further harm; "a
rare fellow is this marchese!  He will fight to the
death-gasp, I warrant; and Scylla will never fall
while his hand can hold a sabre."

"Then we will leave the castle in a worse
predicament than the earthquake left it," replied Sir
John, closing his telescope sharply.

"You may blow it into the sea, for aught that I
care, gentlemen," said the Italian; "its late lord,
my uncle, was ever a niggard of his ducats to me,
and I have no great love for his old house.  Many
an unhappy heretic and infidel has perished in the
obscurity of its dungeons.  I know something of
them.  Will you believe it, Signor Claude? the old
bashaw once lodged me in them for a week, because
I interfered with his friendship for a certain fair
damsel of Reggio: cardinals are not to be trifled
with!"

"Well, sir," said the general, "you may join the
assault to-night, if the breach is practicable."  The
eyes of the brave cavalier sparkled.

"With heart and hand, excellency!  I bear as
much hatred to our foes in Scylla, as a Christian
man may bear to others.  They are the false,
tyrannical, and oppressive French!  I have not
forgotten that when Napoleon's fleet appeared off
Malta, the knights of Provence, Auvergne, and all
the French langue, abandoned the banner of the
order, instead of fighting like L'Isle Adam of old,
as long as stone wall and steel blade remained true
to them."

The general bowed, and smiled slightly at the
Italian's enthusiasm.

"Thank Heaven, the carcass did no more
damage," said he: "the effect of one, properly
shot, is indeed tremendous.  I saw one fired when
Moore took the Mozzello fort.  Ah!  Dundas, it
was your poor brother, Frank, and I who led on
the stormers there: he was a brave and dashing
fellow, and would have been a glory to his
profession but for that dog of a German—Kranz."

Before sunset a tolerable breach was effected in
that part of the bastions next the town; and by
way of filling up the interval of time till dusk, our
battery played on the keep with such success that
a great part of the wall repaired by the French
fell down, and thus weakened the fort considerably.
But the marchese kept his soldiers steadily at work
the whole day, although exposed to our fire; and,
with billets and facines, endeavoured, in the usual
manner, to repair the breaches: they, however,
were reported fully practicable by the officer in
charge of the battery, and at eleven o'clock that
night an assault was ordered to take place.





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.. _`THE FORLORN-HOPE`:

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   CHAPTER XI.


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   THE FORLORN-HOPE.

.. vspace:: 2

At sunset the following notice was circulated:—

"*Brigade Orders*.—Officers desirous of leading
the forlorn-hope are requested to send in their
names, without delay, to Brigade-Major Gascoigne."

After turning over this invitation in my mind
for some time, and weighing the chances of
promotion against those of escape, I resolved not to
send in my card to Gascoigne; notwithstanding
that longing for fame and distinction—a secret
craving to be the first man among the multitude,
which, in fact, is the true sentiment that makes
us buckle on the sword at first: but to lead a
forlorn-hope is to throw away one's life.

Just when the troops were getting silently under
arms in a sheltered place, near an old, gloomy,
and empty convent, I went to the rallying post.
The spirited Cavaliere di Castelermo earnestly
requested the general to allow him the honour of
heading the dangerous enterprise; but his services,
his high courage and birth, and his commander's
cross, availed him nothing in the present instance.
Sir John politely thanked him; and hinted, as
delicately as he could, that a British officer alone
could lead where British soldiers were to follow.

"Signor Count," replied the Italian bitterly,
"there was a time when the cross of St. John was
valued more highly—when its wearers *followed*
none; but alone led the way.  It has pleased Fate
to try us sorely, like the Templars of other days:
we have been deprived of our ships, our castles,
and our possessions, of all but our name and glory;
yet I trust there is a time to come when once more
the banner of Malta will be what it was—what it
has been ever since the accursed Mussulmans
captured Rhodez: the shield of the Christian mariner,
and the terror of the African barbarian!"

The restoration of his order to all its chivalric
glory and military power, was one of Castelermo's
darling themes; and one about which he bored me
for many a long hour.  Poor Marco! he was
doomed never to behold the realization of those
gay visions of his bold and heroic fancy.

"Yet, signor," he continued, "if I cannot lead
in the assault, I will endeavour to be the second
man within the breach."

"Young Morley, of the 20th, has sent in his
name," said Gascoigne; who at that moment
approached, with a number of notes in his hand.
"The little fool!" muttered the general; "poor
boy—he has seen little enough of life yet to be
in such a hurry to quit it.  Does he lead the
stormers?"

"No—Dundas, of ours," replied Gascoigne,
who was a 62nd man.  "So you mean to lead
'the lost children' to-night," he added to me.

"No, faith! a company is not got every day,
and——"

"Your name is on my list as a volunteer,
though!"

"The deuce it is!" I exclaimed, gravely; "I
never sent it to you."

"Amazing!" said he, handing me a note, written
in a hand and signed with a signature so like
my own—having every blot, turn, and dash—that
I was confounded and nonplussed.

"I never penned this note, gentlemen!  Never!
I pledge my honour: it is a forgery, to lead me
into unnecessary danger."

"Singular!" said the brigade-major, puzzled.

"'T is the roguery of Navarro," whispered
Marco: "I will wager a hundred crowns to a
carlino, this is a piece of his revenge."

"Dundas, there is no time for inquiry or
exposure just now," said Colonel Oswald.  "What
do you propose—to withdraw your name?"

"No, I will lead the assault; and tomorrow,
if I survive, shall expose this cowardly Sicilian
forger, who is a disgrace to the uniform he
wears;" said I, exasperated to find myself compelled,
in honour, to undertake this most perilous and
deadly duty, where the chances of escape with life
were as one to a hundred, without the glorious
credit of being a willing volunteer.

"Fall in—the stormers," cried Gascoigne.

"Gentlemen—to your posts," cried Sir John;
and I was left almost alone.  The time of attack
was so close at hand, that luckily I had little time
for reflection: yet, for a few minutes, I became
grave and melancholy enough.  Life, death, home,
Bianca, wounds and agony, all floated in confusion
before me: but these misgivings were stifled, and a
chivalric recklessness—a desperate hope—a glow
of courage that would make one face the devil,
took possession of my breast, when the stormers,
two hundred in number, selected from volunteers
of the 20th, threw off their knapsacks, blankets,
and canteens, and were handed over to me by their
adjutant.  For my heavy cocked-hat, with its long
staff plumes, I substituted a light foraging cap; for
my tasselled hessians, a pair of large jack-boots.  I
buckled my waist-belt tighter, examined the blade
and hilt of my sword, threw away my cigar, and
gave the word—

"Attention!  Mr. Morley you will inspect the
rear-rank."

The pouches were opened, the flints and ammunition
examined by the light of the diamond-like
stars; the orders to fix bayonets, and load with
ball-cartridge, followed.  The ramrods went home
on the charges with a sullen, muffled sound; the
muskets rattled, and then the ranks became
motionless and still.  The bell of some distant
campanile tolled the eleventh hour, and as the
sound floated away, I could hear my own heart
beating, through all its thickening pulses.

My subaltern, poor lad, looked very pale: I
could perceive it by the starlight.

"Morley!" I whispered, in a tart tone of surprise.

"I am thinking of my mother—she is far away,
at home;" he faltered, and colouring deeply, added,
"I cannot help these thoughts."

"Few of us will hear twelve strike," thought I,
whilst closing the ranks, and lowering the point of
my sabre to the general, to intimate that we were
ready.

"Success to you, Dundas," said he.  "Move on
by sections: you know the breach—at the top, the
main street.  The fellows begin to scent our
purpose already.  You will be ably supported: Oswald,
with the 58th; Ross, with the 20th; de Watteville's
corps is the reserve.  Forward!"

We moved off, and at the same moment the
French guns again opened on the town, worked
with renewed energy and rapidity.  The rock of
Scylla was shaken to its sea-worn foundations; and
the lights, flashing from battlement and embrasure,
revealed the parapets lined with stern faces and
bristling bayonets, the lofty keep crowded with
men, and its giant outline towering over the
whirling smoke which issued from the guns of the
lower works.

The windings of the shore, the peak of Monte
Jaci, and the caverns below us, rang with continual
discharges of the artillery; and the intervals were
filled by the roar of the seething surf, and its
booming in the yawning depths of Dragara, where

   |      "Scylla bellows from her dire abodes!
   |  Tremendous pest! abhorred by men and gods!
   |  Hideous her voice, and with less terror roar
   |  The whelps of lions in the midnight hour."
   |                              *Odyssey*, Book xii.
   |

The night was close and still; the frequent
flashes of the fire-arms reddened the gathered
clouds, and lightened the bosom of the ocean: the
scene was grand and impressive.  But we had very
little poetry in our hearts as we stumbled up the
rough dark street, over which the thirty-twos and
long nines whistled incessantly; one moment
dealing death and mutilation amongst us, and the
next bringing some ruined gable or ponderous
balcony thundering down on our perilous line of
march.  With the utmost speed we pressed forward,
while Oswald followed with his corps, and without
much loss we passed the houses, and debouched
upon the ridge, when the whole outline of the
fortress burst at once upon our view.  We rushed
forward to the breach under a tremendous fire,
which rained from every parapet, point, and
loophole.  Magnificent and terrible was the aspect of
the castle at that moment: once more, innumerable
blue lights shed their livid and sepulchral
glare on town and fortress, land and sea; enabling
the defenders to direct their fire steadily upon us.
The musketry rolled in one voluminous blaze over
breastwork and palisade, while the batteries played
with incessant rapidity, loading the air with the
sound of thunder; for the echoes, thrown back by
the hills, were redoubled by the resounding caverns
of the rock.  From the summit of the keep to the
lower walls, every point seemed to swarm with men;
and was either blazing with light or shadowed by
smoke, and bristling with lines of flashing steel.

Before us lay the breach, foredoomed to be the
deathbed of many; it was an immense mass of
loose stones, and the ascent to it was most
troublesome, with such obstacles as we had to
contend with.  Fascines and chevaux-de-frise
were thrown across the gap; and in rear of this
crowded the garrison, who were firing on us with
deadly coolness and precision.

Morley fell dead at my feet!  An indescribable
sensation—a kind of frenzy possessed me.  I
shouted and rushed up, brandishing my sabre
and holding aloft in my left hand the little
standard, which I had undertaken to place on
the walls of Scylla or die in the attempt:
it was blown to ribbons by the storm of balls.
Navarro was forgotten: I thought only of glory
and Bianca!

"Forward, 20th!  Remember Egmont!  On, on!  Hurrah!"

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried the wild stormers,
as they scrambled up the breach in a mob,
encumbered by the killed and wounded, who were
falling every second under their feet.  A shower
of hand-grenades, thrown by the grenadiers of
the 20th, who were posted in rear of a low wall
close by, drove the enemy back from the
chevaux-de-frise, and shattered it to pieces.  These
military engines, which are now most unaccountably
laid aside, were followed by a few round shot
from our battery: their discharge created great
confusion among the French; so much so that
we reached the summit of the breach without
suffering half the slaughter I had anticipated.

A new engine was now brought into operation,
the effect of which will never be forgotten
by me, while life and memory remain.

"Push on, for God's sake!  O, my brave
fellows! trust now to the bayonet, and the
bayonet only!" I cried.

"Viva Ferdinando nostro e la Santa Fede!"
shouted Castelermo, springing to my side; but
the Calabrian war-cry was almost lost in the
cheers of the 20th, and the terrific din around
us: the ear was stunned with one continual
roar of frightful sounds.  But the groan, the
stifled gasp, the agonizing cry were unheard
or unheeded: we made the corpses of our
dearest comrades stepping-stones, and through
the shot and shell-splinters, which swept around
us like a hail-storm, we rushed on, to close, to
grapple with, and overwhelm the enemy.  At
their head we perceived the marquis, a noble-looking
fellow, on whose broad breast the stars
and medals of his achievements were shining in
the light from the muskets and bursting bombs.

At that instant I reached the summit of the
breach, and laid my hand on the chevaux-de-frise
to vault over, when the earth heaved and
yawned beneath our feet; a tremendous explosion
and a dreadful crash ensued: a hundred of my
party were blown to atoms in a moment, and I
was thrown over the barrier, falling headlong in
the midst of the enemy.

Unseen by us, after dusk, a caisson des bombes,
or tub filled with loaded shells, had been secretly
sunk under the stones of the breach, and being
slightly covered over by fragments of masonry,
lay concealed until the moment we trod upon it;
when the French fired it by means of a
saucisson, and produced a frightful catastrophe.
There was a pause for a moment; but a moment
only.

The few survivors of the storming party
recoiled, and I saw Castelermo clinging with all
the desperation of a dying man to a cope-stone
of the shattered battlement.  The stone yielded
and gave way; there was a cry of "Basta!" and
the poor knight vanished; but whether into the
fosse or the sea beneath the cliffs, I knew not:
in either case, I was sure he must have perished.

A yell of triumph burst from the French; it
was echoed by one of defiance from our stormers,
who once more rushed forward, led on by Colonel
Oswald.  His tall and stately figure afforded a
prominent mark for the fire of the besieged; but
he miraculously escaped.  With all the courage
that desperation could inspire, I used my sabre
among the French, with a strength and energy
they were unaccustomed to; but my efforts to
clear the barrier and rejoin our stormers were
perfectly ineffectual.  At the very moment that
Oswald sprang, sword in hand, over the now
shattered blades of the chevaux-de-frise, followed
by the 20th, thirsting for vengeance, I received
a blow from the butt of a musket, and felt as
if crushed beneath the weight of a mountain;
the light of a thousand stars seemed to dance
before me; then all was dark, horribly dark!
My God!  I faltered, and sank to the earth: the
French, supposing me dead, trod over me as they
rushed forward to the conflict.

The fatal breach was now passed, and our soldiers
fought like lions to retain their ground within it.
The conflict was maintained, hand to hand, with
resolute valour: swords and ponderous musket-butts
were whirling about like sticks at Donnybrook fair.

My head swam with the effects of the blow;
yet I contrived to crawl from among the legs of the
French—whose red breeches and leather leggings
I shall not soon forget—and drew near Oswald.
Then starting up, half blinded with blood, smoke,
and confusion, I rushed upon the French
commandant.  I had not exchanged half a dozen
passes with him, ere a heavy dizziness came over
me: I staggered backwards, and, sinking, clung
to a cannon for support.  He had raised his
sabre aloft to cleave my head in two; but, like a
gallant soldier as he was, he spared me, and
engaged Oswald, in whom he found no common
adversary; for the colonel was stout of heart and
strong of hand as any kail-supper that ever came
out of the famous "kingdom" of Fife.

Short but desperate was the combat that
ensued: a stroke across the temple laid the
famous marchese, whose name was so terrible to
the Neapolitans, prostrate before his conqueror;
and he was trodden to the earth among the gory
corpses which cumbered the breach; while the
whole 58th, with their black standards in front,
swept over us.





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.. _`A RENCONTRE!`:

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   CHAPTER XII.


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   A RENCONTRE!

.. vspace:: 2

As all our impetuous troops had now passed
through the breach, the French were driven
beyond it; but the conflict raged with undiminished
fury in other parts of the fortress.  The place
where I had fallen, benumbed and bruised, was
comparatively quiet and still; and whilst I lay
there, I heard a voice close by me exclaim, in
pure English, "O, my God! and here end all
my hopes, my joys, and sorrows!  My mother—my
home—I shall never see them more!  Alas! the
one would weep for, the other scorn me!
Aloise—dearest Aloise! we meet no more!  Well,
I have ever been faithful to you, and to our
emperor.  You have ever been loving, and my
sovereign grateful."

Turning with surprise, I found it was the
French commandant who was thus soliloquizing;
whilst he bled profusely from a wound, which
disfigured him very much.

"Here is a stout Briton who has been fighting
under the tricolor, or some wild spirit that has
fled from Ireland after the last rising," I thought,
whilst approaching him on my hands and knees.
I tied up his head with my handkerchief to
stanch the blood—though I myself needed the
same attention—and on dividing the contents of
my pocket-flask between us, the commandant
recovered wonderfully.

"Sir, you have betrayed yourself to be British!"
said I, in a low stern voice.  "With me your
secret is safe: I respect you as a brave man, and
should have done so still more had you been a
Frenchman; but beware how you become known
to Sir John Stuart: he is a stern soldier of the
old school, who will assuredly order a drum-head
court-martial, and have you shot as a traitor!"

The eyes of the marquis flashed fire.

"I am now a soldier of fortune," he replied,
"free to serve where and whom I please.  Stuart,
if he knew all—if he remembered.  But there
is a secret spirit whispering at this moment within
me, that I have met you before: you are the officer
who led the forlorn hope?"  His voice faltered.

"Yes."

"And whom I encountered in the breach,
before that tall officer cut me down?"

"The same."

"O, fate! if it should be so," he exclaimed,
passing his hand across his blood-stained brow;
and then grasping me with energy, "your name, sir?"

"Dundas," said I; "Claude Dundas."

"Of the 62nd Foot?"  His eyes were now starting
in his head, so intensely he gazed on me.

"Yes, sir," I replied sharply; "*I* am not
ashamed to acknowledge myself."

"Taunt me not—taunt me not!" he exclaimed,
wildly; "God!  I am your brother—I am Frank,
who was dismissed from the Corsicans so unjustly.
This hour—this agony—my wound—O say, in
ten years have you quite forgotten my features?"

For a moment I regarded, with wonder, his
bronzed and bearded visage, now covered with
blood; then, appalled by his words, I endeavoured
to trace in his features those of the fair-haired
and light-hearted boy who used to carry me
on his back to school, and was my champion and
protector in many a fisticuff battle and bicker:
who was so often flogged by the grim old janitor
for taking my faults and blunders on himself, and
for whom I wept like a girl through many a long
weary night, when, as a stripling ensign, he joined
the army under the good Duke of York, and first
fired my boyish ardour by being gazetted for his
valour at Valenciennes.

For a time, memory carried me back to the
pleasant days of our childhood, and my heart,
which a moment before had been strung for stirring
deeds of carnage and death, relaxed and melted
within me: in that terrible hour, in the gory
breach of Scylla, surrounded by the dying and
dead, with the uproar of the assault yet sounding
above and around me, I threw away my sabre, and
weeping, as I had done in my boyish days,
embraced that brother over whom all believed the
grave had closed, and whom I had never expected
to meet again on earth.

"Happy as I am to meet you, Frank, I would
rather that we had never met, than that I should
meet you thus.  The French uniform——"

"Is that of as brave an army as the sun shines
on!" he replied, enthusiastically.  "Insulted pride,
necessity, and revenge, forced me into its ranks,
where I have served faithfully and honourably; as
the high civil and military rank I have attained,
together with these badges, received some of them
from Napoleon's hand on the Champ de Mars, and
some on the battle-fields of Holland and Italy, can
amply testify.  Our mother," he added, in a broken
voice, "tell me, our mother——"

"Lives still; but old and sorrowing."

"And Kranz—my evil genius?"

"Dead—shot at St. Eufemio."

"There ends our enmity," he replied, through
his set teeth.  "I have gained a rank infinitely
above that from which he degraded me.  Heaven
knows how my heart bled when first I found
myself opposed to the ranks of your army at Maida:
the well-known colours and red-coats—ay, even
my own old regiment, the gallant Rangers; whose
officers and men, all save one, had been my
comrades through many a perilous day.  O, it was an
hour of acute and indescribable agony when I saw
them marching by the Amato in close column,
with their band in front, playing the same merry
quickstep to which I had often marched in happier
days.  I have found the French as honourable as
they are brave, and could I have forgotten home,
should have been supremely happy in their service.
My marriage with Aloise Milette, daughter of the
general of division—you must have heard of
him—would have given me additional ties to France.
Aloise—ah! if you knew her, Claude;" he paused,
as if to collect his scattered thoughts, and then,
although his senses were wandering, continued:—

"This last stronghold of the emperor in the
Calabrias, I have defended to the last—yes, with all
my power and courage; and in this moment of
extremity I must not desert my brave fellows, while a
chance remains of driving Oswald's brigade through
the breach or into the sea.  Farewell!  God bless
you, Claude!  Speak kindly of me to those at
home—to my poor mother—she will never see
me more."

He strained me for a moment to his breast, and
snatching up his notched sabre, staggered towards
that part of the works where an unequal contest
was maintained by a section of Frenchmen; whom
our soldiers were endeavouring in vain to dislodge
from a bomb-proof vault, by firing in through the
same loop-holes from which the enemy dealt death
so securely.

"Vive l'Empereur!" he exclaimed, rushing
towards them with his brandished sabre.

"Frank!" I cried; "Frank, by the memory of all
that has passed!—for the love of God—hear me!"  But
he heard me not.  He had scarcely advanced
a dozen paces, when a shot—whether aimed or
fired at random, I know not—passed through his
head and flattened on a gun-breech beside me.  He
fell dead across a heap of his own men, and never
moved again.  A cry of horror rose to my lips; but
expired upon them unuttered.  Stupified with the
events of the night, my brain whirled, and I sank
down on the slippery and bloody pavement of the
inner bastion: my mind was a fearful chaos, and I
experienced a sensation like that of a horrible
nightmare.

Weak as a child, and quite unmanned, bitter
tears rolled over my cheeks.  A dead man lay across
me: I was half-stifled, but could not move.  I
thought of home; and the splashing of the waves
far below me sounded like the murmur of my
native Esk: again I heard, in imagination, the
ripple of its waters tinkling in Roslin's lonely glen;
the woods of Dalkeith rustled over me.  Frank's
last words yet rang in my ears: but it seemed the
familiar voice of a boy; then came that of my
mother, low and sad—she was weeping for her son.

Again I was a child, and her kiss was on my
cheek.  Salt and hot were the tears I shed, and
bitter the agony I endured, ere blessed
unconsciousness possessed me, and sinking back against
the gun-slide, I swooned among the bodies of the
dead.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Long ere this, the place had been taken.  Infuriated
by the protracted assault, our men burst over
the fortress like a torrent.  De Watteville's soldiers
were like madmen.  Woe to the officer who dared
to check their plundering, or curb their fury!—and
woe to the unhappy women who fell into their
power!  Innumerable episodes of horror followed
the conclusion of the storm.  The French, who
had been disarmed, were marched instantly to
the beach, and embarked on board Sir Sidney's
squadron; which had come close in shore on
hearing the noise of the attack.

