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

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 54595
   :PG.Title: Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp, Volume III (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 III (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 III
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   [Transcriber's note: This volume references page 186 in Volume 1.
   In that volume search for "186" (without the quotes).]

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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. \III.

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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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   CONTENTS.

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   CHAPTER

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I.—`The Third Penitent.—The Monk`_
II.—`The Monk's Story`_
III.—`A Narrow Escape`_
IV.—`Castelguelfo.—The Wolf of Amato`_
V.—`Happiness`_
VI.—`The Villa Besieged`_
VII.—`The Nuptials`_
VIII.—`The Tempest.—The Last of the Hunchback`_
IX.—`A Military Honeymoon`_
X.—`Wreck of the "Delight"`_
XI.—`The Voltigeurs.—The Massacre of Bagnara`_
XII.—`A Retreat In Square.—The Prisoner of War`_
XIII.—`The Drum-head Court-martial`_
XIV.—`Dianora.—The Forfeited Hand`_
XV.—`The Monastery`_
XVI.—`The Sanctuary Violated`_
XVII.—`Unexpected Perils`_
XVIII.—`Captured by the Enemy.—The Two Generals`_
XIX.—`The Albergo.—The Bandit's Revenge`_
XX.—`The Bandit's Cavern.—Recapture`_
XXI.—`Joys of a Military Honeymoon`_
XXII.—`The Siege of Scylla`_
XXIII.—`The Fall of Scylla.—Conclusion`_





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.. _`THE THIRD PENITENT.—THE MONK`:

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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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   THE THIRD PENITENT—THE MONK.

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The escape of a second victim from the vaults
caused a great surmising and anxiety at
Canne; and although, no doubt, the cardinal
suspected that I had a hand in the matter, he
never spoke of it.  The astonishment of the
keeper was boundless, when he discovered his
charge vanishing so unaccountably: he was
accused of conspiracy, and imprisoned by
order of the podesta.  The poor man
defended himself before the tribunal, by laying
the blame upon—whom think you, gentle
reader?—VIRGIL; who is regarded by the
lower order of Italians less as a poet, than
as a conjuror and magician, upon whose guilty
head the blame of everything wicked and
wonderful is laid.

Among the mountains, he has for ages been
deemed the architect of every devilish
contrivance, every fathomless cavern, splendid
crag, fantastic rock, and ruined tower.  A
long dispute ensued between two learned
lawyers, concerning the question whether it might
or might not have been Virgil; and the
decision was given for the prisoner, on the
testimony of the chiavaro, or smith: who
declared that a venerable man with a white
beard, meagre aspect, and eyes like living
coals, had ordered a set of keys like those
produced in court, for which he paid in
strange and antique coin; and when he (the
chiavaro) looked for them next day, they
had vanished from his pouch, showing plainly
that they were coins of hell.  All present
crossed themselves; and the keeper was
immediately set at liberty, and restored to his
dignity and bunch of keys.

Of the Cavalier Paola, I had intelligence
before leaving Canne.  Gathering together
a band of those bold spirits who infested the
wilds of the Brettian forest, he fired the
palace of his foe, the bishop; who narrowly
escaped with a severe bullet wound, of which
he soon after died.  For this outrage,
Casteluccio had to pay many a bright ducat to
the altars of mother church, before he was
permitted to resume his place in society;
and it was not until the death of Murat that
he obtained peaceable possession of his
patrimony at Cosenza.

Several days elapsed without the appearance
of the Roman courier, and I became
very impatient to rejoin my regiment.
Notwithstanding the risk of discovery, prompted
equally by curiosity and humanity, I made
a last visit to those frightful vaults, to free
the remaining captive.

The stillness of midnight was around me
when I entered, but a noisy singing rang
through the echoing cells; the measure was
a boisterous sailor's carol, such as I had
often heard the fishermen singing, as they
sat mending their nets on the shore of Messina.

I beheld in the third captive, an Italian,
about forty years of age, possessing a powerful
and savage aspect, strongly chained to a
large stone which served him for a chair and
table, while a pile of straw between it and the
wall formed his bed.  He was flourishing his
arms and snapping his fingers whilst he sang;
but ceased on my entrance, and regarded me
with a sullen stare of surprise.  A large
leathern flask, which stood on the stone near him,
explained the cause of his merriment.

"Ha! thou cursed owl that pokest about
in the night, what seek you here, when you
should be snug in the dormitory?  Up helm
and away, black devil! there's no girl here
to confess—no one but Lancelloti of Fruili,
a born imp of Etna, who will break every
bone in your hypocritical body, if it comes
within reach of his grapnels!"

"The pirate—the companion of Petronio!"
I exclaimed; "are you that Lancelloti of whom
I have heard so much?  Astonishing!"