No time was to be lost in making Scylla again
defensible; therefore, before daybreak, the dead
were all interred in a common grave, in a hollow
near Monte Jaci.  For one amongst the hundreds
thus buried, I desired a separate and more
secluded sepulchre; but, stripped of his epaulettes
and orders, his body, without being recognised,
had been hurried away, and entombed with the
common herd in that dreadful grave, over which
two hundred soldiers hurled the earth for concealment
of the ghastly heaps within it.  I remember
the place: an orange tree, of gigantic size,
shadowed it; and a ruined Grecian column may yet
point it out to the tourist: it was lying near, and
our soldiers placed it over the grave.





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.. _`REGGIO.—AN IMPROVISATORE`:

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   CHAPTER XIII.


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   REGGIO.—AN IMPROVISATORE.

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Whilst I was still lying where I had sunk down
exhausted—stunned by my wound, appalled by
the recent discovery, weak with pain and loss
of blood, and utterly prostrated in spirit—the
fortress became still, or comparatively so, and the
objects all around were veiled in darkness: the
blue lights had burned out, and the lurid gleam
of the cannon and musketry no longer flashed
through the gloom.  Cries and piteous exclamations
of agony resounded from every quarter; and
the living were dragged from beneath heaps of
dead, to be sent to the hospital—an old, half-ruined
convent, which was appropriated to receive
the wounded; but which was soon found to be
inadequate to contain them.

Three soldiers employed in searching for those
who needed relief approached me; one of them
bore a lantern, and its light glared on the once
gay, but now tattered, uniform of Castelermo, who
accompanied them, and whose fate I had
altogether forgotten.

"Basta! and here he is!" he exclaimed; "only
stunned, I hope.—How now, Signor Capitano?—nothing
more than a few inches of the skin ripped up?"

"A cloven head, only," I replied, in a faint
voice.

"Only!" he reiterated.

"An old wound broken out again.  I was
struck by a musket-butt on the very place where
a ball grazed my head at Cefalu.  But I am glad
to see you alive and scatheless, after that sad
tumble you had when blown out of the breach."

"I have indeed had an escape which, to my
dying day, will never be forgotten.  I fell only
into the fosse: but a yard more, on one side,
would have launched me into the deep; and, by
this time, I should have been—Madonna knows
where, in the depths of 'devouring Scylla.'  Never
shall I forget the storming of this castle,
though I should live as long as father Adam."

The soldiers raised me up, and, on receiving
the assistance of Castelermo's arm, I was able to
walk, and was led into the interior of the castle;
where, after guards had been posted, one party of
the conquerors was making merry on the wine,
brandy, and viands found in the French stores.
Another party was already bearing away the dead
for interment: they were so numerous that the
general deemed it prudent, in so hot a climate, to
have the poor fellows all under the turf by
sunrise.  The taking of the place had been attended
with considerable slaughter: but I have forgotten
the exact casualties.

For several days after the assault, our troops
were occupied in repairing the old defences,
building new ones, remounting cannon, burying
the stray corpses, which were sometimes found
in retired nooks and corners, and in attending
to the wounded; whilst I remained inactive
on the list of the convalescents.  To me, these
were days of indescribable misery and *ennui*:
I endured agony, both of mind and body; for a
wound on the head, dangerous at all times, is
doubly so in a warm climate.  I became feverish
and restless, and was haunted by gloomy visions
and fancies.

The assault—its dangers, uproar, and excitement—that
unexpected and terrible rencontre—the
voice—the face—the words—the figure, which
seemed to come to me from the grave, to appear
only and be lost for ever—all flitted continually
before me, like some hideous dream.  I brooded
over the secret, which I dared not reveal even to
my most intimate friends in the garrison; and it
oppressed and weighed upon me like some vast
incubus.  I was restless, unhappy, and careless of
all that was passing around me; or, if I spent a
thought on the external world, it was always
accompanied by a wish to be again engaged on
some piece of active service.

Oswald being the officer who fairly led the
stormers through the breach, I did not receive
promotion; but, in lieu, a ribbon with a silver
clasp, having the word *Scylla* inscribed on it, was
presented to me.  This I considered no ordinary
compliment; rewards for merit being—strange to
say—almost unknown in the British service: if we
except those rings worn on the arms of the privates,
and called "good conduct stripes," in
contradistinction to the *bad*, which are bestowed
elsewhere.

My name was duly emblazoned in the general
orders, and transmitted to the Horse Guards,
whence the reiterated compliments of the
Commander-in-chief were published through all the
journals of the day; and while, in my obscure
billet at Scylla, I knew nothing about it, I
was becoming quite a man of note at home.

As soon as the fall of the fortress became
known, the inhabitants of the town, whom the din
of war had driven to Reggio and Messina,
came flocking back to their ruined and rifled
habitations; and the picturesque little place
soon resumed its wonted appearance of life and
activity, which the presence of Oswald's brigade,
and the vicinity of our fleet, not a little increased.

I had a tolerably comfortable billet with an
ancient lady, who did all in her power to make
me happy; for she perceived that something
weighed heavily on my spirits, and that I was
gloomy and melancholy.  She was a garrulous old
gossip, whose head was then as full of saints and
miracles as it had been of love and lovers thirty
years before, and a famous maker of polenta and
choke-priest: with which she often nearly choked
me; but old Signoressa Pia was so kind and
motherly in her manner, that I have ever since
remembered her with gratitude.

The little town and its castle were crowded to
excess; the latter with Oswald's brigade, and the
former with its returned inhabitants, our own
wounded, and those of the enemy.  There was
not a closet, garret, or cellar unoccupied; and
Castelermo shared with me the hospitality of
Signora Pia.  Our quarters could not be called
billets, as each person housed himself where he
could; the seniors generally occupying the best,
by right of rank.

From the windows of my apartment, we had a
noble view of the Straits, studded with vessels,
and gleaming in blue and saffron by day, and in
silver and green by night: the white-terraced
houses and spires of Messina, the beautiful mountains,
and all the Sicilian shore.  In the evening,
I often enjoyed the cool prospect and a fragrant
cigar, while sipping the scanty half-pint of ration
wine, to which the medical officer restricted me,
and listening to the dashing of the waves on the
cliffs below.  The little library of the signora was
placed at my disposal; but the "Gierusalemme,"
the "Hundred Ancient Tales," the poems of
Alfieri, and the sayings and doings of many holy
personages, were all turned over listlessly; until,
at last, I found one volume which interested me
deeply.  It was one of which I had heard Bianca
speak most rapturously, and which all Italians
mention with admiration—the Poems of Ossian,
the Bard of Selma, which are so ably translated
by the celebrated poet Cesarotti; whose pen has
added an essay on their authenticity and beauty,
which the Italians can appreciate, even through
the medium of a second translation.  From
Napoleon—who is said never to have been without a
copy of this work, especially when writing
bulletins and general orders—the Abate Cesarotti
received a handsome pension.  The book afforded
me occupation during the few weeks I remained
at Scylla.  I say weeks, because Ossian is not a
work to be skimmed, but rather studied; every
line is so replete with power and beauty.  But
my quiet mode of life was not fated to last long,
as I was sent on duty the moment my name was
off the staff-surgeon's list.

As soon as I could ride, I ordered out Cartouche,
and, accompanied by Castelermo, rode over to
Reggio, in faint hope of beholding that famous
phenomenon, the Fata Morgana—the sea fairy, as
our padrona called her—who, according to the
Calabrese tradition, is a mermaid dwelling in the
Straits of Messina, above the waves of which she
displays her palaces of shell and coral, to lure
young men to destruction: but there are fairies in
all the cities of Italy, whose lures are more
dangerous than those of the poor mermaid in the fable.

Castelermo informed me that he had been
hearing mass at a chapel of San Bartolemmeo,
among the hills, where he had solemnly returned
thanks to the great patron of his order, for his
narrow escape at Scylla.

"And San Bartolemmeo, who was he?" I asked.

"A most blessed saint, signor.  To-day is the
anniversary of his martyrdom: he was flayed alive
by order of Astiages, the Armenian.  But my
escape—maladetto! 't was a narrow one: when my
hold relaxed and I fell from the broken battlement,
I thought myself gone for ever.  Yes, signor, but
for St. John of Malta, and the beatified Madonna,
I must have been dashed to pieces on those
stone-flags, which received me so softly: in all my
campaigns under the cardinal, in all my fighting under
the winged-horse at Rome, and the Maltese flag,
I never encountered an adventure equal to it!"

"Under the Maltese flag?  Against the Turks,
I presume?"

"Basta! ay, and Corsairs of Barbary, pirates of
Greece, and, lastly, Frenchmen.  You are aware that
three months after the soldiers of Napoleon
captured that solitary rock, where the banner of the true
faith had waved so long, the hereditary vassals of the
order, irritated by the tyranny of his general,
Vaubois, rose in arms: with a few knights of the old
Italian langue, I hastened to put myself at their head,
and assist in the expulsion of those irreligious
invaders.  Ha! then we had something like war.  The
gates of Valetta, and the other cities of the isle, were
shut, and their blockaded garrison reduced to the
utmost famine and distress.  Then ensued that
long and bloody siege which lasted for two years;
during which time more than twenty thousand
soldiers perished by the sword or starvation.  As
the great master spirit of those military operations,
I was in my glory; and was full of fervour,
rapture, and extasy at the prospect of once more
establishing my order.  No pilgrim, on first
beholding the holy city from afar, ever experienced
the glow of indescribable feeling which possessed me,
when the fleet of Portugal, sent by Lord Nelson
to our assistance, burst joyously on my gaze; as the
gallant ships, with their frowning tiers of artillery,
their standards streaming, and white canvass
swelling in the breeze, steered round the promontory,
and opened their broadsides against the castle
of St. Elmo.  O, hour of joy!  I kissed my sword,
and raised my hands to the blue sky above me, in
thankfulness.  Lastly came the fleets of Britain and
Sicily; after which the fortresses surrendered, and
the soldiers of Vaubois, marching to the sea-shore,
threw down their arms.  All the treasured hopes,
the glowing thoughts of years, were about to be
accomplished: I stepped forward to receive the
sword of the general; judge of my wrath, when
Lord Nelson anticipated me; bowing low, Vaubois
presented his sword by the hilt, and the admiral
immediately handed it to a short squat fellow, a
sailor, who stood behind; and who, with the most
provoking indifference and sang froid, put it under
his arm with those of other officers, as he received
them in succession."

Castelermo heaved a deep sigh, paused, and then
continued:—

"I had in my hands the same consecrated
standard which Ximenes, our most illustrious
grandmaster, had, in better days, unfurled against the
infidels of Algeria; I was about to hoist it on the
ramparts of Valetta, and at the point of the sword
claim the Isle in the name of the knights of
St. John of Jerusalem, when, lo! the British flag was
hoisted on the turrets of St. Elmo: a cold shivering
seized my frame, while my heart glowed with
honest indignation at the grasping nature of England.
Slowly the flag ascended, unrolling its gaudy
crosses to the breeze, when the cheers of the troops,
mingling with those of our fickle and perfidious
vassals, were echoed back by the shipping of the
allies in our harbour, and the Sicilians thundered a
salute from the bastions of Ricasoli.  I thought of
old Villiers de l'Isle Adam, of Diomedes, of John
de Valette, and the glories that had passed away
for ever.  Sick at heart, and disgusted with the
world, I tossed into the sea beneath me the banner
of Ximenes, and sheathing my sword, quitted for
ever the Isle of Malta: where for two long years I
had fought, toiled, and bled; animated by the
proud and chivalric hope, that by restoring to its
pristine grandeur the order of St. John, I should
live in story, like those brave warriors who shine
In the glowing pages of Vertot.  But, alas! we are
falling now, as the Templars fell of old."

I never interrupted him: the departed glories of
his order formed a sad but favourite theme, and he
continued to dwell upon it until we arrived at
Reggio.  The white houses of the town, the undulating
hills, palm-groves, and orangeries, formed a
very agreeable landscape, sloping down to the
glassy bosom of the dark blue ocean.

"And this is Rhegium, so celebrated in the
history of the past."

"Where guilty Circe trod the waves with
feet unwetted, and where the wild warriors of
Barbarossa gave all to fire and sword," said the
cavaliere, as we rode over ground strewed with
ruins, now rapidly becoming hidden under
luxuriant masses of ivy and vine.  "These shattered
walls bear traces of the great earthquake of
1783; which will never be forgotten until some
still greater calamity overwhelms all Calabria
with destruction and horror."

"The Grecian columns yonder——"

"Are the relics of an earlier age: fragments of
the great temple of Minerva.  Reggio was once
famous for its country villas; of those you behold
only the ruins, which are used as a common quarry
by the people; and here you will look in vain
for the city, once so famed for its extent and
opulence: but the sacking and burning of 1544,
the convulsion of 1783, and succeeding wars and
woes, have reduced it to what you now see."

Though some of its streets were new and handsome,
they were quiet as those of a sequestered
hamlet at home: impoverished and oppressed by
the invaders, their inhabitants were few, and
those poor and dejected in appearance.  The
scenery, however, was beautiful; the winding
shores, the dark waters of the Straits, the high
mountains of the purest green, and the variously
tinted groves of aromatic trees, all combined to
render the place charming.  The smooth bosom
of the glassy sea vividly reflected the landscape:
but we looked in vain for that wondrous
phenomenon, the Fairy Morgana; who was so
condescending, a few years before, as to display her
coral palaces thrice to the Dominican Frà Antonio
Minaci.  Less favoured by the fair mermaid, we
beheld neither inverted fleets, nor submarine
cities; and, after a canter along the Marina,
adjourned to the Café Britannica to dine.

In the evening, as we sat sipping our wine at
the open windows, enjoying the cool west wind
from the Straits, and observing the passers-by—for
the streets became a little more animated, as
the men turned out to smoke their cigars and
talk politics, the women to see them and
promenade—a crowd beneath the balcony attracted
our attention.

"An improvisatore," said Castelermo, as the
notes of a guitar were heard.  "Shall I give him
a theme!"

"Certainly: but what shall it be!  The Fall of
Rhodez?"

"You shall hear: the capture of Scylla."

He drew a card from his case, wrote something
on the back of it with a pencil and threw it
over the balcony.  In the midst of the crowd
stood a young man, in the common but graceful
garb of the province, with a broad scarlet ribband
encircling his hat, the front of which was adorned
by a loyalist cockade of the same hue.  His
jacket of green plush was gaily embroidered, a
broad white shirt-collar was folded over it, yellow
cotton breeches, a green silk sash and leather
gaiters finished his attire; but there was something
very jaunty, intelligent, gay, and impudent
in his rosy face and *tout ensemble*.  His mandolin
announced him to be one of the improvisatari:
wandering minstrels, or itinerant storytellers.

I know not whether those men are worthy of
the name of inspired poets; but so wonderful is
their talent for versification, that some of the better
class of them have been known to produce,
ex-tempore, a five-act tragedy, and an epic, divided
into cantos and having a regular plot, characters
and dialogues: all maintained in octave-syllabic
rhyme.  I had often encountered them in Sicily,
where, by the wayside and among the mountains,
their songs had cheered the tedium of many a
long march, and had bestowed many a ducat
upon them; regarding the wanderers as
representatives of the ancient troubadours or
minnesingers, once so common over the whole of
Europe: but the modern minstrel we
encountered at Reggio provoked me extremely.

"Benissimo!"' cried he, while coins of every
description showered from all quarters into the
high crown of his inverted hat.  "The illustrious
cavalier has given me a gallant theme:
Madonna aid me to do it justice!  Signori,
you will hear a story of the brave English
captain, who took the castle of Scylla for King
Ferdinand, and so gained the love of a fair Italian
signora."

"Bravissimo!" cried the men, and the women
clapped their hands exultingly.

Castelermo glanced at me with a droll smile,
and we both burst into a fit of laughter.

"Impossible! the fellow cannot mean me!"
said I.

"You shall hear.  Ah! the prelude—hear
him—excellent!  He excels Andrea Marone in
verse; and our fair Gorilla, the gifted peasant
girl of Pistoia, who, amid the roar of a hundred
cannon, was crowned queen of the gentle art at
Rome, could not finger the mandolin more lightly,
or with better taste.  Basta! he should make his
fortune!"

Imagine my surprise, on hearing the improvisatore
give forth, extempore, to his eager, silent,
and gaping audience, a song or poem of some
thirty or forty long verses, in very tolerable
*ottiva rima*, descriptive of the siege and storm of
Scylla, in which, under the name of Claudio
Dundazo, I was continually mentioned in a strain of
most extravagant compliment, as the *valoroso
capitano*, and most gallant *cavaliere* in the world.
What annoyed me most, was that the name
of Bianca d'Alfieri had not escaped the minstrel;
who made her the heroine of his impudent epic.

"Oh!  Castelermo—by the Lord! this is too
ridiculous.  I care not about myself; but Bianca's
name to be used thus, for amusing the rabble of
Reggio!" said I, starting up.  "How the proud
girl's cheek would flush, if she knew of this!  You
gave him the theme."

"The theme, merely.—Hush!" added the knight,
detaining me, as the improvisatore concluded,
describing our joyous marriage in a splendid
cathedral, with incense burning, bells ringing, and
priests praying.  After a grand invocation of all the
saints—to whom he described us as vowing several
pounds of excellent wax candle, whilst a magnificent
petticoat was promised to Our Lady of
Burello—the bard concluded: once more he
inverted his hat; into which we each threw our
mite.

"His profession must be the best in Italy," said
I, on beholding the shower of coins which rained
into the amply-brimmed receiver—the clanking
dollar, the ringing carlino, and the tinkling bajocch.

"He has acquitted himself well: Gorilla herself
could not have done better; and, believe me, I
pay the wanderer no ordinary compliment in
saying so."

"But he must be cautioned against using the
name of the Signora d'Alfieri in future."

"Already he has gone, signor," replied the
knight; "and your threats and requests he would
neither hear nor obey.  The improvisatori will
find the celebration of the fall of Scylla the most
popular theme in the Calabrias; where all rejoice
that the horse of Naples once more spreads its
wings over the last stronghold of Napoleon in the
province.  Did you not observe how his enthusiasm
enabled him to acquit himself, and how he
seemed to rejoice in his wondrous art?  While
describing the night attack on Scylla, his breast
seemed to pant with ardour, and his eyes sparkled
with animation: his swarthy cheek glowed
crimson, while his rapid and liquid words enchained
his listening audience.  He is a handsome fellow:
at that moment he seemed beautiful, and all the
women were in raptures with him.  Yet how still
they remained, as if a spell was upon them, until
he concluded; and then burst forth the universal
shout of 'Excellentissimo—oh! most excellent!'"

On our return to Scylla, as I dismounted,
throwing the reins to my groom, he informed me
that an Italian general officer was waiting for me
at the house of Signora Pia on some business of
importance.  Startled by this communication, I
hurried to my billet, and found the supposed
general to be old Zaccheo Andronicus; who, in his
gorgeous chasseur's livery, might easily be
mistaken for some officer by Mr. Bob Brown, whose
perceptions of things, beyond the heel-post of the
stable, were none of the clearest.

I joyously welcomed "the old grey Grecian;"
who had recovered from his wound, and was now
bearer of a letter from Bianca, in answer to one
despatched the night before Scylla was stormed.

I consigned him, forthwith, to the care of my
padrona; and hurried away, to enjoy, in solitude,
the delight of perusing Bianca's first—and, as it
proved, her last—letter.

Written in her pretty little running hand, it
began with the usual address of "caro signor;"
but my heart leaped, on finding the fair girl using
the frank and more endearing phrase of "anima
mia."  The viscontessa begged to be remembered
to me: she had lost an enormous sum at faro last
night, with the last of her suite of brilliants.  Luigi
was slowly recovering from the effects of his wound;
but his peace of mind was gone for ever.  To
hasten his recovery, his mother had thrice vowed
a solemn pilgrimage to the cave of St. Rosalia, in
Sicily; but had as often abandoned the attempt,
and vowed candles to San Ugo instead: since
which he had begun to recover more rapidly, and
all at the villa had no doubt that the saint had
interceded in his behalf.  She applauded my
conduct at Scylla; and, to me, her praise was more
valuable, and more highly prized, than that
of the generals.  She had perused all the
despatches in the *Gazetta Britannica*, and her heart
had leaped alternately with pride and joy—with
fear and horror—at the narration.  "Oh!  Claude,"
she continued, "you know not how proud I
am of you: how I rejoice at your escape!
But Francesca, my sister—my unhappy sister!—we
can discover no trace of her: her fate is
enveloped in mystery.  We have every horror to fear;
for Petronio the Bishop of Cosenza, though
deemed a saint by the peasantry, is a bold and
bad-hearted man; and, Francesca in his
power!—oh! Madonna!  Would that you could visit us:
her loss and Luigi's illness fill us with perplexity
and dismay."

Next day, I despatched an answer by the
chasseur, promising to solicit the general for a few
days' leave of absence, to visit the villa.  But this
idea was never realized in the manner I expected;
as I was despatched, on urgent duty, to the
Adriatic shore, a day or two afterwards.





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.. _`NAVARRO—REVENGE!`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


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   NAVARRO.—REVENGE!

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Although I had no doubt that this honourable
personage, for the purpose of disgracing me or
endangering my life, had, in that true national spirit
of revenge of which every day brought forth
some new example, forged the letter which Gascoigne
received; still I had not sufficient proof of
the fact, either to "call him out," or place him
under arrest.  We met daily in the garrison, and
glances of undisguised hostility from him were
duly answered by those of contempt from me:
but such a state of things, between men wearing
swords, could not endure long.

A whisper of suspicion—most injurious to the
honour of Navarro, as a man of courage and
loyalty—was circulated through the brigade.  Shunned,
scorned, and placed *in Coventry* by the officers,
slighted and regarded with curious eyes by the
soldiers, his baseness recoiled upon himself: he
led a life of solitary wretchedness and misery.  But
he was a traitor and Buonapartist at heart, and in
close correspondence with Regnier; to whom he
soon deserted: yet not before committing one of
those atrocities which disgraced Italy then, as
often as they do a certain western island now.

Having so many adventures to describe, and
so much to relate, I must be brief.  My quarrel
with Navarro soon came to a crisis: being sent to
him by the general, with a message relative to the
re-fortifying of Scylla, I was so provoked by his
dogged insolence, that I laid my riding switch
pretty severely across his back; a challenge
ensued, and we were to fight next morning, in the
most remote part of the fortress.

Cool and determined, though exasperated, I
went to bed without the least anxiety: I had no
doubt of coming off victorious; and, hardened as I
was by the bloodshed of service, would have cared
no more for shooting Navarro than killing a
partridge.  *Now* it appears to me singular with what
deliberation Castelermo and I made our preparations
over-night; rolling six pistol cartridges, fixing
the flints, oiling the springs, and putting all
in order to start by daybreak.  After supping as
usual, we retired to bed; each giving the other
solemn injunctions not to sleep too long.

I have already stated, that in consequence of the
crowded state of the billets, we both occupied the
same room.

About daybreak, I started, and awoke: the
business on hand rushed upon my memory.  I sat
up in bed and reflected for a moment on the events
another hour might bring forth: my train of
thought was arrested by observing a current of air
agitating the muslin curtains of my couch, and
causing them to float about like banners.  I leaped
out, and, to my surprise, perceived the casement
unbolted and open; admitting, at once, the cold
sea-breeze, and dull grey morning light.

"Castelermo—signor, rouse!  It wants but
twenty minutes to the time, by my watch."

"And ten by mine," said Gascoigne, putting in
his head: he was closely muffled up in his cloak.
"What! only turning out; eh, Dundas?"

"It is all very well for you to be in a hurry,"
said I, pettishly.  "You Irishmen take these affairs
quite as matters of course.  I'll be ready in a
minute: a chill morning for a shooting party," I
added, with a poor attempt at a laugh, "Where
is Macnesia?'

"Below, with his instruments: but your friend,
the knight, sleeps soundly.  Hallo, Castelermo!"

There was still no reply.  Dressing in haste, I
called often, but received no answer; and supposing
that he must have risen, I drew back the curtain
of his sleeping place to assure myself, when a
scarcely articulate exclamation of horror escaped
my lips.  Imagine my grief and astonishment, to
behold our poor friend lying drenched in his blood,
pale and lifeless!

I placed my hand on his heart; it was cold and
still.  Gascoigne bent over the window, and
shouted—

"Macnaisha—Macnaisha—you devil you, come
here!"  The doctor arrived in a moment, but the
cavalier was beyond his skill: there was not the
slightest warmth or pulsation.  The gallant, the
noble, and chivalric Castelermo had perished by
the hand of a cowardly assassin.  Buried to the very
cross-guard, in his heart, a little ebony-hilted poniard,
was struck, with such force that some strength had
to be exerted to draw it forth; and on my doing so
a strip of paper, attached to the pommel, attracted
our attention; it contained these words:—

"Let those who would avenge this insolent
*Briton*, seek me among the ranks of the French at
Cassano: a word I might have forgiven—a blow
never.—*Pietro Navarro*."

Although boiling with indignation, I shuddered
at the fate I had so narrowly escaped.  For me it was
that the fatal stroke had been intended; and I then
remembered Castelermo's warning, to beware of
the cowardly Navarro.  Clambering up by a
garden-wall, the miscreant had reached our casement,
which he had contrived to open noiselessly; but on
entering the room he had mistaken the unfortunate
cavalier's bed for mine, and my friend had thus
perished in my stead.

"The blow must have been struck about midnight,"
said Macnesia.

Only an hour after we retired to rest: perhaps
Navarro had been outside the window during the
greater part of the night watching our preparations
for the intended meeting next morning.  But with
three hundred of our soldiers we had all a narrower
escape from this Italian's hatred and duplicity: of
which the reader shall hear more anon.

The Signoressa Pia was overwhelmed with
consternation and dismay on learning that the knight
of Malta had perished under her roof.  Followed
by a mob of fishermen, the podesta, with his clerk,
arrived and committed to writing a statement of
the facts; while I preserved the poniard and the
assassin's signature for production and evidence,
should a day of retribution ever arrive.

Enraged at this act of sacrilege, the populace
searched every nook and corner in the town; two
or three old knights of Castelermo's order, who
resided in the neighbourhood, armed and mounted
their followers and servants, who, in conjunction
with those of the podesta, and a detachment of our
light troops, scoured the whole country round: yet
without success.  Navarro was nowhere to be
found: but we soon after learned that he had
sought refuge behind the lines of his friends, the
French; who still remained entrenched at Cassano,
awaiting the slow advance of Massena.

In the solitary mountain-chapel of San Bartolommeo,
poor Castelermo was interred with military
honours: the grenadiers of Sir Louis de
Watteville, drawn up outside the edifice, fired
three volleys over it, while the coffin was lowered
down in front of the altar; where he now lies
with his mantle, sword and spurs, like a knight
"of old Lisle Adam's days."

He was one of the last cavaliers of the original
order, which for two hundred and sixty-eight
years had possessed the Isle of Malta.  Since 1800,
when France ceded the Rock to Britain, they
have been gradually declining in power and
disappearing; and, although at the petty courts of
Italy a few aged men are sometimes seen with
the eight-pointed cross of the order on their
bosoms, the Knights of Rhodes and St. John of
Jerusalem have, in effect, passed away: like
Castelermo himself, their glory is now with the
things that were.

Unfortunately I was not present to witness the
celebration of my friend's obsequies.  On the
close of this day, which had commenced so
inauspiciously, I had returned with the Light
Infantry, and wearied by a long search among the
woods and hills, was sitting dejectedly in my
billet alone, when Pierce, the general's orderly,
arrived with a message, that I was wanted by his
master.  I took up my sabre, and followed him
to the antique mansion where I had first seen Sir
John Stuart, on my arrival at Scylla.

The General was engaged in writing: the table
was covered with despatches, returns, reports, and
morning-states; a map of Italy and a pair of
compasses lay close by.  The rosy light of the setting
sun streamed through the barred and latticed
window on his stern Scottish features, his silver
hairs and faded uniform; and the tarnished
aigulette and oak-leaves, a cross of the Bath, a medal
for Maida, and clasps for other services, all
blackened by powder-smoke and the effects of the
weather, gave him a very service-born and
soldier-like aspect.

"Pierce, hand Captain Dundas a chair, and
wait outside."

"Help yourself, Claude," said he, pushing two
decanters of Lacrima and Zante towards me,
after asking a few hurried questions concerning
our fruitless chase after the runaway engineer.
"Fill your glass: the Zante is tolerable; and just
excuse me for five minutes, will you?"  He
continued writing, and then folded a long and very
official-like document.  "A journey is before
you," said he; "and as you will have to start to
morrow morning by day-break, light marching
order is best."

"For where, Sir John?"

"Crotona: I would not have sent you back
there, but Lascelles of yours has not returned
from Cassano, and Lieutenant-Colonel Moore is
not available.  Will you believe it?  I have
received orders from the ministry to abandon the
Calabrias forthwith, or do that which is the same;
to order back the expedition to Sicily, leaving
garrisons in the strong places we have taken.
These troops will, of course, become the prisoners
of Massena; who (I am informed by a despatch
from General Sherbrooke) has arrived at Cassano,
and is there concentrating a force, which will
soon burst over both provinces like a torrent: so
that Maida was won, the citadel of Crotona
taken, and the castles of St. Amanthea, Monteleone
and Scylla all gallantly stormed, for nothing.
We might as well have remained in peace in our
barracks at Palermo.  But, however foolish and
contrary to my own conviction, those orders
must be obeyed.  One of the Sicilian government
gallies will take you hence to-morrow, and put
you on board the *Amphion* in the Adriatic.  Give
my compliments to Captain Hoste, with this
order to take on board Colonel Macleod's
command from Crotona, and convey it straight to
Messina.  To Macleod you will convey these
instructions: to deliver over the citadel, with its
cannon and stores, to five hundred of the free
Calabri: who will in future be its garrison, and be
commanded by Major the Cavaliere del Castagno, or
any other officer whom that insubordinate fellow the
Visconte Santugo may appoint.  A detachment of
De Watteville's shall hold Monteleone; and Captain
Piozzi, with a few of the Italian Guards, the
castle of St. Amanthea.  I am resolved that as
few British troops as possible shall be sacrificed
by the folly of our friends in authority.  Your
regiment is the best in Sicily, and a wing, or
detachment, of it will garrison Scylla; which is of
the utmost importance to us as a key to Italy:
but if hard pressed by Massena, they can easily
abandon it under the protection of our shipping.

"To-morrow I return to the camp, to embark
the main body of our army for Messina: you will,
of course, come round with Macleod's Highlanders,
and rejoin me at Palermo; where I hope
we shall spend many a merry evening in talking
over our campaign among the Apennines."

I was in a sort of a maze while the general so
good-naturedly explained his plans and orders: in
which I felt very little satisfaction.  My thoughts
were at the villa.  To leave Calabria at present was,
perhaps, to leave Bianca: a deadly blow to my
air-built castles; unless Massena's legions marched
south in time to change the intentions of our
leader.  Relying on the general's friendship, I had
no doubt that my return to Sicily might be delayed
for a time; therefore I did not hesitate to solicit
the appointment of commandant at Scylla, with
the local rank of major in Italy.

"You are but a young officer, and the charge is
a most important one," said he, impressively: "but
you are getting tired of me, Dundas?"

"Far from it, Sir John; the staff——"

"I am afraid I task you too severely: well, as a
punishment for your discontent, you shall have
Scylla to keep, so long as our friend Massena will
permit.  His advance will soon scare the garrison
out of it.  I cannot refuse you that which you
underwent so many toils and risks to attain: the
nomination will appear shortly in general orders,"
(he made a memorandum) "but on *one* condition
it is granted, that you do not spend too much of
your time at St. Eufemio."

I coloured at the inuendo, while the old fellow
laughed at what he considered a hit, and held the
decanter of glowing Zante between him and the
sunlight.  He shook me heartily by the hand, and,
buckling up the despatches in my sabre-tache, I
hurried back to my billet to desire my servant to
pack my valise, and have all in order for starting by
daybreak.





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.. _`THE CAVALLO MARINO`:

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   CHAPTER XV.


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   THE CAVALLO MARINO.

.. vspace:: 2

The report of the morning gun had scarcely pealed
away from the ramparts ere Brown appeared by my
bedside, and the reveillé rang through the echoing
stillness of the castle above me.  In barracks there
are few sensations more agreeable than that of
being awakened by the reveillé on the dawn of a
summer's day: gradually its sweet low wail steals
upon the waking senses, sadly and slowly at first,
then increasing in strength and power till the full
body of music floats through the morning air,
redoubled by the echoes of the empty barrack-courts;
when as the measure from the slowness of a
Scottish lament increases to the rapidity of a reel,
the drams roll impatiently as if to rouse the tardy
sleepers.

"Well, Bob, what kind of morning is it?" said
I, scrambling up, shivering and yawning.

"Cold and raw, sir—the drums sound as if
muffled, a sure sign of a damp morning.  The
galley's boat is at the castle stairs, sir."

It was chilly and dark daybreak: the ramparts
of Scylla looked black and wet; the sentinels
buttoned up in their dark great-coats kept close
within turret and box; a thick fog floated on the
surface of the sea, and rolled in eddying volumes
around the caverned rock and the hills of Milia.
With Bob's assistance I soon donned my tight
leather breeches and jack-boots, and shaved hurriedly
by candle-light, using the case of my watch in lieu
of a dressing-glass.  It was a morning of that kind
when it requires all one's resolution to leave a
comfortable bed, and turn out in five minutes, to
face a drizzly fog and cold sea-breeze: so tightening
my waist-belt, I threw my cloak round me,
bade a hasty adieu to my kind Padrona and her
dishes of polenta, and sallied forth.

The boat awaited me at the sea stair-case,
a flight of steps hewn in the solid rock, and
descending from the castle to the water, which
was rolling in snowy foam on those at the bottom,
I threw my portmanteau on board, and leaped after
it.  Brown saluted and bade me adieu, while I
warned him, on peril of his head, to attend to
Cartouche and see him duly fed and watered, as I
used to do myself.

The boat was shoved off, and we shot away into
the mist from the lofty rock of Scylla; which, with
its castled summit, loomed like some tall giant
through the flying vapour.  The oars dipped and
rose from the wave in measured time, while the
boatmen chanted and sang of the glories of
Massaniello the fisherman of Amalfi, and of the mad
friar Campanello, who led the Calabrian revolters
in 1590.

In the pauses of their chorus, I could hear the
boom of the waves in the hollow caverns, sending
forth sounds like the howling of dogs and the
roaring of Scylla's ravening wolves, who abode among
darkness and misery, and rendered the spot so
terrible to the ancient mariner: but the noise died
away as the distance increased.  The fog arose
from the face of the waters, the rising sun began
to gild the summits of the Sicilian and Italian
hills, and I beheld the war-galley lying, like a
many-legged monster, on the bosom of the brightening
deep.  We steered alongside, the oars were
laid in, and the side-ropes and ladder were lowered
into the boat; which two sailors held steady, at
stem and stern, by means of hooks.  The galley
was named the Cavallo Marino, and a gigantic
sea-horse reared up at her prow: the same
emblem appeared carved upon her quarters, and the
name was painted, in large red letters, on the
broad white blade of every sweep.  She was a
high vessel, pulled by fifty oars, each of them
at least forty feet long and worked by five
miserable slaves, half naked: they were chained by
the wrists to the oar, or else fastened to their seats;
between which there ran, fore and aft, a long
plank or gangway, where the boatswain or
taskmaster walked about, applying his lash on the
bare shoulders of those unhappy wretches who did
not exert themselves sufficiently.

The sailors of the Cavallo Marino, about fifteen
in number, were stationed forward; she was armed
with a large thirty-two pound forecastle-piece, and
manned by two hundred and fifty slaves, the
dregs of the prisons and dungeons of Naples and
Sicily: assassins, bandits, runaway priests, and
villains of all descriptions, steeped in guilt of
every imaginable kind.  She had a captain, two
lieutenants, and a few petty officers, who wore the
government uniform: they were grouped on her
lofty poop when I ascended on board.  I was
received, according to the custom of that service,
by a cheer from the slaves: but, alas! such a
cheer!  It was more like a yell from the regions
of darkness; for the boatswain and his mates used
their rattans unsparingly, to increase the joy
of my arrival.  Many a bitter malediction was
growled by the Italians, whose eyes gleamed like
those of coiled-up snakes; many a pious cry to
God broke from the swarthy Algerines, who were
there doing penance for the slavery to which their
countrymen subjected those unhappy Christians
who, by conquest or shipwreck, fell under their
horrible dominion.  A Moor of Barbary, or a
corsair of Algeria, formed the fifth slave at every
sweep.  The poop was armed with a few brass
swivel guns; and the standard, having the arms of
Sicily quartered with those of Naples, was
displayed from a tall staff rigged aft, and hung
drooping in deep folds over the water, which it
swept at times, when agitated by the morning
breeze.

The officers were the only men on board who
wore their side-arms: the slaves were all too
securely chained to be dreaded; notwithstanding
their number.

By the captain, Guevarra, a pompous little
Sicilian, I was formally welcomed on board "His
Majesty's galley, *Sea-Horse*" (a phrase he was
very fond of repeating), and invited to breakfast
with the officers in their little den under the poop.
Here we were often in darkness, as the long folds
of the standard obscured the windows; but when
the wind wafted it aside, the full radiance of the
rising sun glared in through the openings, on
the light blue uniforms, silver epaulettes, and
weather-beaten visages of my entertainers; on the
glass cups of smoking coffee and thick chocolate,
a savoury ham, with piles of eggs, pyramids of
bread, and all the appurtenances of the breakfast
table.

"Per Baccho!" said the captain—who, though a
little man, was armed with a prodigious sabre, and
wore a most extravagant pair of moustachios—"per
Baccho! signor," he continued, with a most
bland Sicilian smile, "it would have been a
particular favour had the general sent you off to us
last night: by this time we should have doubled
Spartivento; and, as there is some word of a
French line-of-battle ship being up the Gulf of
Tarento, his valour who commands the *Amphion*
will be impatient to be joined by his Majesty's
galley *Sea-Horse*.—Lieutenant, I'll trouble you
for the maccaroons.—We shall have some rough
weather before evening, and these double-banked
galleys ship every sea that strikes them.—The
muffins? with pleasure, signor.—And, truly, one is
safer anchored close by the Tower of the Lantern,
than exposed to a lee shore and all the damnable
currents that run round Spartivento in the evening.
But, believe me, signor, that his Majesty's
galley *Sea-Horse*—Boy! pass the word for more
coffee."

"Si Signor Capitano," replied a little
olive-cheeked urchin in shirt and trousers, who
vanished with the silver coffee-pot.

"Considering the beauty of the morning, and
the unclouded splendour of the sun, I trust,"
said I, "with all due submission to your better
judgment, that you may prove a false prophet."

"Impossible, signor!" replied the Sicilian;
who was doing ample justice to all the good
things before him.  "I have sailed in—an egg,
thank you—in his Majesty's galleys, for forty
years, and know every shoal, current, rock and
sign of the Italian seas, better than the boasted
Palinurus of old—Better? said I.  Bah!  I hold
him to be an arrant blockhead, and no seaman,
to resign his helm to Signor Morpheus; whose
'Stygian dew' I believe to have been a
big-bellied flask of most potent Gioja or French
brandy."

"But Palinurus was an accursed heathen, like
his master, misnamed the 'pious Æneas;' and
having no saint to patronize him, could expect
nothing else than mishaps," said one of the
lieutenants.

"Right, Vinoni," replied the captain; "but
we, sailors of his Majesty of Sicily, are the
Madonna's peculiar care.  Faugh! a tarantella in
the cream-pot and fire-flies in the marmalade.
Yes, Signor Dundas," he continued, resuming
his former theme, "there is a regular hurricane
gathering; though from what point I cannot
quite determine.  Last night the yellow moon
rose above the Calabrian hills, surrounded by a
luminous halo; a sure sign of a tough gale, which
Madonna avert: what is worse, we may have it
in our teeth, blowing right a-head, before we
round yonder Capo del Armi.  On our voyage
from Palermo, yesterday, as we passed through
the Lipari Isles, they were covered by a white
vapour; a sure sign of a north-east wind: but
though the shore lies on our lee, his Majesty's
galley can always use her sweeps, and give it a
wide berth."

"But did you not remark, signor," said Vinoni,
"that before we came in sight of the Pharo, the
mist had floated away from the Lipari, and the
mouth of Stromboli threw clear flames across the
sky, whilst the waves smoked and growled with
a remarkable noise? all sure tokens of a land
breeze."

"Right, Vinoni!" said the captain, whose
opinion was generally formed on that of his
lieutenant; "right: corpo!  I feel it blowing
down the Straits at this moment, and the white
foam that curls before it on the water, announces
a coming squall."

Leaving these weatherwise Italians to settle the
matter as they chose, I walked forward to observe
the accommodation and construction of this
peculiar vessel.  She was now under weigh; and
though strained from stem to stern by every
stroke of the sweeps, she moved through the water
with a motion so easy and rapid, that her officers
had little occasion to dread either contrary winds
or tides.

The broad-bladed sweeps brushed the ocean
into foam, which roared in surf beneath the sharp
bows, boiling away under the counter, and leaving
astern a long white wake in the glittering sea.
The sun was now up, and his rosy morning light
cast a warm glow over land and ocean.

Captain Guevarra stood beside me on the
poop, and pointed out the different towns,
mountains, and headlands, as we moved down
the Straits: his observations proved amusing,
from the strange compound of knowledge and
ignorance, religion, superstition, and vanity they
exhibited.

We were soon in mid-channel: the fruitful
shore of old Trinacria, studded with innumerable
towns and villages, nestling on the green hills,
embosomed among the richest foliage or shining
along the sandy and sunny beach, rose in
succession on the view, while piles of picturesque
mountains closed the background; and soon, chief
amongst them all, gigantic Etna reared up its
mighty cone, appearing to rise from the watery
horizon on our starboard bow.  From its yawning
crater a lengthened column of light vapour
ascended into the pure air, in one steady, straight,
and unbroken line, piercing the pale-blue immensity
of space, and rising to an altitude, where, in
the soft regions of upper air, it was for ever lost to
the eye.

As the range of the Neptunian hills, and the
town of Messina with its large cathedral—its
numerous churches and convents, its terraced
streets sweeping round swelling eminences, and
its busy harbour crowded by a forest of
masts—closed, lessened, and sank astern; the bay of
Reggio, on the other hand, opened to our view,
with all the spires and casements of its town
gleaming in the beams of the morning sun:
the high peaks of its hills behind covered to the
summit with dark green pines, and fragrant orange
or citron trees.  The galley-slaves were now
pulling with all their strength, to make
headway against the strong current which runs
towards Cape Pelorus; but we soon got clear of
the eddies, and moved through the water with
astonishing speed.





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.. _`A RACE.—GALLEY-SLAVES`:

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   CHAPTER XVI.


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   THE RACE.—GALLEY-SLAVES.

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"Yonder is Rhegium, signor," said the Captain
Guevarra; "where Eolus dwelt before he removed
his government over to Sicily; and where
he sold fair winds to mariners, and tied the foul
ones up in paper bags—the cursed heathen!  And
yet it would be some advantage if such commodities
could be purchased in these vulgar modern
days.  I have known the time when I would have
given sixty pieces of gold for a single puff of fair
wind: but that was before I had the honour of
commanding his Majesty's galley *Sea-Horse* and
all those stout rogues who work it.—Ah!  Madonna
mia!" he ejaculated, crossing himself, as we walked
on the weather side of the poop; "what is all
this I have been saying?  Our Lady of Sicily
forgive me the thought, and keep me contented
with such winds as pass over the sea, without
buying from heathen, heretic, or devil!—Viva! how
bravely the old *Sea-Horse* shoots through the
water!  Believe me, Signor Dundas, there is not
another galley in the service of his Sicilian
Majesty equalling this, for strength, speed, and
beauty of mould."