"Ho! ho! what are you talking about?"
asked the captive, rolling his great head about.
"I tell you, Signor Canonico, that I am Osman
Carora, a jovial monk of Friuli—(what am I
saying?) yes, Friuli—would I was there again!
Never have I seen a prospect equal to the fair
Carinthian mountains, and the deep rocky dales
through which the Isonza sweeps, on to the Gulf
of Trieste.  It was my hap to look for many a
dreary day through the iron bars of my dormitory
on that gulf, and afterwards to sail, with
royals and sky-sails set, every rope a-taunto, and
the red flag of Mahomet flying at the foremast
head.  Accursed bishop!  I may revenge me yet,
if the good friend who brings me this jolly flask
every night proves true.  Ah, Truffi, though
crooked in form and cross in spirit, thou art
an angel of light to me!"

"Truffi!" said I; "mean you Gaspare?"

The renegade, moved alternately by
brutality, rage, and maudlin sentimentality, burst
into a shout of drunken laughter.

"You know him—ha! ha! and are a jolly
priest after all.  Alla akbar! instead of a
prying monkish spy, I find you a comrade.
Thou who knowest Gaspare must doubtless
have heard of me.  He is now in Canne,
planning my escape from this cursed cockpit; to
which the double-dyed villany of Petronio
has consigned me.  Gaspare was my stanch
gossip in the cloisters of Friuli, and my
master-at-arms and fac-totum on board the *Crescent*:
his ingenuity alone saved me when I had
nearly fallen into the clutches of the grand
bailiff, for slaying the Capitano Batello.
Fi! the recollection of that adventure haunts me
yet: the glazing eyes, the clenched teeth, the
pale visage, and the gleaming sword; the
silver hairs, and the old man's blood
streaming on the white dress and whiter bosom of
his daughter!  "O, cursed flask!" said the
ruffian, pausing to squeeze the leathern
bottle.  "May every monk and mollah
anathematize thee in the name of Christ and
Mahomet; for thou art now empty, useless,
and upon thy vacuity I cry anathema!  Beautiful
wert thou indeed, Paula Batello, and too
pure a being for such a serpent as Lancelloti
to behold!"

"Caro signor, I would gladly hear her story?"

"And so thou shalt: firstly, because thou
art a comrade of our Apollo with the hump;
secondly, because I would like to hear thy
opinion upon it; and thirdly, because I love
to have some one to talk to in this blasted
vault, whose walls I would that Satan rent
asunder and ruined for ever."  And without
further preface, he commenced the following
story; which deserves a chapter to itself.





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.. _`THE MONK'S STORY`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   THE MONK'S STORY.

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The Capitano Batello was an old soldier of
the Venetian Republic, who, after an active
life, retired to spend the winter of his days
among the woody solitudes of Friuli.  All
the village loved the good old capitano, who
made wooden swords and flags for the children,
and retailed his campaigns and adventures a
thousand times to the frequenters of the
cantina, where he was the military and political
oracle; and at mass, all made way for the
white-haired old man, when he came slowly
marching up the aisle, with the Signorina
Paula leaning on his arm.  The old soldier's
doublet was perhaps a little threadbare, or
his broad hat glazed at the edge; yet he never
forgot his rank, even when struggling for
existence with half a ducatoon a day.

But Paula, the gentle-voiced, the blue-eyed
and fair-haired Paula, was the admiration of
all—the glory of the village; and the old
captain watched her as a miser would a
precious jewel.  Beard of Ali! she would have
brought a princely sum at Algiers.

She was beautiful, and her soft blue eyes
looked one fully and searchingly in the face
with all the confidence of perfect innocence.
Her mother was gone to heaven, as the
captain said, when he engaged me as tutor to
Paula and her brother: an office for which I
received a trifle, that went into the treasury of
San Baldassare—a trap which swallowed everything.
The boy, Rosario, was a chubby little
rogue, and for a time I took pleasure in hearing
their lisping accents, as they conned over
their task in an arbour which Paula's hands
had formed at the back of their little cottage.

Thunder! how often have I looked back
with astonishment on those days, when on the
gun-deck of the *Crescent* I stood at the head
of five hundred of the boldest hearts of Tunis
and Tripoli.  Who then could have
recognised in Osman the blood-thirsty, the
hypocritical Fra Lancelloti?  Yes!  I was ever a
hypocrite, and regarded with scorn and
detestation the sombre garb which tied me to the
monastery.  But my fate was not in my own
hands: my parents were a son and daughter
of old mother church, and I came into the
world very unfortunately for both parties.
They threw me into the lantern of San
Baldassare, where thirty years before my father
had been found himself.  As a reward for
giving me life, my mother died in the
dungeons of San Marco; and my father expiated
his share in the matter at the first general
*auto-da-fé*: so you see that I come of a martyred family.