"Yet there is a little vessel yonder, cracking on
under every stitch of canvass, which seems able
and disposed to beat you."

"Beat the *Sea-Horse*—beat his Majesty's
galley!" cried the little commander, stamping his
feet on the deck.  "Corpo di Baccho! if any
man on board, save yourself, signor, had even
hinted that such a thing was possible, I would
have dropped him from the yard-arm with a forty-pound
shot at his heels: I would, this instant—I,
Gandolfo Guevarra."

After this outburst, I did not venture on another
remark; and we walked up and down in silence.
Between us and Cape Pillari, a swift little Maltese
schooner, of a most rakish cut, was flying through
the water, with her snow-white canvass shining in
the sun, and bellying out to the breeze; while her
flashing sweeps were moving, stroke for stroke,
with those of the galley, which she was evidently
leaving astern.  She was low-built, almost level
with the water, which she cleft like an arrow.

"Ola! the boatswain," cried Guevarra, perspiring
with rage, which made every fibre of his little
body quiver, while he twisted his long moustachios
and looked fierce as a rat at bay.  "By the blood
of Gennaro! that villainous craft is leaving us
astern.  Shall a runaway of Malta, laden with
base merchandize, beat his Majesty's galley the
*Sea-Horse*?  No, no—Madonna!  Quick, rascal,
there! fly-flap the shoulders of the oarsmen, or
your own shall smart before sunset.—And you,
signor—master-gunner."

"Si signor illustrissimo."

"Ready—the gun there, forward; to teach these
vagabonds to keep their distance, and not attempt
to rival those who sail under his Majesty's pennant."

The forecastle-piece was double-shotted and
cleared away for action; while the boatswain and
his mates flew from stem to stern, lashing
unmercifully the bare shoulders of the slaves, with as
little remorse as one would the flanks of a vicious
horse.  Tremendous curses and horrible blasphemies
followed this application of the rattans,
and the unhappy wretches toiled until their
swarthy skins were deluged in perspiration, which
mingled with the blood streaming from their
lacerated backs.  The storm of maledictions soon
died away, their exhausted strength requiring that
they should work in silence; and I looked on, in
pity and disgust, while the miserable beings toiled
at the ponderous oars, with measured action
which strained every muscle to its utmost power
of tension.  On glancing along the rows of
black-browed, unshaven, and lowering visages, I read
one expression in them all—a fearful one!  Of
what demoniac minds were those stern eyes the
index!  A thirst for vengeance, rather than for
freedom, animated their savage Italian hearts:
every bosom was a hell of pent-up passion; every
man a chained fiend.

The sweeps were moved by each gang rising
simultaneously from their bench, and then
resuming the sitting position; again rising, and
again sitting, without a moment's respite from toil;
and if any man failed to exert himself sufficiently,
every slave at that particular sweep received the
same number of blows as the delinquent.  Such,
Guevarra informed me, was the unjust rule in
his Majesty's galleys.  One poor wretch dropped
dead; and while a shower of blows was distributed
to his four comrades, to make them work
harder, the iron-hearted boatswain, unlocked with
a master-key the padlock which held the chain,
and the body was flung into the deep.  Many a
glance of envy followed it, as it disappeared
beneath the bright green water; and once more groans
of grief and growls of smothered rage broke forth:
but, though the slaves toiled on till the galley
seemed to fly through the water, the little
scampavia still kept ahead of her.

"Work! work! or beware the scurlada," cried
the boatswain, who now flourished a gigantic whip,
beneath the whisk of which every slave cowered
instinctively.  "Ahi, Frà Maso, different work this
from mumbling latin at Palermo," he cried,
bestowing a burning lash on the back of one who
had been a priest; "work, work, sloths, if you wish
not your hides flayed off.  Ola! you, there, with
the nose like Ovid, and face like the O of Giotto,
dost think thou art selling paste buckles at Messina
once more?  Bend to the oar Maestro Naso, or
feel that!"

A yell burst from the unhappy Israelite, as the
terrible lash ploughed up his tender skin, while the
task-master continued:—"Work, work! pull away
larboard and starboard: give way, my beauties, if
you would have life left you to behold the sun set.
Bravo, my merry little devil at the bow-oar; you
seem a very Cicero, and look as if born with the
sweep in your hand."

A laugh, rising into a yell, at the bow, attracted
my attention, and on going forward I perceived
the hunchback, Gaspare Truffi, tugging away at
the first oar, which he pulled in conjunction with
three men: his strength being deemed equal to that
of two slaves.

As I stepped along the gangway, scowling and
imploring glances were cast upon me, by the swart
and naked oarsmen.  I could not resist saying, in
a low voice,

"Poor men! truly I pity you!"

These words were not thrown away.

"Madonna bless thee, Signor Inglese," said he
who had been called Frà Maso; "like thy
countrymen, thou art merciful!"

"Merciful! bah!" cried Truffi; "have I not
seen them scourge their brave soldiers like
dogs—even as we are now scourged!"

I watched the exertions of the powerful hunchback
with surprise: he toiled away with what
appeared most decided good-will, without receiving
a single blow from the boatswain, although his
conical hump and shaggy breast presented prominent
marks for the taskmaster's scourge.  His aspect
was grotesque beyond description, as he tugged
away and strained until every muscle in his
deformed body seemed about to snap; his matted
black hair overhung his fierce twinkling eyes, and
a forest of the same material fringed his capacious
mouth, which every instant sent forth a yell or a
shout of laughter.  On my approach, he bent to
the oar with redoubled fury, raving and howling,
while he spat towards me in token of hatred and
undying enmity.  With more astonishment than
commiseration, with more disgust than pity, I
regarded this curious little desperado; whose
hideous form contrasted so strongly with the
powerful and herculean frames of the other slaves:
their bodies, naked to the waist, and having every
muscle hardened to rigidity by excessive toil,
presented in almost every instance perfect models for
the artist and sculptor.

A half-stifled sob—a hurried exclamation—caused
me to turn towards a fine-looking old slave, to
whose antique contour of head and face additional
dignity was lent by a venerable beard, which swept
his breast.  Never shall I forget the glance
with which his keen dark eyes regarded me: his
features had all that noble regularity and proud
contour which are often found in old Italian
portraits; but there was a stern expression of care
in them, and the hard contracted lines of his face
showed a long acquaintance with grief, or an
exquisite degree of mental agony.  It was the
Major Gismondo!  Alas! how changed now was
the brave old cavalry officer—the once gay cicisbeo
of the fashionable viscontessa!

"Here! you here?" I exclaimed.

"Well may you wonder that I survive," said he,
the blood suffusing his temples when our eyes met:
but he was compelled to turn away; the whip of the
boatswain at that moment descended on his shoulders,
and I returned to the poop.  My heart bled
for the unmerited misery and degradation of the
poor old man: but to converse with him was quite
contrary to etiquette and orders.  On questioning
Guevarra concerning him—

"I trust, signor," said he, "you will excuse me;
but it is impossible for a captain of his Majesty's
galleys to know the biography of every rogue who
tugs at the benches."  He coloured with manifest
confusion.

"A droll fellow that hunchback who pulls the bow-oar."

"Ah!" replied Guevarra, "a perfect imp of
Etna: I am very much indebted to my good friend,
the Visconte Santugo, for sending him off to me
yesterday.  He was caught lurking near the villa
D'Alfieri by the soldiers who guard it.  Per
baccho!  I was half frightened when I saw him on
board—ha, ha! he has all the aspect of a stunted
Cyclope, and works so well that he has a fair
prospect of being promoted to the rank of task-master.
He laughs, chuckles, and sings incessantly; but for
what reason is beyond my comprehension, as there
is nothing here but hard work, heavy blows, and
scanty provender—unless we except the honour
of serving in his Majesty's galley *Sea-horse*.
Diavolo!" he cried, rushing to the other side of
the poop, "the Maltese schooner has passed us.
Pull rascals—give way ye lubberly Padri—give
way fore and aft!  Shall the gallant Cavallo Marino,
the flower of our galleys, and the peculiar care of
our thrice blessed Madonna, be beaten by a
d——d scampavia?"  He bowed and crossed
himself with great devotion before a little gilt
figure of the Virgin, which occupied a niche in
the centre of a row of brightly painted buckets,
ranged along the top of the poop.  But Madonna
was sued in vain.  Again the whistling rattans
were flourished on all sides: even Gaspare Truffi
did not escape, and his elfish yell sounded shrill as
the whistle of a steam-engine when the blows
descended on his naked hump.

On—on shot the scampavia, and the lofty galley
toiled after her in vain: the former carried a press
of canvass sufficient to run her under the water,
which flashed like blue fire before her sharp prow:
and she shipped sea after sea, as we rounded the
Capo del Armi, and the snow-clad summit of
Etna sank beneath the dim horizon astern: the
water was getting rough, the breeze increasing,
and it was evident that she must take in sail or
be capsized.  A half-smothered cheer arose from
her crew, who crowded her side, as they saw us
rapidly dropping astern.

Boundless was the wrath of Guevarra: he
stamped about the deck, while his long sword
became entangled at every stride with his little
bandy legs; he curled his bushy whiskers, fumed
and blasphemed like a pagan.  Save the slaves,
all on board, more or less, partook of his chagrin:
while smiling at his rage, even I could not avoid
a feeling of annoyance; for one becomes jealous
of being passed at sea, or beaten by a rival mail,
or getting the "go-by" from a friend's team on a
country road.

"By the miraculous blood of Gennaro!  I will
teach these mongrel curs, these Arabian Maltese,
to beware how they try speed with his Majesty's
galley.  Is the gun ready there forward?"

"All ready, Signor Capitano," replied the gunner,
taking the tompion from the lofty forecastle-piece,
and lighting his match.

"Then give them a shot between wind and
water.  Madonna speed the ball—fire!"

The helmsman brought the galley's head round,
and the thirty-two pounder was levelled and fired.
The *Sea-Horse* shook with the concussion: the
shot whistled over the water; a breach was made
in the low bulwarks of the Maltese, and a shower of
white splinters flew away to leeward.  The schooner
was immediately thrown in the wind: down came
her fore and main topsails, her jib and staysail, like
lightning on her deck; while the scarlet flag of
Britain was run up to her gaff-peak.  The galley
shot ahead: her great latteen sail, that tapered
away and aloft, was braced sharp up, and once
more we flew forward; while the Maltese did not
again begin to make sail, until she was a league or
so astern.

"Bravissimo, *Sea-Horse*!" said Guevarra, clapping
his hands in glee.  "Now we are leaving her
hand over hand."

In the ardour of the race he had not been paying
due attention to his course; and, in keeping
to seaward of the scampavia, which was probably
bound for the Venetian Gulf, the galley was
further from the land than she ought to have been:
her head was turned northward; and, as we slowly
approached the Apennine chain, the promontory
of Hercules rose gradually on the view.

We now made but little progress: the breeze
had died away; the heat of the day was intense,
for the sirocco was abroad, and the air was flittering
with sulphury particles, blown, probably, from
the peak of Etna.  Wearied with their late exertions,
the over-tasked slaves, exposed to the broiling
sun, sat gazing listlessly, with their glaring
and bloodshot eyes, on the glassy sea; and even
the rattan of the drowsy and perspiring boatswain
failed to rouse them from their apathy.  The
little way we made was solely owing to the large
square mainsail; and, though the galley lay close
to the scarcely perceptible current of air, our
progress was not a mile an hour: yet, long before
the setting sun began to redden the blue Ionian
Sea, Guevarra had the mortification to see the
little Maltese pull with her sweeps round the
promontory and disappear.

During the weary noon of that scorching day,
while the wretched slaves sat naked at their oars,
exposed to the fierce bright sun, Guevarra and his
officers were seated under a cool awning on the
poop, enjoying their siesta, after a luncheon of
light fruits and lighter wines; while the boatswain,
his mates, the gunner and his mates, chewed
their maccaroni and drank cold water under a
similar contrivance on the forecastle.  Miserable
was the plight of the poor unpitied slaves: chained
to the oaken bench, which formed their seat when
they toiled and their bed when they slept; and on
which they were alternately exposed by noon to
the broiling heat of an Italian meridian, and by
night to the chill blasts of the ocean; half naked,
continually suffering castigation, fed on the worst
and coarsest food, and packed so closely that
dreadful diseases were continually breaking out
among them.

The day became closer: not a breath stirred the
languid breezeless air; the sea-birds floated on the
still bosom of the glassy deep, and the mainsail
flapped heavily on the mast as the galley rolled on
the slow heaving ground swell.  She was drifted
shoreward by the currents: in the afternoon we
were close to the land, and I began to fear that my
journey to Crotona would be of longer duration
than the general expected.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE REVOLT OF THE GALLEY SLAVES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE REVOLT OF THE GALLEY SLAVES.

.. vspace:: 2

It was night—beautiful night!  The cold pale
moon gleamed on the waste of waters, on the silent
shore, on the hills of Magna Græcia, and on the
wide Ionian sea.  Ten thousand luminous animalculæ
glittered in its briny depth, as if to rival the
bright stars above; while the white columns on a
distant promontory—the last relics of a people, a
power, and a creed that have passed away—the
wooded mountains and the pebbled beach, and
Albanian Bova, the towers of Theodosia, LaBianca,
and other towns, rose in succession on our view, all
glittering in the radiance of that broad and lovely
moon.

A guitar broke the silence, accompanied by a
clear voice: it was young Vinoni chanting a verse
of Pignotti's Novella, beginning with "Donne
leggiadre, allorche," &c.

   | "Woman enchanting! when I look on thy form,
   |    And behold the soft graces of lip, cheek, and hair;
   |  And thy bosom of snow, nature's loveliest charm,
   |    Ah! who would not kiss it, and love to die there?
   |  "Sweet to behold the unsullied snow!
   |    The dark eye that rolls——"
   |

"Come, come, caro tenente, stop your twangling,
and make sail on the galley!" cried Guevarra,
starting up from the sleep he had enjoyed under
the awning since dinner.  "Corpo di Baccho! here
comes the breeze at last," he continued,
snuffing it over the quarter; "and the tunny-fish—ah! the
fine fellows, see how they are passing us in
shoals."

Humming "Donne leggiadre," &c., the lieutenant
relinquished his guitar, and looked intently
over the quarter.

"Ha!  Signor Guevarra, I knew that the clear
fires of Stromboli betokened something—behold!"  As
he spoke, a heavy and dense bank of clouds
spread from the northern horizon, and gradually
veiled the whole sky; the moon disappeared, or
shot forth her lustre only at times on the whitening
waves: the sea became black, and the land loomed
close and high.  The mainsail filled as the breeze
freshened, and the boatswain warned the slaves to
prepare for hard work.

The darkness was now dense; and I felt, I knew
not why, considerable anxiety as to the issue of the
night.  The little captain generally about this time
retired to his cabin, to enjoy, alone, his cigar and
a glass of lacrima; resigning the command to
Vinoni.  The features of the young lieutenant
were clouded with care, or by some gloomy
presentiment: he often walked to windward to watch
the weather and look at the waves, which the
rushing breeze edged with white.  Suddenly he
ordered the great mainsail to be furled, and all
made snug for the night.

"Out sweeps: give way there forward!"  The
shrill pipe of the boatswain echoed his command,
and a commotion immediately took place among
the slaves, who had hitherto been sitting silent and
motionless in the dark.  From the bosom of the
startled deep a fierce yell arose.  Imagine my
astonishment and the horror of Vinoni, on beholding
the galley-slaves, instead of resuming their
monotonous labour at the oar, spring up at once from
their benches, and rush, some forward and some
aft, shouting like devils or maniacs broken loose.

A desperate but momentary conflict ensued:
most of the seamen were tossed overboard, while
the rest were driven below the forecastle.  Vinoni,
brave to rashness, sprang to the front of the
poop, and drawing from his belt pistols (which the
galley-officers were never without) he fired, and a
slave fell bleeding on the deck; then rushing to the
swivel-guns he slued them round to sweep the
waist: but they were without matches and useless.
Instinctively I drew my sabre; but old Gismondo
threw his arms around me.

"Madman!" he exclaimed, "would you tempt
the unfettered fury of two hundred and fifty
ruffians—the fiercest in Italy: men whom years of
slavery, tyranny, and toil have transformed into
demons?  Sheath your sword, signor—I alone can
protect you."  I returned my sabre to its
scabbard: but a groan burst from me on beholding
what followed.

"Corpo di Baccho! what is all this?" cried the
captain, rushing upon the poop; "eh! a mutiny,—a
revolt in his Majesty's——" in a moment he
was borne over, and dashed to the deck by the
hunchback, who instantly brained poor Vinoni with
one blow of a handspike.  With one of his elfish
laughs he was rushing upon me, whirling his club
aloft; and, but for the stern intervention of Signor
Gismondo, my campaign and my days had ended
together.  By what agency he exercised authority
over these lawless spirits, I know not; but the
most forward of them slunk away to continue the
work of slaughter elsewhere: and frightful were
the outcries and din around us, as the taskmasters
and mariners perished beneath the weaponless
hands, and even the teeth, of those over whom
they had so long tyrannized.  In one minute the
galley was in the possession of the slaves; and the
unfortunate captain, his boatswain, and two or
three Sicilians of his crew, were dragged along
the benches bound with cords.

"Follow me—this way, signor—ere worse come
of your remaining on deck!" said Gismondo,
hurrying me into a cabin and shutting the sliding
door.  "I will forget," he added, with an icy smile,
"how coldly and cruelly you stood by while my—my
daughter was murdered by that high-born ruffian,
Bivona.  May his race perish, or be followed
by a curse to its latest generation!"

"Keenly at this moment do I feel the reproach—yet
what could I do?"

"Had you not a sabre?" he asked, with fierce
contempt.  "Her death—it slaked not the thirsty
vengeance of our accursed chiefs—they sent me to
these galleys——" he threw himself on a locker
and covered his face with his hands.

How full of excitement and of agony was that
time to me!  Sad were the cries for pity, uttered
to the pitiless—for mercy from those who had
never received it, and knew it not—which mingled
with the hideous uproar that reigned on the
creaking deck above us.  I heard plunge after
plunge, as the corded victims were flung overboard
by the desperate revolters; who, to refine
upon cruelty, tied them back to back, and so
hurled them into the seething waves, without
the least chance of escape.

At last all was silent: the plunges were heard
no more, and the last cry of despair had died
away on the wind; I heard the heavy sweeps
once more dipping in the water, and knew by
the straining of the timbers and clatter of the
thole-pins, that the *Sea-Horse* was under weigh
again.

"I hope, major, your late companions do not
mean to carry me off a prisoner!"

"No," he replied, gloomily; "and your life is
safe.  These unhappy men have no cause to be
your enemies—you will be shortly sent ashore."

"But how were you all enabled to break loose,
as if by magic?"

"The little hunchback, whom I verily believe
to be satan, possessed strength sufficient to wrench
his fetters in two; he then stole the master-key
from the belt of the boatswain, as he slept beside
the windlass: it was handed along the banks of
oars—up the larboard and down the starboard
benches—each slave in succession unlocking his
manacles, until it came to me; when I opened the
accursed padlock, and flung it, fetters, key and all,
into the ocean."

"And these ruffians——"

"Will form no mean recruit to Francatripa,
Benincasa, or some of those other robber chiefs
who divide the hills and forests of Calabria among
them."

At that moment we heard the splash of a
quarter-boat, as it was hastily lowered down from
the davits.

"Signor," said Gismondo, rising, "the boat
awaits you; and the sooner we separate the better.
A den such as this, crowded with these poor
wretches, whom servile labour and the lash have
degraded to the condition of brutes, cannot be
agreeable to one in the honourable station of a
cavalier—a soldier—such as I once was in happier
days.  Adieu!" he pressed my hand, and led me
to the side of the galley, where the boat was held
close to the ladder by Frà Maso and three other
slaves, who had chosen to land on that part of the
coast.

"You accompany me, of course, Signor Major?"
said I.

"Never!  Broken in spirit—degraded as I am—this
naked body—these scars: away, leave me to
my misery! leave me!  These poor men, at least,
will not shrink from—adieu!  Signor Dundas—adieu!
Frà Maso—shove off!"

Before descending into the boat, I was compelled
to deliver up my watch and purse: my sabre-tache
was searched, but returned to me when
found to contain only military letters and papers.
I should probably have been deprived of my
epaulettes, but as they were my fighting pair, they
had become so tarnished by smoke and weather,
that the searchers allowed them to pass unnoticed.

Gaspare Truffi had now succeeded poor little
Guevarra in command of "His Majesty's Galley,"
as the reward of his strength and cunning.  He
was seated in Madonna's niche, on the poop, kicking
his heels, swinging his long arms like the sails
of a mill, shrieking, swearing, and drinking from
a flask of lacrima, by turns.  About twenty
sweeps were manned; but the greater number of
slaves were busy, rummaging every lockfast place
in search of plunder.

The night was black and stormy: not a star was
visible, and the dark outline of the land rose up
high and gloomily above us.  We heard the boom
of the white breakers, as they rolled on the rocky
and silent shore; and their echoes mingled with
the dash of the long sweeps, as the galley was
pulled away and disappeared in the obscurity
around us.

When again I met the Signor Gismondo, it was
under very different circumstances: more
fortunate than myself, he reached Crotona next day,
and was protected by the Duke di Bagnara; who
gave him a command in his battalion of the Free
Calabri.

We were soon amidst the surf; and as the boat
shipped sea after sea, we were quickly drenched to
the skin.  While I sat shivering in the stern sheets,
the four rescued slaves pulled on in silence, and
with all their strength; lifting the light shallop out
of the water at every stroke, in their eagerness to
tread on earth once more.  How joyously and
strongly they seemed to stretch their now
unfettered limbs!  Having the tiller ropes, I steered
the boat towards a piece of sandy beach which we
discerned through the gloom; and, not without
fear of crashing on some concealed rock, I saw its
head shoot into a narrow creek, between two
jutting crags, against which the eastern current of the
Ionian sea was running in mountains of angry
foam.  In consequence of the boat's headway, the
fury with which she was pulled, and the strength
of the current, she was run up high and dry on
the beach, with a concussion that nearly tossed us
all out on the sand.  The rowers leaped up with
a triumphant shout of "Buon viaggio, Signor
Inglese!" and springing away towards the hills,
left me to my own reflections.

Behold me, then, in a most desolate condition:
landed at midnight on the sea-shore, in a remote
part of Calabria—the lawless land of robbery and
outrage—then "the *terra incognita* of Europe"—minus
my valise and purse, and without a guide.
The rogues had stripped me of everything, save
Bianca's dear little ring; the diamond of which my
thick leathern glove had concealed from their
prying eyes.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE THREE CANDLE-ENDS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE THREE CANDLE-ENDS.

.. vspace:: 2

For some time I sat by the sea-shore, reflecting
on what course to pursue; until the increased
howling of the wind, the roar of the surf, and a
drop or two of rain splashing on my face,
announced that a rough morning was coming on.
Not knowing whom I might encounter, I regretted
the want of my pistols.  Stumbling landward
from the rocky beach, I succeeded in discovering
a rude flight of steps, hewn in the basaltic
rocks which faced the sea; but so obscure was all
around, that on gaining the summit I knew not
whether the dark chaotic masses before me were
a bank of clouds or the termination of the long
chain of the Apennines.

In a short time I perceived a light twinkling
through the gloom, and could discern a little bay
or harbour, where three small craft lay at anchor
close under the lee of the high land.  A narrow
path brought me to a neat little cottage, over the
low roof of which the vines clambered, mingling
with the orange trees, which raised their rich
foliage and golden fruit above the sea-beat
promontory.  The wind was increasing, the clouds
began to whirl and break, the rain to descend, and
a single star, red, bright, and fiery, sparkling on
the dark and distant horizon, was lost at times, as
the billows of the Ionian main tumbled and rolled
between it and me.  Gladly I knocked at the
cottage door; and after a long delay an aged
domestic appeared at a loop or slit, through which
the rays of her lamp shot forth, radiating into the
gloom: she seemed unable to understand and
unwilling to admit me.

"Open the door," said a man's voice, "should
it be a robber, what have we to fear?  I never
harmed the brigands, and they dare not to meddle
with me."

I expected, from this defying and confident
tone, to behold some very ferocious personage
when the door was opened; and was, therefore,
agreeably surprised on being welcomed by a
reverend old man, with silver hairs, and a most
patriarchal beard flowing from a pleasing and
benevolent countenance.  It was my old friend
the Basilian priest of Squillaci; and we immediately
recognised each other.  On my apologizing for
disturbing him at an hour so unreasonable, he
replied,——

"Say no more, signor; I am the priest of this
district, and my door is open to all: from the great
lord to the poor lazzarone, all are equally welcome
here.  But thrice welcome the soldier; for, though
now but a poor padre, I have borne arms in my
youth, and fought in the wars of Charles of
Parma; and I love the sight of a soldier for the
sake of the thoughts of other years."

In the snug room of the Basilian, with my
feet on the fire-pan of charcoal, I partook of a
slight supper, and related the seizure of the
galley and the destruction of her officers and
crew: a tale which filled the gentle old Greek
with horror.  I then recurred to the urgent
nature of my despatches, and the dilemma in
which I found myself in consequence of being
stripped of everything requisite to enable me to
pursue my journey.

"Keep yourself easy, signor," said my host;
"a little craft, bound northward, put into the
harbour below, a few hours after sunset, to repair
some damage sustained at sea; and I have no
doubt her master will, at my request, be happy to
land you at Crotona."

I was well pleased to hear this.  After a little
more conversation, the Basilian retired; and I
slept till sunrise upon his sofa, with my cloak
over me.

The skipper of whom he had spoken came to
breakfast with us, and I discovered he had charge
of the scampavia which had suffered from the
*Sea-Horse's* forecastle-gun.  Her starboard
bulwark and part of her mainmast had been so much
injured, that he had run into the little cove for
the double purpose of repairing the damage and
waiting till the threatened squall blew past.

Maestro Maltei was, as his name imports, a
thorough Maltese, quick-sighted, polite, and
intelligent.  His features displayed all the national
peculiarities of his race; the black, shining
Arabian eyes, thick lips, and swarthy visage.  He
was a stout man, upwards of thirty, and clad in
a yellow cotton shirt, embroidered on the breast
and sleeves; over it he wore an ample vest of red
velvet, adorned with innumerable little silver
buttons; a long silk scarf encircled his waist, and
retained his sheathed knife; and on his head he wore
a long tri-coloured woollen cap, which hung down
his back below the waistband of his white cotton
breeches.  He had rings in his ears, and a
rosary round his neck: altogether Maestro Maltei,
though he had much of the pirate in his aspect,
was, in reality, as smart a nautical dandy as one
could see in these days lounging about the
galley-arches at Malta.

After breakfast, he returned on board, promising
to send for me when ready to put to sea.  Anxious
to proceed, I watched from the windows of the
priest's house the operations of the carpenter
busy at work; though the weather was lowering,
and torrents of rain fell at intervals during the
day, which dragged on slowly.  I soon became
heartily tired of the Basilian; who bored me, for
six consecutive hours, with an essay he was
writing on the lives of two eminent ancients:
Quintius Ennius, a Calabrian, the friend of
Scipio and Lælius, author of eighteen books of
metrical annals, and tragedies, epigrams, and
satires innumerable; and Aurelius Cassiodorus,
a Roman patrician and minister of Theodric,
who founded a great monastery near Squillaci,
where he wrote a history of the Goths.

Politeness compelled me to endure complacently
the learned pedantry of the reverend
father, to whose hospitality I was so much
indebted; but I rejoiced when the bare-legged
mate of the *Santelmo* approached with the
information that she was ready to put to sea.
Immediately after dinner I went on board, with
my ears ringing with the Grecian's sonorous
voice, and the epigrams, satires, and witty sayings
of the immortal Quintius: whom I had never
heard of before, and have seldom heard of since.

The weather, which had been alternately cloudy
and sunny, now settled down into a dull grey
evening: the whole sky became canopied by dusky
vapour, which towards sunset was streaked with a
pale stormy yellow; the saffron sun was seen for
a few minutes, as it sank behind the hills of
Oppido; and, as the light died away, the sea
turned gloomy and black.  The wind blew in
gusts, and the billows rolled on the beach with
a hollow sound: everything betokened a rough
night; but the Maltese were ready for sea, and the
warps were cast off.  I had some misgivings about
sailing in such weather, but concealed my anxiety.
The other two craft, a xebecque and a sloop,
remained at anchor; and their crews showed no
sign of preparing for sea.  I spoke of this to
Maestro Maltei, and asked if he thought they
expected rough weather.

"Probably they do, signor," said he, removing
his cigar, as we walked to and fro on the weather
side of the quarter-deck; while the fleet schooner
flew onward, straining under her bellying canvass.
"The masters are timid Venetians, and the sailors
tremble for their share of the cargo."

"Then stormy weather *is* expected?"

"Doubtless we shall have a dirty night: but,
having repaired all the damage done by that
cursed shot, and, moreover, having received from
my very good friend, the Basilian father, three
sacred wax candles, which have burned before the
shrine of Our Lady of Bova, after being duly
blessed and sanctified by the Bishop of
Cosenza——"

"And with these——"

"We light our binnacle, and no danger can
overwhelm us."

"On the faith of these you put to sea on a
stormy night!—three old candle-ends——"

"Undoubtedly, signor," said he, turning away
abruptly, while I was equally annoyed by his
folly and ignorance.

The *Santelmo*, as she was named, was a smart
little schooner, with a lofty tapering mainmast;
she was broad in the beam, but sharp at the bows,
where an image of her saintly patron spread his
arms above the deep.  Her well-scrubbed decks
were flush and white; while the brass plates on
her four carronades, her binnacle-lamps, and the
copper on her sides, were all polished and shone
like burnished gold.  She was gaudily painted,
and straight as a lance from stem to stern.  With
all her snowy canvass set, we ran along the coast,
favoured by the land-breeze, and soon saw the
lights of Gierazzo and the Locrian temples of
Palepoli vanish behind us in the dusk.  Upon a
wind the *Santelmo* sailed admirably, and midnight
saw us far beyond the Capo Stilo; but the breeze
had increased so much that, notwithstanding his
intense faith in the candle-ends, Maltei was
obliged to take in sail.  Still more tough grew
the gale; the night became darker: the high
outline of the Calabrian hills could be discerned
no more, and the breaking sea was covered with
white foam.  The miraculous candles had been
lighted in the binnacle with great formality, by
the cabin-boy on his bare knees; imploring, at
the same time, in the names of St. Elmo and
St.
John of Malta, a peaceful night for the master
and crew.

The blessed candles burned and sputtered
merrily; the bushy-whiskered and grim-visaged
timoniere hitched up his cotton breeches, twitched
down the net which confined his long black hair.
and grasped the helm in confident silence.  But
harder blew the wind: it roared through the
rigging, and the *Santelmo* was soon flying through
the rolling sea, stripped of half her canvass.

The mate slung himself from the spritsail yard;
and, when endeavouring to place a candle in the
hand of the image on the cutwater, dropped
overboard, and (poor fellow!) was seen no more.
The sailors now became excited.

"Clew up the fore-topsail—in with the forestaysail!
Saints and devils! be quick, will you!"
yelled Maltei, through his speaking-trumpet.
"Close reef the foresail, and take in everything
else fore and aft.  Per Baccho!—Our blessed
Lady!—Devil in hell!  Look sharp, will ye!—Quick,
there, or I will shoot the last man off the
deck.  Away, aloft, while ye can get out on the
yard!"  But not a man would venture, and Maltei
might as well have roared to the wind.

"Corpo! you blundering asses, let all go by the
sheets, then.  Apostles and angels!  Quick,
cowards!—let fly, or the masts will go by the board."

The order was obeyed: the cordage rattled, the
blocks shrieked; the canvass flew to leeward, split
to ribbons, which crackled and lashed the rigging,
as they flapped on the furious wind: but we
escaped a capsize, and the schooner skimmed
along under her close-reefed foresail; while Maltei
took the tiller and strove to keep her to her course,
swearing and praying by turns.

The loss of the mate and the increasing tempest
rendered all gloomy and discontented.  Anon,
there was a cry.  I instinctively grasped the
bulwarks.  A tremendous sea was shipped; it swept
over the whole deck, washing three sailors, the
long boat, all the spare booms and spars,
overboard: also the binnacle, with the compass
and—horror of horrors!—the three miraculous candles;
which were extinguished in an instant.

A howl of dismay burst from the Maltese, who
from that time seemed to abandon all hope and
exertion.  For a moment the schooner staggered
and stood still: had such another sea burst over
her she must have foundered; but saved by her
buoyancy, as the water ran off her deck, she again
plunged forward on her perilous path.  A groan
burst from Maltei on beholding the candles washed
overboard: he quitted the helm and abandoned the
schooner to her fate.

"Signor Maltei—Padrone di Vascello—madman
and blockhead!" I exclaimed, rushing towards the
tiller, which snapped its ropes and was dashed to
pieces in an instant.  The *Santelmo* fell away
round, and yawing from side to side, flew at a
fearful rate before the wind.  There was a crash! the
foremast went by the board, bringing the
maintopmast down with it; the wreck fell to leeward,
and was swept away astern; while the vessel lay a
helpless log upon the sea, tossing about like a cork,
and exposed continually to the waves, which
hurried on in successive mountains as if to
overwhelm the shattered ship, rolling with fury over
the deck, and burying her far into the deep dark
trough of the midnight sea.  A torrent of water
pouring down the companion-hatch filled the cabin;
others succeeded: the vessel became water-logged,
and the wood lumber in her hold alone prevented
her from sinking.

"Holy Saint Elmo! blessed Madonna! and O
Thou, who walked on the waters—who said to the
storm 'Be still,' and it was still—look upon us!"
cried the survivors of the crew.

"Master Maltei," said I, bitterly, "you have
thrown away your vessel, and the lives of all on
board, by your despicable ignorance and want of
seamanship.  Your crew are cowards, and unworthy
to sail under a British flag!"  He made no reply;
but, sunk in gloomy apathy, remained lashed to the
capstan, while I secured myself similarly to the
windlass: from stem to stern the bulwarks were
totally gone, save a fragment which afforded me
shelter at the bow.

When the storm lulled a little, I prevailed on
the sailors to rig a sail forward with some canvass
and two spare spars brought up from below; and a
jury foremast was soon set up, with a dexterity
which showed what the men were capable of if
properly directed.  Now, once more before the
fierce hurricane, the sharp schooner drove on with
the speed of a galloping horse: but whether
running in full career against the rocks of Stilo, or
away into the Ionian sea, we had not the least idea.
The seven survivors began to work at the pumps,
and we all took heart anew as daylight slowly
approached, and the long night, with its excitement
and horror, passed away.

It came, the sunless morning—a grey sky, a
black sea—a cold gloom everywhere.  Afar off we
discerned land on the larboard-bow: but there was
not a sail in sight, save a ship which rode securely
under the coast with her top-gallant-masts struck.
I had no doubt it was the *Amphion* anchored off
Cape della Colonna, the promontory so close to
the place of my destination.

We were drenched to the skin, and had been so
all night: we were without food, yet continued to
toil at the pumps; which soon, to our great dismay,
brought up clear water.  The sea having torn
away stern-post and rudder, the pumps were our
only chance of safety; and the Maltese, encouraged
by my example (more than that of their skipper),
worked until they were sinking with fatigue.  On,
on we flew before the sweeping wind, and soon lost
sight of

   |  "Fair Lacinia, graced with Juno's fane."


Once more the mountains sank beneath the
horizon; and soon nothing but sea and sky were
around us, as we flew before the blast into the Gulf
of Tarentum, where we were at the mercy of the
wind and tide during the whole of that miserable
day.  The sailors became dejected: three quitted
the pumps and betook themselves to prayer, and
the leaks gained on us.  Four men still continued
to toil, exposed to every wave that washed over the
defenceless deck, which was then almost level with
the ocean; and the planking was so slippery that
we were in continual danger of being carried away
to leeward.

"The sunless day went down;" night began to
darken sea and sky, and we contemplated its
approach with gloomy forebodings and absolute
horror.  The *Santelmo* now made less way, in
consequence of the thoroughly wetted state of her
cargo, which buried her to the chain-plates in the
water, where she lurched and pitched heavily.
When it was dark, the gale increased; not a star
was visible, and the dense gloom thickened in
every direction around us.

By breaking through a bulk-head, the carpenter
contrived to get up a keg of brandy from the forehold,
and with a reckless shout the sailors crowded
around him.  They drank copiously, and the
liquor rendered them mad: they yelled and
screamed, shaking their clenched hands at the
storm in defiance, reviling the Basilian and his
candles, and cursing St. Elmo; whose head the
carpenter clove with his hatchet.

In the midst of this ghastly merriment, while
they were dancing furiously, hand in hand, over
the slippery deck, a tremendous sea took us right
amidship.  I saw it coming on, dark, heaving, and
terrible—a roaring mountain of liquid blackness—and
embraced the windlass with all the strength
with which despair and love of life endued me.
In irresistible fury, the stupendous wave rolled
its mighty volume over the wreck: when it passed
away I was *alone*.  It had swept, into the boiling
sea, every one of them.  A cry came feebly on the
bellowing wind, and all was over: I heard only the
hiss of the dashing spray, and the plunging of the
wreck, as alternately it rose on the crest of a wave,
and thundered down into the yawning ocean.  I
had bound myself securely to the windlass with my
sash, and my principal fear was that the water-logged
hull might sink; for in such a sea, and when so
far from land, swimming would be unavailing.

O, the multiplied horrors of that dismal night!
How gladly, amid that intense ocean solitude, I
would have hailed the sound of a human voice—a
glimpse of the distant shore—a gleam from a
lonely star.  Strange visions of home and
happiness—of sunny fields and green moving
woods—floated before me.  Then came other scenes and
sounds: the boom of cannon and the roll of the
drums.  Now I was leading on my stormers at
Scylla; anon I was with Bianca—I heard her soft
low voice, her sweet Italian tone, and her gentle
hand clasped mine— * * * *





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.. _`WHO IS HE?`:

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   CHAPTER XIX.


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   WHO IS HE?

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From a state of dreamy apathy—a delirium
between sleeping and waking: the very fever of
desperation—the increased roar of ocean aroused
me.  Through the sullen gloom I discerned,
a-head, a mighty barrier of rocks, against which
the sea was running with incredible fury, casting
the foam of its breakers to the clouds, and
hurrying the wreck onwards to total destruction.  I
heard my heart beat: the critical moment was
come, for safety or destruction.  I drew off my
boots, buttoned up the despatches in the breast
of my coat, and casting another glance at that
frowning, sable, and appalling barrier of rock, felt
my heart sink within me: yet that heart had
never quailed in the breach, or on the battle-field.

An exclamation of sincere piety escaped my
lips, and suppliantly my hands were raised to
Heaven.  Next moment there was a frightful
crash! the parting wreck sank beneath me, the
deck split under my feet, and I was struggling
breathlessly in the dark water amid the dashing
breakers; which were covered with froth and
foam, and fragments of spare masts, yards, ribs,
cargo, planks, &c.: from these I received more
than one severe blow; while blinded with spray,
sick at heart, and trembling in every nerve, I
swam towards this black and terrible shore.
Thrice my hand touched the slippery rocks, and
thrice the greedy waves sucked me back into
their whirling vortex: but one flung me headlong
forward on a ledge, and I grasped, convulsively,
the strong tough sea-weed which grew on its
beetling face.

Fervently thanking Heaven for my escape, I
clambered up the slippery cliffs beyond the reach
of the breakers; whose bitter and heavy spray
beat over me incessantly.  After stopping for a
few minutes to recover breath and recall my
scattered energies, I ascended to the summit: the
level country spread before me, and a few lights
sparkling at a distance, announced a neighbouring
town.  A distant bell tolled the eleventh
hour as I walked forward along a road bordered
by trees: but my knees bent tremulously at every
step; for I felt still the roll of the ship and the dull
boom of the ocean, and the hiss of its salt frothy
breakers yet rang in my ears.

As if its object had been accomplished in the
destruction of the little schooner, the storm,
which had raged so long, now began to die away:
the trees became less agitated; the veil of dark
clouds, which had obscured the face of heaven,
withdrew; and the silver stars were seen
sparkling in the blue dome above.

Though rejoicing in my safety, and pitying the
poor fellows who had perished, I moved on in
dread and doubt, shivering with cold and misery.
My uniform was drenched with salt water, and
stuck close to me, and my head and feet were
without covering.  I longed to learn whether
Fate had thrown me on the Calabrian shore, or
on that of Otranto: if on the latter, I felt certain
of becoming a prisoner to the French; whose
commanders often displayed, at that time, more
of the savage spirit of the Revolutionists, than
of that chivalry which distinguished the brave
soldiers of the empire.  When I thought on the
many years of captivity which might elapse ere
I again beheld Bianca or my home, I almost
regretted that the ocean had not swallowed me
up; immediate death appearing preferable to the
sickening future I anticipated: hope deferred
for years, promotion stopped, and prospects
blighted, perhaps, for ever.

As I walked slowly forward, my feet were soon
cut by the hard flinty road; which I pursued
towards the town.  But the appearance of a handsome
little villa, in the centre of a lawn, standing
by the wayside, changed my intentions: I did
not hesitate to approach the house; deeming it
safer to acquaint an Italian gentleman with my
condition, than to proceed, with the chance of
being captured by the quarter-guard of a French
camp or cantonment.

Passing through an ornamental wicket, I
approached the villa, which was surrounded by a
paved terrace, enclosed by a stone balustrade:
every window was dark, save one on the ground
floor, which appeared made to open like a
folding door.  In front of this a flight of marble
steps descended from the terrace, between two
pedestals, on each of which reposed a sculptured
lion.  I stood before the window, between the
crimson curtains of which the interior was
revealed; and its decorations and furniture were
more splendid than the general aspect of the
villa led me to expect.

An aged man, of a venerable, benign, and
truly noble aspect, sat near an ebony table, on
which he leant, intently reading by the light
proceeding from the globe of a silver lamp.  He
wore a baretta of crimson velvet, adorned in front
with a gold cross, and a cape and stockings of
scarlet peeped out from under an ample dressing-gown
of faded brocade, which enveloped his person.
A few thin silvery hairs escaped from
beneath his cap, and they glittered in the
lamplight; his forehead was high and commanding,
the curve of his lip was majestic, and there was an
indescribable dignity in his whole aspect.  His
cheek and brow were pale; yet, at times, his eyes
sparkled as brightly as those of an Italian girl,
as he conned over an old and discoloured piece
of parchment, to which various seals and coloured
ribbons were attached.

I know not what it was that agitated me at
that moment, but there was something in the
presence of that venerable stranger which, as it
were, drew me insensibly towards him; and all
dread of acquainting him with my situation,
and entrusting him with my liberty and safety,
vanished.  Once more, ere essaying, I looked
steadily at him.  He was replacing the charter
in an iron safe, and had drawn forth another,
to which a seal, like a pancake, was appended.
The light flashed more fully on his features than
it had done before; and, strange to say, they
appeared to me like those of an old friend, or of
one whom I had a dim recollection of having seen
before: but where, I endeavoured in vain to
recollect.

"O, my illustrious brother!" he exclaimed,
"though thy gallant heart is mouldering at Frescati,
thy memory will be cherished while chivalry
and valour are respected among men!"  He
paused, and lay back in an arm-chair, when I
could perceive that tears were running down his
cheeks; but the deep emotion passed away, and
he again resumed his reading.  I then tapped
gently on the casement, and lifting the latch
entered the apartment.

"Pardon this intrusion—be not alarmed, reverend signor."

He started; the paper fell from his hand; he
closed the safe with precipitation, and grasping the
gilded knobs of his arm-chair, stared at me in
astonishment.  Certainly my appearance was not
very prepossessing: my old fighting coat, which had
long since acquired a purple hue by campaigning
and the blood of wounds, had become of a most
unique colour, by being drenched in salt water.  I
was unshaven, grisly, and gaunt of visage; minus
boots and hat, and my damp hair hung around my
face in matted locks.

"A British officer in my presence, and at this
time of night!" he exclaimed.  "Whence come
you, sir?" he added, surveying me with a proud
stern glance, which gradually melted into one more
pleasant and benign.  "Your name and purpose,
signor?'

"Claude Dundas, a captain of the 62nd
regiment, and aide-de-camp to General Sir John
Stuart, now serving in the Calabrias."

"Stuart—*Stuart*!" he muttered, "the times
are indeed changed when—you say your name is
Dundas?  Which family are you of?"

Though surprised at this question from an
Italian lord, I satisfied him; he smiled, and said,
"I know them."

"Illustrissimo, I have undergone great misery
during the past storm in the Gulf of Tarento, and
in this condition have been wrecked: I know
not upon what part of the Italian shores I have
been thrown, but trust to be received with that
hospitality which I, as an officer of Italy's ally,
have a right to expect."

"Welcome, signor: but excuse my rising.
I never rise but to equals.  No Briton in
distress ever sought succour from me in vain; yet
little—little, truly, do these heretical islanders
deserve favour at my hands!  Ola, Catanio!"

He rang a silver hand-bell, and an attendant, or
old priest, made his appearance; who exhibited the
same aspect of dismay that his master had done on
beholding me.

"With us, signor," said my host, "you are safe,
although Massena's soldiers swarm everywhere
around us.  Here you can remain in disguise
until we discover some means of sending you to
Calabria."

"You speak my very wishes—I am deeply indebted
to you!  Upon what part of the coast have
I been thrown?"

"Near Canne, in Basilicata, a few miles from the
frontier of Upper Calabria."

"I am then in rear of the French lines at
Cassano!" said I, aghast at the intelligence.  He
bowed.

"Follow Catanio; change your attire, and
partake of some refreshment—go! afterwards I will
speak with you."  He had all the air and tone of
a man who through life had been accustomed to
wield authority.

"Basilicata!" I repeated inwardly, as we
retired: it seemed almost incredible that the
water-logged wreck, under a jury-foresail, even when
aided by wind and tide, could have run so far up
the gulf since daybreak.  Her sailing must have
averaged five knots an hour, since we lost sight of
the Capo della Colonna.  Catanio, who by his
taciturnity and outward trim appeared to be a
monk, led me into an ante-room, where he
furnished me with dry apparel.  I asked him
numerous questions concerning my host, but
he seemed very unwilling to gratify my curiosity.

"Signor Catanio," said I, while slipping on a
pair of black cotton breeches; "I presume he is a
man of rank."

"In Italy none is nobler; the vicegerent of God
excepted," he replied, energetically.

"You are an Abbruzzese by your accent, I
think?"  The old fellow smiled sourly, and took a
great pinch of snuff.

"I am an honest man," said he, handing his
snuff-box to me, and bundling my wet uniform,
somewhat contemptuously, into a chest, which he
locked.

"And my host," I continued, thrusting on a
black serge jacket; "he must be a churchman, as
he is served by priests: how am I to address him?"

"Italians style him, 'his eminence;' but we, his
faithful domestics and followers,——"

"Eminence!—is he Cardinal Ruffo?"

"Ruffo, the apostate!" repeated the other, with
such intense scorn, that I was undeceived.

"He is a cardinal at all events; and I (unhappy
pagan!) have been styling him plain signor.
Excuse my laughing; but, faith! one feels so
comfortable in these dry clothes, after the misery
of—but what is this?  I am not going to a
masquerade!"

"It is our master's pleasure that you attire
yourself thus," said Catanio, handing me a cassock
and three flapped-hat like his own; "it is your
only safe disguise."

"It is just like a snug dressing-gown after all,"
said I, donning the garment.

"You are a perfect monk, signor!" said the old
man, smiling kindly; "but do not keep your head
so erect: that is an old habit.  Ah! there was a
time—but here are your beads—tie the girdle thus.
Bravo! you are a very monk."

"Snuff, grease, garlic, &c. excepted," I thought.

"I am happy to assist in saving a countryman
from those false Frenchmen."

"A countryman—what! are you a Scotchman?'

"Born and bred, sir," said he, laying aside his
Italian, and with an effort recalling the strong
northern dialect of his boyhood.  "I was called
Duncan Catanach, and in happier days dwelt
near Lochaber, in old Caledonia; which I would
fain behold once more before I die."

The eyes of the old man glistened, and we
shook hands with all the brotherly warmth of heart
with which Scot greets Scot in a foreign land.

"I rejoice to meet in this place a subject of old
George III."

"I am no subject of his! the petty princes—"

"Ha! some follower of Watt, who was beheaded
for treason—eh?"

"No!" he replied, proudly and sternly; "I
follow no traitor—nor do I participate in treason!"  At
that moment his master's bell rang loudly, and
he hurriedly withdrew.





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.. _`THE CARDINAL`:

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   CHAPTER XX.


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   THE CARDINAL.

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In a few minutes he led me back to the presence
of my host.  A slight repast had been hastily laid
for me in a snug little library, the walls of which
were adorned with a few trophies of arms and
portraits, some of them veiled by crimson curtains;
but I was too much interested in the cold fowls,
the sparkling wine, and other viands displayed on
the snowy table-cloth, to bestow a thought upon
anything else.  On entering, I bowed profoundly
to his eminence, who occupied a large gilt chair,
cushioned with crimson velvet.  Catanio seated
himself at the table to help me.

"Make yourself quite at home, signor," said my
host, "and sup without ceremony; being lashed to
a wreck for ten hours is enough to give any man
an appetite: but excuse my not bearing you company.
I have already supped, the hour is late, and
I do not usually admit strangers to my table.
Catanio, be attentive to our friend."

Catanach—or Catanio—filled my glass with
glowing sherry; and long ere the speech of my
host was finished, I had dissected the major part of
an excellent fowl.  My eye fell upon my figure
reflected in a mirror opposite, and I could scarcely
restrain my mirth: I was a perfect canon, save that
a head of curly brown hair supplied the place of a
shaven scalp.

"Truly, signor, you make an excellent friar,"
said the cardinal, who seemed to know what was
passing in my mind; "and I doubt not that were
you to resign the sword and belt for the cross and
cord, you might rise in our catholic church, as
many of your countrymen from Douay have done.
You must be aware," he continued, after a pause,
"that while here, in rear of Massena and Regnier's
lines, you run considerable risk of discovery, with
the danger of suspicion as a spy.  But the ruthless
marshal never disturbs my household; and while
with it you are safe.  He regards me with respect;
although his master's iron hand robbed me of the
little that war, rebellion, and crime had left me:
the poor remnant of the fairest patrimony in
Europe."

"I am indebted to your eminence: it would be
a deathblow to my hopes to be taken prisoner just
now, and would quite play the devil with me!"

"A British frigate often comes up the gulf as
far as Canne."

"Ah! the *Amphion*"

"I will send you off to her by a boat: to pass
the French picquets at Cassano is too dangerous a
mode of escape.  I wish to befriend you, signor;
and would deplore—ah!  I love the scarlet coat:
for I, too, have worn it in my youth."

"A cardinal in a red coat!  In our service, my
lord?"

"No," he replied coldly, while his eyes sparkled
and his cheek flushed.  "No: but when I
commanded fifteen thousand French infantry at
Dunkirk, in the service of my father, whose portrait is
behind you."

From the incomprehensible speaker, I turned
to the portrait, which was that of a dark and
oval-featured cavalier, in a long wig, which flowed over
his steel breastplate and scarlet coat; his eyes
possessed the same keen and proud expression
which I beheld in those of the Italian.

"I presume, my lord, you have seen service?"

"None worth mentioning," he replied; and,
after pausing a while, till Catanio had retired and
the table was cleared, he thus continued:—"And
you are a Scotsman?  How I love to meet with
one!  Ah! capitano, the Scots were a loyal
people once; but how changed since their
rampant Presbyterian priesthood have moulded the
nation to their purpose—the designing heretics!
Oh, cunning clodpoles!  I may live to mar you yet."

"You, eminenza?"

"I," he replied, his eyes sparkling again.

"You have been in Scotland, I presume?" I
asked, with an air of pique.

"Never: but the name of that country finds an
echo in my heart.  Though born a Roman, the
ideas of your people, their Lowland nobles and
the chiefs of the loyal and illustrious clans, are all
well known to me.  Dear to me, indeed, is every
inch of the isle of Great Britain: though truly I
owe little to the land which set a price on the
heads of my nearest and dearest relatives."

"Whom have I the honour of addressing?"

"*Your king!*" he replied, with a deep voice,
which caused me to start, as he rose erect from
his chair, and his tall and venerable figure seemed
to dilate, and his faded cheek to glow.  "Your
king, sir," he added, in pure English: "one, at
least, who should have been so; but the hands of
time and fate are now laid heavily upon him.  I
am Henry the Second of Scotland and the Ninth
of the sister kingdom—the Cardinal Duke of
York: now, alas! known as the last of the House
of Stuart.  Fate—fate—yes, hardly hast thou
dealt with me!  Expelled from Rome by Napoleon,
robbed of my estates, and driven to penury
in my old age, I dwell here in forgotten obscurity,
subsisting on that poor pittance which is yearly
doled out by the Government of Britain.  Yet let
me not be ungrateful to George their king: even
that he might have withheld from me.  A time
may come—God hath given, and God can take
away.  You know me now, sir: let your wonder
cease."

As if exhausted by this outburst of his troubled
spirit, the venerable cardinal sank back in his
chair, while I arose from mine in a very unpleasant
state of astonishment, pleasure, and doubt:
astonishment at the discovery, a joyous pleasure at
beholding the aged and illustrious prelate (even
then the secret idol of many a heart which clung
to memories of the past), and doubt how to
address him; having heard that he exacted the title
of "Majesty," which it was as much as my
commission was worth to yield him.  But a spell was
upon me.  I had looked on kings at the head of
armies, surrounded by their staff and courtiers;
and, though banners were lowered and cannon
thundered in salute, to me they were just as other
men: but in the air and aspect of the aged Henry
Stuart, even in that humble apartment, and
surrounded by no external grandeur save that with
which the mind invested him—with no insignia of
royalty save those with which inborn grace and
majesty arrayed him—there was a nameless charm,
a potent and mysterious influence which quite
bewildered me; and all the romance, the misfortune,
the ten thousand stirring memories of the
past—so stirring, at least, to every thorough
Scotsman—rushed upon my mind like a torrent.
It was a sensation of happiness, a gush of chivalric
sentiment and honest veneration which
accompanied them.  I bowed, with proper humility,
before the old cardinal-duke; whose proud dark
eyes sparkled again, as he extended his hands
above my head, and, forgetting his imaginary
majesty in the churchman, bestowed on me a
solemn Latin benediction.

"Wear this in memory of me."  He threw
around my neck a ribbon to which a gold medal
was attached; and, when the tumult of my spirits
passed away, and I raised my head, he was gone.
Catanio stood beside me.

"Has he not the air of a king?" he asked,
while a bitter smile curled his thin lips, and lit up
his sharp gray eye.  "You are afraid to answer.
You are wearied, perhaps.  His Majesty has retired
for the night: allow me to lead you to your
apartment."

In the solitude of my chamber, I endeavoured
to unravel the chaos of thought that whirled
through my brain.  The driving wreck, the
drowning crew, and the terrors of the midnight
storm—the white salt foam, the roaring sea, the
cliffs up which I clambered—the villa, the
cardinal-duke blessing me: all passed before me in rapid
review.  I drew forth the ribbon and medal to
examine them: the latter was of massive gold; it was
one of those struck by order of the cardinal on the
death of his brother, Prince Charles, and distributed
among his friends (who even then, as his papers
afterwards revealed, were both powerful and
numerous), in commemoration of his imaginary
succession.  It bore his head in bold relief, with the
motto—"Henricus Nonus, Anglia Rex."  On the
reverse was a cross, supported by Britannia and
the Virgin; behind rose a bridge and cathedral,
with the crown of Britain.  George III. became
possessed of two of those singular medals; but
perhaps I was the first of his officers who received
one from the hand of York: I have preserved the
gift, with proper reverence, in memory of an
interview which I shall never forget.

Next morning, I was awakened by the familiar
but unwelcome sound of drums beating.  Dressing
in my strange garb, and descending to the
lawn which lay around the mansion, I walked
forth to enjoy a ramble in solitude.  I looked on
my shovel-hat, the serge sleeves and knotted girdle
of my strange attire.  Three days ago, I was
aide-de-camp to the Count of Maida, galloping along
the line on a garrison parade; to-day, a monk,
and a follower of Henry Stuart, the Cardinal-Duke of York!

The beauty of the scenery and freshness of the
morning drew my steps towards Canne, which I
beheld on the sea-shore, about two miles distant;
its white walls, church spire, and casements,
gleaming in the rising sun.  The sound of distant
bells reminded me that it was Sunday.  The
morning was cloudless, the sky blue, the earth
green and glistening with dew; the wide gulf of
Tarento sparkled with light as it vanished into
dimness and misty obscurity; the horizontal line
where sea met sky, being only marked by some
sail glittering, like a snow-wreath or white cloud,
in the distance.  The road was narrow, and, being
bordered by thick copsewood, was cool and shady.
I wandered on until a turn unexpectedly brought
me upon the parade of a regiment of French
infantry, which had just been inspected by Massena,
and was being formed into sections preparatory to
marching.  My heart beat quick: discovery was
death, and I shrank from the lynx-like gaze of
the ferocious Massena; who, after a few words
with the colonel, galloped off accompanied by
his aide.  I began to breathe a little more freely.
I recognised the 12th Grenadiers in their blue
greatcoats and bear-skin caps; and at their head
my old friend De Bourmont, as paunchy and
merry as ever.  An exchange of prisoners had
taken place, and all that we had captured were
once more in arms against us.  The band struck
up, the arms flashed as they were sloped in the
sun, and the battalion moved off, *en route* for the
frontiers of Calabria; where Massena was concentrating
his forces at the very time our troops were
about to abandon the country.  How bravely the
sharp trumpet and the hoarse drums rang in the
wooded way, as they marched through the green
defiles!  Whilst I listened, regardless of time and
place, cassock and cope, some peasant women
approached that I might bestow a benison on their
children; they, however, received only very vague
and curious answers as I pushed past and hurried
back towards the good cardinal's villa, from which
I had been too long absent.

After I had breakfasted hastily in my own
apartment, Catanio informed me that as his
majesty was to celebrate high mass at Canne, as a
piece of etiquette it would be necessary for me to
attend.

"Faith!  I have entertained the natives enough
for one day," said I.  Catanio frowned; and
being obliged to consent, a mule was brought me,
and I set off with the household of the cardinal.
A lumbering, old-fashioned coach bore his eminence
from the villa, at a most solemn pace; its
little Roman horses appearing dwarfed to the size
of ponies beside the ancient vehicle, on whose
carved and gilded pannels shone the crown and
arms of Britain.  The old man considered himself
in everything a king; and doubtless an excellent
one he would have made, if we judge by the goodness
of his heart, and the fidelity of his few and
disinterested adherents.

That magic influence by which his family
always gained the unbounded loyalty and most
romantic attachment of their followers, he certainly
possessed in no small degree: there was a nobility
of soul, a quiet stateliness of demeanor, and a
pious resignation to his obscure fate, which made
his imaginary crown shine with greater lustre;
and he passed through life more peacefully and
happily, in consequence of taking no active part in
the great question of hereditary right, which had
embittered the days of his father and brother.
His years, his rank, his reputed sanctity, and
general amiability of character procured him the
admiration and devotion of the Italians; who were
exasperated by the invasion of Rome, and the
expulsion of so many ecclesiastics of rank.  The
crowd surrounding the porch of the church
uncovered, with reverence, as he descended from the
coach, and, followed by his household, three old
Scottish priests, an Irish valet, and myself,
ascended the steps of the church.  On these crowded
a number of wretched mendicants,—a hideous
mass of festering sores, ragged garments, black
visages, and squalid misery; they fell upon their
knees, and when Catanio scattered some silver
among them, there arose cries of—

"Viva eminenza!  O, the gracious lord! the
beneficent father!  Viva Enrico Stuardo!  Viva
la famiglia Stuardi!"

High mass in its most impressive form was
celebrated by the cardinal.  The congregation
consisted of the people of Canne, a few ladies,
fewer cavaliers, and a sprinkling of the French
garrison.  Though the church was not large, its
ancient aisles and carved roof presented a noble
specimen of the old Italian gothic, exhibiting
those striking extremes of light and shadow for
which that style is remarkable.  The strong blaze
of the noon-day sun poured between the many
mullions of its stained windows, slanting on the
picturesque crowd who stood or knelt around the
columns; on the cavalier in his ample cloak, the
signora in her veil and mantle, the peasant in his
rough jacket, and the graceful country girl with her
sparkling eyes and olive cheek, shaded by a modest
muslin panno.  Six tall candles glimmered before
the dark altar-piece, while the altar itself, being
covered with the richest carving and gilding,
shone like a blaze of glory around the aged
cardinal, who stood on the highest step.

The relics of several saints and martyrs, of
great reputed sanctity, stood upon it; and an old
ragged mantle, which hung from one of the
columns, was said to be the cloak of Madonna,
and to have cured divers disorders by being
wrapped round the sufferers.

My informant was a priest: while speaking he
glanced at Bianca's diamond ring which sparkled
on my finger; and the scrutinizing eye with
which he regarded me brought the blood to my
temples.  I was also exposed to the watchful
glances of a French officer; in whom, to my
horror, I recognised General Compere, whom I
had met at Maida: some recollections of my
face appeared to flash across his mind, and he
stared at me with cool determination.  Uneasy at
the chance, the danger, and disgrace of discovery,
I withdrew, by a side door, into a little oratory
which adjoined the body of the church.

"Reverend father," said a man advancing with
a bunch of keys, "are you the Frà Sermonello,
whom his eminence has deputed to visit the chapel
of the penitents?"

"To be sure, fool! for what should I be here
else?" I answered, gruffly, forgetting my assumed
character in the annoyance I felt; but immediately
adding, "of course, my son, I am come to visit
these unfortunate devils—heretics, I mean."

"This way, then, Signor Canonico," said he,
with an air which showed he had no great
veneration for my sanctity.





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.. _`THE FIRST PENITENT.—THE NUN`:

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   CHAPTER XXI.


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   THE FIRST PENITENT—THE NUN.

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"A cursed scrape!" thought I, whilst following
him through a little side-door of iron, which
creaked on its rusty hinges as it rolled slowly
back, revealing a long passage, dark and
mysterious as any in the pages of 'Anne Radcliffe,'
and interrupted by flights of steps; where we
required a lamp to aid us in descending.  The
black walls were covered with glistening slime, and
reflected the flashes of the lamp, which flickered
and almost expired as it struggled with the noxious
vapours floating through these dismal vaults;
and I became chilled with cold as we descended.
An iron grate or portcullis, which barred our
way, was raised up in a sliding groove by my
guide; who requested me to pass, and, saying he
would await me there, gave me his lamp.

Many tales of the holy office, and of the
bigoted ferocity of Italian monks, flashed on
my remembrance.  Perhaps I was in a snare!
Doubtful whether to proceed, or knock the fellow
down and regain the church, even at the risk of
being discovered by General Compere, I stood for
a moment irresolute: but I had no secret enemy
there, and the cardinal was a powerful friend.

"Father," said my guide, "you are a stranger here?"

"I am in these vaults for the first time."

"They contain three penitents: first, a nun,
who broke her vows, and lies sneezing and coughing
in the cell just before you.  Poor girl! she
has been here three weeks, and likes her quarters
no better than the first hour she saw them:
maladetto! you may hear how she moans.  Opposite
lies the cell of a mad cavalier, who is chained like
a tiger—my lord bishop intends confining him here
for life; and next his cell is that of a monk, sent
hither for living too joyous a life—gaming and
drinking with gay damsels, when he should have
been snug in his dormitory."

"I have a project," said I; "leave me the keys.
On my return, I will deposit them in the niche at
the chapel door."

"That was old Frà Grasso's way," replied the
keeper or warder; and, doffing his hat, withdrew.

"Now, were there a thousand prisoners here, I
should set every one of them free!" I exclaimed,
while hurrying along the passage, lamp in hand;
execrating the cruelty of that tyrannical prelate,
who confined three human beings in a place which
I could not contemplate without a shudder.  The
low, narrow passage was arched by rough stone
groins, springing from corbelled heads, hideous
as those of demons, that projected from walls,
through the joints of which the damp reeking
slime had been distilling for ages: innumerable
stalactites hung long and pendent like foul
icicles; enormous fungi flourished luxuriantly on
the sable masonry; large bloated toads croaked
on the slippery floors; rats peeped forth from
holes and corners, and the whistling bat flitted
to and fro on the cold vapours of those dripping
dungeons.

Before me lay the cell of the nun: intending
to visit her first, I unlocked with great
difficulty the oaken door, and entered.  Accustomed
to the gloom, I could survey the whole place at a
glance; it was a dark, cold, and comfortless den,
about sixteen feet square, and had a narrow
zig-zag loop-hole opening high in the wall, which
admitted little air and less light.  Crouching upon
a bundle of straw, in a corner of that detestable
place, lay the poor nun; wasted and worn, pale
and ghastly.  Her eyes were raised to Heaven; and
though her lips moved not, she was praying, but
in that still voice which God alone can hear.  At
the sound of my steps, she turned on me an
apathetic stare, and her sunken eyes sparkled wildly
between the long dishevelled masses of her raven
hair, which wandered over her bare bosom and
shoulders.  She was almost destitute of covering;
having, I believe, no other garment than a gown
of black serge, which was torn in many places,
revealing her pure white skin, that gleamed like
alabaster through the gloom.

"Oh, pity, pity! for the gentle love of God!"
she exclaimed; and added, with a shriek, "Ah! it
is the bishop—again—again!"

Shuddering, she hid her face in her long hair,
and began to weep as if her heart would burst.
Approaching her, I laid my hand kindly on her
soft shoulder, and said—

"Poor woman! be comforted; you are not
entirely forsaken——"

"Begone!" she exclaimed, spitting upon me;
"away, priests of hell, who murdered my love—my
husband!  Away, lest I tear you with my
teeth!  Ha! ha! madness is coming fast upon
me!  Oh, joy, Jesu Christo! my brain begins to
wander."

"Signora——"

"Preach on—of what? religion—and in this
dungeon!—in which religion has consigned me to
darkness, solitude, and horror.  Oh! the
soul-sinking misery I have endured these many, many
weeks!  My husband—who murdered him before
my face?—A priest.  Who would have dishonoured
me?—A priest!  Ha, away to your tyrant bishop!
I will commune with God without the medium of
wretches such as thee!"

"Lady, I am no priest," I replied, deeply
touched by her misery and piercing voice.  "I
am a soldier—a gentiluomo in disguise.  Trust
me, and you may yet escape to be free and happy."

As I spoke, she rose from the floor, grasped my
arm with convulsive energy, and gazed upon my
face with a searching glance, as if she would read
the inmost secrets of my breast: she passed her
hand across my head and face, to assure herself
my figure was not a vision; her whole arm was
thus revealed, and, though attenuated, its purity
was dazzling.

"Oh, signor! dear and good signor! oh, if you
should deceive me!" she exclaimed, clinging to
my hand and weeping bitterly.  "Oh, if you
should be but some emissary from the accursed
bishop!  At times he comes, like an evil genius,
to offer me freedom.  Ah! canst thou guess its
price?  I will not go with thee—away! leave me!"

"Can there be greater misery than that which
you now endure?"

"No, no; there cannot!  Who can live
without hope? yet all fled from me!  Oh, my
Luigi! hadst thou been living, I had not been
forgotten to perish thus!  My sisters——"

"Luigi!" I reiterated, while gently removing
the dishevelled masses of silky hair which veiled
her features—a cry burst from me!  I beheld the
belle of Palermo, the nun of Crotona, the sister of
Bianca, who had been so cruelly carried off by
the sbirri of this infamous Petronio of Cosenza.
"Francesca!" I exclaimed; "Francesca of Alfieri
do you not remember me?"

She regarded me fixedly, pressed her hands
upon her temples, and then shook her head
mournfully.

"I am Claude Dundas—the friend of Santugo,
and betrothed of your sister Bianca."  I threw my
arm around the poor bewildered girl, whom at
that moment I loved with all the tenderness of a
brother.

"The friend of Luigi!—O, tell me if he yet
lives?  Tell me, though the answer should destroy
me at the instant!"

"He lives, signora; but you alone can restore
him to perfect happiness."

She raised her hands to Heaven, and an exclamation
of pious and fervent thankfulness died away
on her lips: a bright blush for a moment shone on
her wan, but alas! no longer beautiful cheek, and
had not my arm supported her she would have
sunk on the pavement in a swoon.  Without
delaying a moment, I bore her away, and locking all
the doors after me, deposited the keys in my
pocket instead of in the niche.  The church was
empty, and the cardinal gone.  Leaving my
charge for a moment in the recess of an old
monument, I hurried to the porch: I reeled
giddily as the full glory of noon blazed on my
sight; so overpowering was the glare of light after
the obscurity of the vaults.  Hailing a passing
calesso, I desired the driver to draw up near the
door: on beholding Francesca, he scratched his
unshaven chin, and appeared in an unpleasant
state of doubt; but on my slipping a scudo into
his hand, and desiring him to drive to the
cardinal's villa, all his scruples vanished, and we
drove off.

Great was the astonishment of the good cardinal,
when I entered the lower saloon or drawing-room,
leading the squalid apparition of poor
Francesca; who was weakened by long confinement,
and overcome with awe on finding herself in the
presence of so high a dignitary of the church.
She sank upon her knees, clasping my hand in
hers, and not once daring to raise her timid eyes to
the face of York; who had arisen on our entrance,
and regarded us with a stare of silent wonder.

"Captain Dundas!" he exclaimed, in a tone
which had something of sternness in it; "what am
I to understand by this intrusion—and who is this
woman?"

Francesca trembled violently; she would have
spoken, but the words died away in whispers on
her pallid lips.

"My lord—your eminence, pardon me!  The
case is urgent, and my meeting with this lady
so unexpected, that with your usual goodness
you will excuse my importunity, while I relate as
briefly as possible her unhappy story: it cannot
fail to draw forth that gentle sympathy which
no member of your illustrious house ever refused
to the unfortunate."

This was graciously received: the old cardinal
was as accessible to flattery as if he wore a crown;
a pleasant smile spread over his features, and
resuming his throne-like seat in the large gilt-chair,
he said, waving his hand,—

"Proceed, sir: I trust I have fallen not away
from the ancient virtues of my ancestors.  You
know the old homely saying,

   |  'A king's face
   |  Should give grace:'

And here at least we are a king, and our subjects
shall not sue in vain.  Catanio, hand the lady
a chair, and Captain Dundas will please to proceed."

I endeavoured to raise Francesca; but
altogether overcome with a sense of her imaginary
unworthiness, in a presence so august, she
remained kneeling in painful humility, with
downcast eyes and trembling limbs.  I pressed her
hand to reassure her, and recalling all her story
related it briefly, and in such a mode as I deemed
would be most pleasing to the ear of the aged
duke, and most likely to obtain his sympathy;
which the unhappy never claimed in vain.

"De Bivona and my Lord Bishop did right,"
he replied, "in capturing this runaway; and the
doom to which the latter consigned her, is only
such as the laws of the most holy Catholic Church
have from time immemorial directed for broken
vows."

Francesca trembled more violently, and my
heart sank: all hope seemed to die away when the
cardinal frowned on our cause.

"O, may it please your eminence to bend a
favourable eye on this unhappy girl?  You will
confer a boon on the descendant of a family
which of old was never wanting in loyalty to your
house."

He remained buried in thought for a time.

"Captain Dundas," said he, "I will think over
this matter: the bishop may have stretched
rather too far that high authority with which the
Church invests her servants; but this unfortunate
sister must return to a convent, and there remain
until her case has been duly considered.  My
order will assure her of the kindest treatment.
Catanio!" he rang his bell, and the fac-totum
appeared.

Although Francesca regarded with invincible
repugnance a return to a convent, where she
would be subjected to the impertinent scrutiny of
the sisterhood, and perhaps that of a severe superior,
yet it was a joyful relief from the horrors she
had endured: I led her away, in tears, and gave
the cardinal those thanks which she was unable
to articulate.  He wrote a brief note to the
abbess, which Catanio was to deliver.  The calesso
was at the door, and we drove off at true Neapolitan
speed to the Cistercian convent at Canne.

We resigned Francesca to the superior; whom
I was glad to find was a short and stout old lady,
with double chin, two merry twinkling eyes, and
a visage which betokened the utmost good-nature.
The poor girl wept as if her heart would burst,
when we prepared to retire; but on my obtaining
permission to visit her often, she became more
reconciled.  I left the prison-like nunnery,
feeling happy that I could thus befriend Santugo
by protecting his Francesca, and restoring her to
light and life: the whole affair had quite the air of
a romance.  Dismissing Catanio, I went to the
shop of a locksmith, whom I desired to make
three keys like those of the vaults, which were
placed in his hand.

He bestowed an inquisitive glance at my curious
monastic garb; but on my displaying a few ducats,
readily took an impression of the keys in wax:
on receiving his promise that a new set should be
in readiness next day, I hurried off and restored
the originals to the niche where I had promised
to deposit them.

I was overjoyed to find the venerable cardinal
so much interested in Francesca's favour, that he
forthwith despatched a courier to Rome, praying
for her dispensation; which I then considered as
certain: his influence with Pope Pius being so
great, that a boon so trifling as loosening the vows
of a nun could not be refused him.  I knew not
how to express my thanks: he was conferring as
great a gift on me as on the visconte, and I
contemplated with joy the happiness our return
would diffuse at the Villa D'Alfieri, when I
restored a bride to the arms of Luigi; while, in
return, he——but let me not anticipate that, for
fear of a disappointment.





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.. _`A CHANCE OF ESCAPE LOST`:

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   CHAPTER XXII.


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   A CHANCE OF ESCAPE LOST.

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A week slipped away: I visited Francesca every
morning, and saw, with pleasure, the bloom
returning to her faded cheek, and the lustre to her
sunken eye: yet I spoke not of the dispensation,
while there was the least chance of a miscarriage;
knowing that she was too weak to stand many
alternate shocks of grief and joy.

Notwithstanding the gracious manner and winning
kindness and hospitality of the cardinal—who
appeared to possess that charm hereditary in his
family, by which he gained the hearts of all who
knew him—I was impatient to deliver at Crotona
the despatches with which I was entrusted; to
fling aside the slovenly cassock, and don, once
more, my smart uniform.  I grew heartily tired of
the disguise, when its novelty passed away; and
bestowed many a most unpriestly malison on its
ample skirt, when it impeded me in walking.

One evening Catanio came to me in a hurry,
saying "*his Majesty* wished to see me without a
moment's delay:" he was most scrupulously exact
in styling him thus.

I found the cardinal seated on a lofty terrace,
where he usually passed the evening, enjoying the
beauty of the prospect and coolness of the air.

"Sir," said he, "a path is just opened for your
escape, and you have an opportunity which may
never occur again.  The British ship I mentioned
to you is again off the coast, and a boatman will
take you on board after dusk.  There are no
French gun-boats in the gulf, therefore you can
escape in perfect safety."

While he spoke, a frigate hove in sight: she
was clearing a point of land, over which her topsails
were glittering in the light of the setting sun;
which was then gilding the glassy waters of the
gulf, and reddening, with its last rays, the
surrounding shore.  It was the *Amphion*: her
bellying canvass shone white as snow, as she rounded
the promontory, and the evening wind unrolled
the bright scarlet standard at her mizzen peak:
that standard which a Briton never hails with such
joyous pride as when it waves in the breeze of a
foreign clime.  Gracefully the beautiful frigate came
on, with the white foam curling under her bows
and rolling past her swelling sides, from which
thirty-six pieces of cannon protruded through
the port-holes; and we could discern the long
flush line of her gun-deck crowded with men.

A smart American ship, which had probably
been blown up the gulf by the late storm, passed
at a short distance on the opposite tack, showing
her stripes and stars.  Scarcely had she cleared
the *Amphion's* quarter, when a puff of white smoke
curled from it, and a gun-shot whistled across her
fore-foot, skimming the water beyond.  The
Americans immediately took this rough hint, and
lowered their topsails to our flag—a good old
custom of ocean homage, which of late years has
been disused.

"For what reason has the frigate fired on the
poor merchantman?" asked the cardinal.

I acquainted him with the ancient etiquette, by
which Britain compelled the flags of foreign
nations to do homage on her wide watery dominions;
and a smile of gratified pride lighted up the
glistening eyes of the listener.

The frigate would be close off Canne, when she
crossed the gulf on the other tack; and the
cardinal observed that Catanio would have a boat
waiting on the beach after dusk.  It was a tempting
offer, and a most tantalizing sight to behold
within musket-shot a British ship, for whose
commander I had important despatches; but to
abandon poor Francesca, when I was so anxious to
convey her to a place of safety, and to present her
in person to Luigi, was a project I could not
relinquish.  The cardinal read the expression of
doubt which my face betrayed.

"Do you not wish to return to your friends
and your duty?" he asked.

"Anxiously," I replied; "but not without the
Signora D'Alfieri, whose dispensation you so
graciously requested.  Permit me to reside here a
few days longer—at least until it arrives—that I
may convey this desolate girl to the arms of the
only friends whom war and time have left her.
You will thus confer another boon, which I shall
long remember, though I never can repay."

"As you please, Captain Dundas.  I shall be
very happy if you reside with me so long as your
duty and inclination will permit you.  Happy
indeed!  Seldom it is now that an English
tongue is heard among my diminished household;
save when some Scottish priest from Douay, or
some Highland gentleman whom English interest
and the change of manners have left uncorrupted,
comes here to pay homage to the last of the
Stuarts.  Yet their presence brings more sorrow
than pleasure: it raises up those airy visions
which shipwrecked the happiness of my chivalric
brother, and beseem me not to think upon now,
in my helpless obscurity and very old age;
creating a useless longing to behold that isle of
which I have heard and thought so much, and
which I fain would look upon before my eyes
close in their last slumber, and I am laid in the
tomb of my father at Frescati."

Thus the good cardinal continued for hours:
there was a something in his tone and manner
which touched me deeply.  Could I listen to his
words without sympathizing with fallen greatness,
in the person of the last representative of our long
line of kings?

The sun went down, crimsoning land and sea
with a warm glow, as it sank behind the hills; the
ocean changed from bright yellow to deep blue,
the stars were shining in heaven, and the *Amphion*
had diminished to a speck on the distant waters
of Tarentum, before the cardinal ended his
reminiscences and disjointed self-communings, and,
leaning on my arm, retired to his apartment.
The frigate appeared no more: but after that
evening I became doubly anxious to be gone, and
waited with intense impatience the return of the
courier, bringing from Rome the decree which
would free Francesca, or seal her doom for ever.

Remembering the false keys made for me at
Canne, I resolved, in my assumed character, to
visit the cells of the penitents, and discover those
who were worthy of liberty, and those who
deserved to remain in durance vile.  One dusky
evening I departed on this mission, with my
duplicate keys and a dark lantern, and having my
shovel-hat flapped over my face to avoid
observation.  The night soon became dark; not a star
was visible, and the wind howled through the
battlements of the ancient church, and moaned in
its hollow aisles.  Had I been timid or superstitious,
here was enough, in the horrible aspect
of these vaulted chambers, to deter me from
advancing: but in them day and night were
almost alike.

I first opened the cell of the cavalier
mentioned by the guide, and on entering awakened
the occupant from a dreamy sleep—a man:
although his features were hollowed by long
confinement, want, and care; though his eyes
were wild and his beard grizzled—the expression
of whose face was as prepossessing and noble as his
figure was commanding.  He was tall and strong in
person, but heavily fettered; and his garments
were rags, which fluttered in the breeze that
swept through his prison: he trembled with cold
and debility.  Poor man!  a captivity of three
long years had not inured him to the misery of
the den to which the tyranny of a powerful
persecutor had consigned him: his manacles clanked
as he rose from the damp pavement, and a stern
and scornful frown gathered on his haughty brow
when he beheld me.

"Reverend signor," said he, waving his
fettered hand, "you may spare me your usual
exhortations, and begone: yet think not that I am
so hardened as to scorn a Christian churchman.
God forbid you should suppose so! but I have
nothing to confess, save my abhorrence of these
bonds and the foul tyranny which immures me
here, in a living grave, from light and happiness;
subjecting me to misery under which, had not
my own indomitable spirit supported me, reason
must have given way.  Leave me—begone!"

"Signor Cavalier speak less angrily: I am not
what you take me for, but a friend who comes
to set you free.  Remember, signor, that the
British are the friends of Calabria; which our
victorious army has already freed from the yoke
of France."

"What is this you tell me?" he exclaimed.
"British troops in Calabria!  And what am I
reserved to hear?  Naples has again become a
province of France! yet not a voice has whispered
it to me in this living tomb, where I have
been kept in ignorance of all those great events
that have shaken my country.  From France—again
from the grasp of France?" said you.

"From the brother of Napoleon, whose soldiers
we have driven from the rocks of Scylla to the
hills of Cassano; hoisting the banner of Ferdinand
on the towns and castles of the provinces, and
gaining one most signal victory in a battle on the
plains of Maida."

"I am thunderstruck!  And all this has passed
in three years?"

"In as many months."

"O joy!  And you have come to set me free,
most reverend father?"

"Yes,—but address me not thus: I am a
British officer in disguise, and placed in a most
peculiar position," I replied; quite forgetting the
part I intended to act, in my sympathy for this
unfortunate, whose frank and graceful bearing
gained my entire good-will.  "This Bishop of
Cosenza," I observed, "seems a tyrant, of whose
cruelty and injustice I have heard innumerable
instances."

"A tyrant, said you?  Call him monster,
fiend, or what you will: the flaming depths of
hell contain not a darker spirit, a more designing
devil!  You offer me life: yet what is life to me
now, when every flower that adorned my path in
youth has been crushed and blighted, and every
beam of joy extinguished, till gloom, horror, and
revenge have settled like a shadow on my soul?
O, signor! words cannot depict the bodily and
spiritual agony I have endured.  Ere we go, hear
me, but a moment!  My story is short, but bitter.
Hear it, and pity me!"





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.. _`THE SECOND PENITENT.—THE CAVALIER`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII.


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   THE SECOND PENITENT—THE CAVALIER.

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I am the Cavaliere Paolo, of Casteluccio, one of
the fairest patrimonies in Naples.  No young man
entered life with brighter prospects than mine,
when, at the age of twenty, I found myself master
of a handsome fortune and the love of Laura
Molina, my fair cousin.  I had been betrothed
to her in infancy by my father; who, as her
guardian, wished to keep her ducats in the family.
When at college, the idea of being compelled to
marry my little cousin was a source of continual
vexation to me; and from very obstinacy made
me prone to fall in love with every other girl.  My
marriage seemed the commencement of something
terrible, and I saw with dismay the arrival of my
twentieth birthday; when throwing aside gown
and tocque, and after spending a year amid the
gaieties of Florence and Naples, I should have
to demand my bride at the convent where she
boarded.

"Per Baccho!" thought I; "if this repugnance
is mutual, what a happy couple we shall be!"

On reaching the convent of St. Sabina, I
found the inmates were hearing mass performed by
Father Petronio, the great ecclesiastical orator of
Cosenza.  I entered the chapel in no pleasant
mood, conning over the compliments which courtesy
required should be paid to Laura; who I had
been informed was the prettiest girl in a convent
which was famous for its fashionable beauties.

"Ah! if Laura is like thee, young girl, what a
happy rogue wilt thou be, Signor Paolo!" thought
I, as the veil of a young lady (who occupied a stool
near a column against which I leaned) was blown
aside, revealing to me a face of such mild and
perfect beauty that I became quite bewitched, and
wished my unlucky cousin in the crater of Etna.
Her complexion was extremely fair; her eyes blue
and tender, and a quantity of light-brown hair fell
curling around a face which had all that softness
and bloom of feature one might imagine in a seraph.
Enough! for the time, she banished all thoughts of
Laura.

At last Father Petronio made an end of his
discourse, of which I had not heard a syllable.
The people dispersed, and in the crowd of nuns,
novices, and boarders, I lost sight of my fair
unknown.  I turned away with a sigh to visit this
provoking cousin, whom I was bound, by my
father's will, to espouse, or my ducats would every
one be forfeited to the altar of Madonna.

I sent in my card to the abbess, and presented
myself at the grate.  The Signora Molina was
called, and imagine my joy on discovering my
betrothed to be the same fair girl whose beauty had
impressed me so favourably at church.  I conversed
with her for an hour, kissed her hand respectfully,
and withdrew; thinking myself a most fortunate
fellow in being compelled to espouse so handsome
a girl, whose fortune was almost equal to my own.

Petronio was the confessor at the convent, and
officiated in the same capacity to all the beauties of
Cosenza; the ladies would confess their peccadilloes
to none other than this celebrated churchman,
whose learning, talent, and supposed sanctity, made
him the pride of the province: but he was a
subtle fiend at heart, as my story will show.  He
was the confessor of Laura, and to him she confided
all her little secrets; until for some cause she
dismissed him, and preferred an aged and decrepit
Basilian.  I remonstrated, but she said there were
reasons: adding, with a sweet smile, that I must be
her humble servant then if I would have her obey
me by-and-bye.

I allowed her to please herself, and passed the
time in alternately visiting the convent and my
villa, which I was fitting up suitably for the
reception of such a bride.  The more we saw and knew
of each other, the stronger our mutual love became;
and often, hand and hand, have we blessed my
good and provident father who betrothed us in our
childhood.

One night when returning from a café, where I
had spent some hours joyously with my friend
Captain Valerio and a few of his brother officers,
old fellow-students, all choice spirits and roisterers,
with whom I had a farewell supper, I had a singular
encounter.

It was a lovely Italian night; the brilliancy of
the pale moon eclipsed the light of the stars, which
disappeared as she rose in her silver glory above
the Apennines, and poured her lustre on Cosenza's
seven hills—on its steep and lofty streets, and
on the round towers of its hoary castello, where
Alaric the Goth gave up his soul to God—whilst
their giant shadows fell, frowning and dark, on the
shining waters of the Bussiento and the Gratis.
Midnight tolled from the steeple of Sabina, and
the most profound repose pervaded the moonlit
city.  I gazed on the towering hills, on the wild
and ample forest—which in the days of the Brutti
extended to the promontory of Rhegium, but is now
shrunk to the wood of La Syla—where the wood-cutter
and carbonari have replaced the nymphs and
satyrs of the ancients; I looked towards the distant
sea sparkling in the moonlight, as its waves rolled
round the Campo di Mare, and everything slept in
silence, beauty, and repose: I was disposed for
meditation and reverie—I thought of Laura, and
my heart beat happily.

"In three days," thought I, "I shall be married——"

"To Laura Molina," said a voice near me.

I started: some one had spoken, but not to me.
I was near the portal of St. Sabina, and looked
inquiringly at the stone figure of Bruno of
Cologne—could it have addressed me?  No one
appeared: I paused and listened.

"And this girl is beautiful, say you?" asked a
voice.

"Lancelloti, thou canst not conceive such loveliness."

"I would compliment your taste, signor, could
I but find you," I muttered, grasping my poniard.

"Again I say, Lancelloti——'

"Sword of Omar! you forget: my name is
Osman Carora," replied the second speaker.  "I
am a respectable Mahometan.  Corpo di Baccho!
I swear by turban and beard,—yea, by Mahomet!——"

"Silence, fool! and hear me whisper."

"Either Petronio spoke just now, or Satan
himself!" thought I, looking cautiously about me;
having a laudable curiosity to discover those good
people who took such an interest in my affairs.
I retired within the deep portal at the moment
that two men stood before it in the full blaze of
the moonlight, and I could distinctly hear all that
passed.  One was a short, squat, villainous-looking
fellow, whose red vest, yellow trousers, turban,
brass pistols, and sabre declared him to be an
Italian renegade, acting under the Algerine flag
in the double capacity of pirate and smuggler.
The other was the immaculate Petronio, whose
breast was the repository of half the female secrets
in the city—Petronio, the paragon of Cosenza,—the
man of holiness, and of God!

"I tell you, again and again, Lancelloti, Carora,
or whatever you call yourself," he exclaimed, in a
hoarse whisper, "that I love this girl fondly: yea,
madly; and shall I behold her given up to this
chit-face cavalier, and without a struggle?"

"Of course not," replied the other, stroking his
beard, while his imperturbable gravity formed a
strong contrast to the whirlwind of passion which
racked the bosom of the monk.

"For two years I was her confessor.  O, the
rapture I have felt in her presence!  The exceeding
beauty of that young girl has cast a spell upon
me: I am no longer myself, the cold-hearted
and calm-visaged monk, but a jealous and
amorous lover.  Curse on this robe! which excites
only awe and gloom in the hearts of the young
and beautiful.  When at confession she knelt
before me, was it not rapture to obtain those
glimpses of her soft and snowy bosom?"

"Ay, truly, it was," responded he of the turban
and slippers impatiently.

"To look on those bright blue eyes, and the
stray, golden curls that shaded the dimpled cheek,
to feel those beautiful hands clasped on my knee
in prayer, though I dared not touch them.  Never
before did such a fairy being cross the path of a
priest, to wean him from his God, and destroy his
peace for ever."

"No, indeed, no!  Sacramento! come to anchor,
will you?  The moon is on the wane; La Syla is
growing dark, the land-breeze is coming, and the
*Crescent* lies close to under the Campo di Mare,
with jib and foresail loose: I must sail by
daybreak, if I would keep clear of the British fleet;
which my prince of crookbacks, Gaspare Truffi,
says, stood down the Straits of Messina last evening."

"Right before the wind, with studding-sails
and royals," said a hideous hunchback, whom I
had not before observed; "and if this breeze
continues——"

"Peace, imp of darkness! and sheer off," said
the pirate, grasping a pistol.

The hunchback growled, and withdrew.

"Prythee, make an end, Petronio, and say for
what purpose you have brought my handsome
shipmate and me hither.  A priest in love is—bah! in
time you will tire of this baby-faced girl."

"Tired!" exclaimed the priest—

   |                                  "O, no!
   |  I ne'er shall tire of the unwearying flame.
   |  But I am weary, kind and cruel dame,
   |  With tears that uselessly and ceaseless flow.
   |  Scorning myself, and scorned by you, I long
   |  For death!——"
   |

"Pshaw! you are mad," cried the pirate, with
angry impatience; "quoting the sonnets of
Petrarch like a day-dreaming student, when you
should act like a man of mettle.  Here I am, at
your service, mine ancient friend and gossip,—Frà
Lancellotti once, now Osman Carora, of the
brave xebecque *Crescent*, in the service of his
sublime puissance the Bey of Tripoli.  Thou
seest that, while at the summit of my oriental
dignity, I have not forgotten thee: but speak to
the purpose.  That d——d British fleet—quick—thy
project——"

"Is—but come this way!"  They moved forward;
I paused for a moment, rooted to the spot
by astonishment; and when I darted from the
shadow of the porch, lo! they were gone; nor
priest nor pirate could I see, though the bright
moonlight still shone in full splendour on the tall
windows and marble columns of St. Sabina.  The
*project*—the very essence of the matter—I had
not yet learned; O, diavolo!  On every side I
searched, but saw them no more; and, with a
heart full of anger and apprehension, I returned
to my temporary residence in the city.

"And this is the sainted Petronio!" I exclaimed;
"in love with my Laura, and leaguing with
pirates to rob me of her: curse on his presumptuous
soul!  The podesta shall hear of what this
night has revealed, and he shall drag forth to
justice this wolf in sheep's clothing."  But
recollecting that my single assertion could not pull
down the mighty fabric of Petronio's fame, I
resolved to be calm, and watch narrowly: three
days more would see Laura in my arms, when I
might laugh at the friar, his passion, and his projects.

Fool that I was, to be outwitted by a villainous
monk, after such a warning!  Laura's dismissal of
her sanctified confessor was sufficiently accounted
for: a dubious glance or word had, doubtless,
offended her delicate sensibility, and his visits
had been dispensed with for ever.

A thousand lights burned in the villa of Casteluccio,
tinting with a ruddy glow the sea and the
rocks of Campo di Mare, around which the waves
rolled sparkling like diamonds.  Hangings of satin
fringed with gold; festoons of fragrant flowers,
gilded statues, and vases of alabaster; ceilings of
fresco, columns of marble, floors of mosaic, and
pyramids of particoloured lamps, had turned my
villa into a fairy palace.  Every hall and chamber
was gleaming with light, and crowded with beauty
and gaiety; while the band of the Italian Guards
played divinely in the saloon.  The soft music
floated along the echoing roofs, and all were
joyous and happy.  It was our marriage night.
The fête was superb: six weeks before, the invitations
had been issued, and all of any note in the
province were invited.  The fountains flowed with
wine; and the pillared hall was crowded with
dancers, who whirled in the airy waltz, or threaded
the graceful quadrille.  Nor did less joy reign
without; where, on the green lawn, lighted less
by the summer moon than by the countless variegated
lamps which covered the walls of the villa
and the trees around it, the young paesani danced
the gay tarantella to the tabor and guitar.

I was waltzing with the Duchess of Bagnara,
one of the most famed of our Neapolitan beauties;
but I saw only my Laura, who, attired in her white
bridal robe, shone among our loveliest women like
a planet amongst the stars.  How shall I describe
her?  Oh, for the power of Petrarch, and the same
glowing words with which he described *the* Laura
of Avignon!  Not less beautiful was mine, as she
shone in all her blushing loveliness; her bright
hair waving around her, and her blue eyes
sparkling with happiness and love.  The duchess, a
stately woman, with diamonds gleaming among
her raven locks, was managing her train with
inimitable grace, and rallying me severely on my
want of gallantry and inattention to her, when
the report of a pistol was heard, and shrieks of
women followed.  The dance stopped, the ladies
turned pale, eyes met in wonder, the music died
away, and all listened in surprise; which soon
gave place to terror.

Headed by a tall and powerful ruffian, in whom,
notwithstanding his Eastern garb, I recognised
Father Petronio, a band of armed Algerines rushed
among the dancers with pistol, pike, and scymitar.
Defenceless as I was, I sprang to the side of
Laura; my brave friend, the young Santugo,
interposed with his drawn sword: but he was struck
to the earth by Petronio's pistol, the ball of which
wounded the fair duchess who stood near him.

"Miscreant monk!" I exclaimed; but was
beaten down, senseless: the last I remember was
beholding Laura struggling in the arms of the
piratical priest.

When I returned to this world of misery, I
found myself many leagues away at sea, chained
to the deck of the renegade's ship, the *Crescent*;
which stood towards the African coast, and,
favoured by the land-breeze, was then leaving the
Sicilian shores behind.  Through an open port, I
saw the last headland fading in the distance.
The deck was strewn with the plunder of my
villa: but I thanked Heaven that my friends had
been left, and that I alone had been carried into
slavery.  Laura!—had she escaped, or was she too
in the hands of barbarians—a slave, exposed to
every indignity and horror?  I trembled—my
heart sickened: I gnashed my teeth, and sank
upon the deck in a stupor, caused by rage and
disappointment, mingled with love and fear for Laura.

From this state I was roused by being dragged
along the deck by the villainous Carora, who flung
me, while heavily ironed and unable to resist,
down the companion-ladder with such force that I
lay stunned and motionless.  Oh, misery of
miseries! in the cabin of the pirate was Laura
Molina—the girl whom but yesterday I had so joyously and
solemnly espoused at the altar of St. Sabina—whom
I had sworn to love for ever,—struggling in
the strong grasp of Petronio.

She yet wore her bridal dress: but her bloom,
her jewels, and wreath were gone.  A stranger
could not have recognised the blushing bride of
yesterday, in the pale but beautiful phantom of
to-day!  I would have rushed to embrace her,
but Carora held my fetters.

"Paolo!—my husband!—save me! save me!"
she cried wildly, stretching her arms towards me.

"Laura, to God alone——"

"Peace!" exclaimed Petronio, grasping a pistol.
"Laura Molina, accept of my love, or I will blow
the brains of your cavalier against the bulkhead!"

"Thy love!—O, horror!" she raised her eyes
to Heaven.

"Woman!  I am not in a humour for trifling.
On the wide ocean, far from aid, you are
completely in my power, and must address your
supplications to me; for I tell you, not even heaven
above, nor hell below the waters, can save you
from me now!  Decide—your Paolo, or me?  A
word may save him, or a word destroy!"

Levelling a pistol, he seemed more like a fiend
than a human being: passion rendered his accents
hoarse, and his visage black; his bulky frame
seemed to dilate, and his breast to pant, while his
eyes glared beneath their shaggy brows; and the
knotted locks that fringed his shaven scalp twisted
like the vipers of Lugano.  His right hand was on
the pistol-lock,—his left grasped the shrinking
form of Laura.

"Signora!" he exclaimed, in a fierce, fond
whisper, "think of the bright fortune I can offer
thee in the sunny land of the Algerine!"

"Holy Madonna, instruct me what to do in
this hour of agony!" prayed the unhappy girl,
whose excessive misery would have melted any
heart save that of the apostate.  "O, my
Paolo,—thou,—every hair of whose head is more dear to
me than my own life, what can I say to save thee?"

"Loved one! bid death welcome, and defy
fear: but forget not that you are the wedded wife
of a Neapolitan cavalier!"

"Farewell, dearest,—Laura will soon follow thee."

"Thou wilt have me then?" exclaimed Petronio,
with fierce triumph.

"Never!" replied Laura, faintly, as she swooned
and sank senseless in his arms.

"Then away to Satan, thou!" cried the priest,
as he fired at my head: but at that moment the
pirate Lancelloti (or Carora), renegade and
ruffian as he was—touched by one of those qualms of
conscience which at times trouble even the most
hardened villains, or, perhaps, moved to pity by
the exceeding beauty and agony of Laura—struck
up the weapon, and the ball passed through the
deck above.  The priest turned furiously upon his
partner in crime: but the distant report of a
cannon, and the cry of "a sail on the weather
beam," diverted their mutual anger for the time.

Confused by the explosion of the pistol, I
was dragged back to the ring-bolt on deck; where
I remained, helplessly, during all the horrors of
the battle which ensued.  Laura,—it was the last
I beheld of her—the last!  O, Madonna mia
and Thou whose power enabled me to survive
such an accumulation of woe, teach me how, at
this distance of time, to look upon the events of
that day with resignation and calmness!

The corsair had fallen in with a Maltese
corvette of twenty guns, bearing a knight-commander's
pennon at the foremast head.  She proved to
be the *Gierusalemme*, commanded by the brave
Calabrian, Marco of Castelermo; and an engagement
being unavoidable, the corsair, which had an equal
number of guns, prepared for action.  Five
hundred of the greatest villains under the sun stood
to quarters: the ports were hauled up, the guns
double-shotted, the tackles laid across the deck,
while round-shot, wadding, grape, and cannister
lay between them in profusion.  The crimson flag
of Algeria was displayed from the mizzen peak.
The renegade seemed in his glory, and swaggered
about with scymetar and speaking-trumpet; while
the once meek and holy Petronio, with a cutlass
and priming-box buckled to his waist, officiated
as captain of a gun; and Truffi, the hunchback,
crawled like a gigantic toad about the deck,
bearing an immense basket filled with shot-plugs
and oakum.

Thus prepared, the Algerines awaited the attack
of the corvette; for whose success I prayed with
the holiest fervour.

On came the *Gierusalemme*, the water flashing;
under her bows, and her taut canvass shining like
snow in the noonday sun: both vessels as they
neared shortened sail.  The first cannon-ball
passed close to my ear, and, stupified by its wind,
I grovelled on the deck in despair.  The corsair,
after failing to weather her adversary, steered
under her lee.

"Base infidels, surrender or sink!" cried a voice
from the corvette, as we crossed on opposite
tacks.

"To the tyrant knights of Malta!" bellowed
Lancelloti through his trumpet: "to become their
slaves!  Bah!  Never, while the great deep can hide
us, and we can throw a match in the magazine!"  After
a good deal of skilful manoeuvring, the action
commenced in stern earnest.

The pirates fought like demons: for slavery or
death was their fate if vanquished; but the
Christians opposed them with coolness and bravery,
The heavy metal of the latter battered to wreck
and ruin the bulwarks of the former,—dismantling
their guns, and heaping the deck with dead; whom
they were soon compelled to throw overboard to
clear the way.  The enormous fifty pound balls
of the corvette's forecastle piece, created a
devastation, to behold which made my heart leap with
joy.  The corsair was evidently getting the worst
of the battle: her deck was torn up and ploughed
in a thousand places, and the white splinters flew
around in incessant showers; her sails were blown
to rags, her standing and running rigging hung all
in bights and loops, useless and disordered; while
the blessed banner, the taper masts, and taut
cordage of the Gierusalemme towered above the
dense smoke in as perfect order as when the
engagement began.

During this yard-arm contest, my situation was
horrible: I was ironed helplessly to the deck,
amid all its fury, and was, consequently, unable to
fight or fly, to save Laura or myself.  Ah! how I
trembled lest the missiles of the Maltese might
penetrate the place of her confinement.
Incessantly they were crashing around me, tearing up
the strong planks, dashing boats and booms to
fragments, and scattering brains and blood on
every side.  The slippery deck was flooded with
the red current, which gushed from the lee
scuppers.  I was suffocating beneath the corpses
which fell continually above me, and shrieked
and struggled under the ghastly load; but
the ring-bolts were immoveable, and my cries
were unheeded amid that frightful din.  On all
sides rang the curses, threats and cheers of the
living, the groans of the dying, the clanking of
blocks and handspikes, the rattle of chains, and
stamping of feet, mingled with the creaking and
jarring of the guns as they were worked on deck,
hauled back by their tackles, loaded and urged
again to port; and then burst the deafening roar,
while the small arms from forecastle, poop, and
tops, made up a medley of horrors!  Riddled
below and wrecked aloft, the corsair lay like a
log on the water, and the fire of her guns died away.

*La Gierusalemme* forged ahead and lay across
her bows, which the Maltese grappled fast; and the
brave cavalier who commanded leaped upon her
bowsprit at the head of his boarders.  A yell burst
from the pirates as the red flag of death floated
from the *Gierusalemme*; whose guns, crammed to
the muzzle with round shot and grape, were once
more poured into her: the tremendous fury of
the broadside, sweeping through from stem to
stern, killed one-half of her fighting men, and
struck consternation to the souls of the rest.

The moment of deliverance was at hand.  On
came the boarders like a torrent; when a cry of
"fire!" arrested the faculties of all, and Petronio,
the demon-monk, leaped up the hatchway with a
flaming match: he had fired the ship.

"Throw her off—cut the grapplings—man the
main-deck guns—fill the fore-yard!  Bravissimo,
St. John for Malta!" cried Castelermo, as his
boarders scrambled back to the corvette, and their
foes fought like fiends at the grapnels, that all
might perish together.  But the Maltese passed
from their reach, backed their mainyard, and
once more their broadside belched forth destruction
on the sinking *Crescent*.  Three hours had the
combat lasted: the setting sun was now gilding
the Tunisian hills and the Isle of Giamour.

The corsair was soon enveloped in a cloud of
murky vapour, which rolled away to leeward; and
Lancelloti, after throwing all his wounded
overboard, prepared to abandon the wreck.  Concealed
by the smoke, the crew crowded into their
remaining boats and fled.

O, signor, imagine my situation then!  Laura—if
she yet lived—and myself, were alone in the
corsair; which reeled every instant as the heavy
shot of the corvette pierced her.  I heard a shriek
from the cabin—another: it died away—O, frightful!
The corsair was now a mass of flame.  I
might have saved Laura had I been free, but
ironed hand and foot to the accursed deck—a
victim, helpless as herself—I could only rave and
pray; until exhausted by the terrible emotions
which wrung my soul, and half-stifled by the heat
and smoke, I lay motionless in a state of
stupefaction and misery.

As from an ocean hell, the hot flames burst
through every hatch and port: all became red
around me—my heart panted, my eyes were
bursting in their sockets.  I saw the masts and
yards blazing and rocking above me; I heard the
"vivas" of the Maltese, and the report of the
corsair's guns exploding, as they successively became
heated by the roaring and scorching flame.

"Now—I am gone—I am dying—God receive
me!"  The deck yielded beneath, and I expected
to sink to the bottom of the flaming hold: but my
fate was changed.  At that moment the magazine
blew up—a whirlwind of sparks burst on every
side, the crackling deck parted beneath me, and I
found myself struggling in the ocean: the corsair
sank, hissing and roaring, and nearly drawing
into her vortex the planks to which I was chained.
The bitter briny water rushed in at every pore,
and I became insensible.

On recovering, I found myself upon the deck of
the corvette; from whose commander I received
every kindness and attention that the brave can
yield to the unfortunate: but I was filled with an
agony of horror when I reflected on the past, and
the fate of Laura Molina.

Time softened those pangs; and remembering
that she was with the angels in heaven, and
happier than she could ever have been on earth,
I became contented: but vowed never to love
another!—a solemn pledge of love and piety which
I have most religiously preserved.  To be brief—I
served with the Cavalier di Castelermo during
the remainder of his cruise, against the Algerines,
with whom we had many encounters; and the
desire of avenging my wrongs endued me with the
valour of a lion.

After the blockade of Valetta, when all hope of
restoring the order of St. John to its pristine
splendour had failed, Castelermo and I set out for
Italy to join the grand-master at Genoa.  During
the voyage the vessel anchored off the Campo di
Mare, and I was seized with a longing to behold
my native city, and visit once more those places
which the associations of childhood and love have
rendered so dear to me.

On hearing that so distinguished a cavalier,
with his train, was in the vicinity, the bishop of
Cosenza invited us all to his palace.  It was one
of our glorious Italian days: the landscape danced
joyously in the sunbeams; the green peaks of the
Syla, the spires of the city, the winding river, the
waving woods, and the distant sea, all shone in
summer beauty beneath the bright blue sky.

The memory of Laura, her beauty, her gentle
innocence, our love, and our misery, made my
heart alternately a prey to the tenderest sorrow,
and the fiercest longings to requite her wrongs
upon the wretch Petronio.

It was the levée day of the bishop; a guard of
mounted sbirri received us in the porch of his
palace.  A crowd of richly dressed cavaliers,
officers, and knights of military orders, mingling
with churchmen, thronged the ante-rooms, and
were introduced, in turn, by the chamberlain.
Entering the presence-chamber of the great prelate,
I beheld him seated in a lofty chair, wearing
his canonicals and sparkling mitre, gleaming with
jewels and embroidery.  On my nearer approach,
judge of my sensations on recognising in his stern
and sallow visage, the accursed lineaments of
Father Petronio.  The blood rushed tumultuously
on my heart, and all the long slumbering spirit of
the devil arose within me.

"Gesu Christo!" I exclaimed, raising my hands
to Heaven; "is this one of Thy servants—Thy
chosen servants?"

Castelermo arose from his knees in astonishment,
while I unsheathed my sword and sprang
upon the bishop, alike regardless of his power,
his friends, and my life: I trembled, I panted, I
thought only of Laura and retribution.

"Hypocritical apostate!" I exclaimed, grasping
him by the throat, and dashing his mitre to
the earth.  "Thou pest of hell! thou murderer
of my wife, and wrecker of my peace! have we met
at last—ha!"

"Sacrilege!" cried the strangling bishop.  "O,
gentlemen and cavaliers, save me from this mad
man!"

"Madman! ha—peace, thou wolf in sheep's-clothing!
I am Paolo of Casteluccio, and too well
thou knowest me: but die, fiend, die!"  The
strong hand of my friend grasped my descending
sword, and the life of the dog bishop was spared;
although I dashed him to the floor with such force
that he lay stunned and senseless.

I laughed with fierce exultation, and strove to
trample him to death, but was grasped by a
hundred hands.  All the smothered fury of years had
broken forth; and, imagining I had the strength
of a Goliah, I thought to burst, like cobwebs, the
fetters which were heaped upon me.  I was mad—a
maniac; and, knowing that I was so, rejoiced
when men who were valiant and strong, quailed
before the demon-glare of my eye.  The crowded
chamber, the gleaming swords, the halberts of the
sbirri, the prostrate bishop, and the uproar of
tongues are yet before me, like a dream of
yesterday: I remember no more.

When the passion-fit passed away, and reason
returned, I was here, in fetters, amid gloom and
woe.  Three summers have come and gone, since
last I saw the sun. * * * O, signor! all
hope of life and liberty had faded away, and your
presence alone has revived a love of existence, and
a wish to look on the beautiful world once more,—on
its blue skies and green hills, ere death closes
these eyes for ever."

The cavalier concluded just as my lamp was
about to expire, and the grey dawn was peeping
through the little iron grating which lighted his
dismal vault.  I gave the unfortunate man my
hand, and, leading him forth, struck off his rusty
fetters with a stone I found near the chapel door.
No pen can describe his joy on finding himself
free, and breathing the pure air of the summer
morning.  The sun was rising in all its beauty
above the dark green ridge of the distant hills;
for three years he had not beheld it: he wept
with joy, and, embracing me, declared, with the
enthusiasm of his nation, that his life was at my
service.

"O, signor! never since I stood by Laura's side
at the altar, have I felt a happiness equal to that
which animates me now!"

His eyes sparkled with joy, and his haggard
cheek flushed.  He appeared about thirty years
of age; and, but for his tattered garments and
matted hair and beard, his features and figure
would have been eminently striking and noble.
Reminding him that instant flight was necessary, I
advised him to join the chivalric Francatripa, with
whom he would be safer than in any Italian city.
He relished the proposal; as many men of birth
and education did not disdain to serve against
France under such a leader.

We parted.  Catanio was tolling the bell for
matins, at the villa, when I returned; and, gaining
my room unobserved, threw myself on a couch,
and slept till noon: I then joined the old
cardinal in his daily promenade, under the cool
arcades, on the seaward side of his residence.

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