A prisoner from my boyhood upwards, I
looked upon the world as a realm of light
and joy, from which I was for ever debarred by
those mysterious vows which the monks had
induced me to profess before their meaning
was understood.  When from my iron grate
I looked on the vale of the winding Isonza,
blooming with foliage and verdure and bounded
by the blue Carinthian hills, and listened
to the rushing sound of the free bold river,
how intense were my longings to follow its
course to where it plunged headlong into
the Gulf of Trieste; where for hours I
have watched the scudding sails till my eyes
and heart ached.  O, hours of longing and of
agony!  To see nature spread before me in
all her glory, yet be unable to taste her sweets:
to be a prisoner without a crime.  And love,
or what the world calls love, I knew not what it
was; though a secret spirit whispered within
me: I longed to look on some fair face, and
to hear a gentle voice reply to mine; but
love's magic, its mystery, and its madness, I
was yet to learn.  With a heart thus formed,
and open to the assaults of that wicked little
god—whom the ancients should have depicted
as a giant—you may imagine my sensations
on finding myself in the presence of Paula;
whose face and form far outshone the famous
Madonna of our chapel.  A hot blush suffused
my cheek: but the fair face of Paula
revealed only the rosy tinge of health, and her
brow the calm purity of perfect innocence.  I
was silent and awed in her presence: an Italian
monk awed by a girl of seventeen!

With evening I returned to the cloisters;
and a chill sank upon my heart as their cold
shadows fell over me.  I was in my old
dormitory, where the truckle-bed, the polished
skull, the cross, and rough vaulted roof seemed
yet the same: but I was changed.  The
recollection of Paula's soft gazelle-like eyes and
snowy breast never left me for a moment, and
I passed a sleepless night.

"O, that I were a soldier or a cavalier, for
then Batello would respect, and his daughter
might love me: but a priest—a
priest—anathema! anathema! there is no hope for me:
none!  O, malediction! why did I ever
behold thee, Paula?"

Thus passed the night.  Noon found me
again in the arbour of Batello's garden: the
golden-haired and ruddy-cheeked Rosario was
drawling over his task; but I neither heard nor
beheld him.  I saw only his sister, who, seated
beneath the shadow of the luxuriant rose-trees,
was immersed in the glowing pages of the
warrior bard, Luigi Tansilla, the brave
follower of Piero di Toledo.

The rays of the sun streamed between the
foliage of the arbour, lighting up her fair
ringlets, which glittered like living gold; her white
neck sparkled in the same mysterious
radiance: a glory seemed around her, and the
soft calm aspect of her downcast face made
her seem the very image of our lovely lady,
the famed Madonna of Cantarini.  Intoxicated
with her appearance, I trembled when
addressing her, while she entered frankly into
conversation with me on the merits of the soldier's
poems.  Full and calmly her mild eyes gazed
on mine, yet no suspicion struck her of the
passion which glowed within me; and which I
dared not reveal, for death was the doom: on
the one hand, her firm father's poniard; on
the other, the dungeons of the Piombi or the
horrors of the holy office.

By night the ravings of my dreams were
heard by the tenants of the adjoining dormitories,
Petronio and Truffi the crookback; and
they soon learned from my mutterings that I
loved Paula, the daughter of the Signor
Batello.  Petronio—the same accursed Petronio,
who from his archiepiscopal palace sent
forth the mandate which entombed me here,
when, after a tough battle with a Maltese
cruiser, I was cast half drowned and bleeding
on the beach of Canne—Petronio, whose
matchless hypocrisy makes his villany even of
a deeper dye than mine, then came to act the
part of friend; to counsel me to destruction,
and to become the evil genius of the good
Batello and his innocent children.

A thorough Italian monk, dark, gloomy,
and superstitious, he was my senior by fifteen
years, and had secretly plunged into all the
excesses of Venice.  Like the fiendish hunchback,
he was an adept in every dissimulation
and debauchery, and boasted of his exploits;
till, ashamed of my weakness, I took heart,
and burned for distinction in the same worthy
fields.  I put myself under his guidance and
tuition: to effect what?  O, innocent Paula!

I had resolved, by every art of reasoning
and sophistry, to break down the barriers of
religion and modesty, and bend her mind to
my purpose.  But each successive day when I
looked upon her snowy brow, her pure and
happy face, blooming with beauty and radiant
with youth, my diabolical purpose was left
unfulfilled, unattempted; and my heart shrank
from the contest.

Sometimes young and handsome cavaliers,
from the castle of Gradiska or the citadel of
Friuli, came to visit the old capitano; and the
gallantry of their air, the glitter of their
military garb and weapons, the ease with which
they lounged about, strummed on the mandolin,
or whispered soft nothings to the fair
girl, made my envious heart burn with alternate
rage and jealousy.  Intensely I longed to
be like one of them: and yet I could have slain
them all, and Paula too when she smiled on them.

But I soon found a more powerful auxiliary
to my love, than either Petronio's sophistry or
Truffi's villany could furnish: and where think
you?  In Paula's own heart.  Ho! ho! a
young girl soon discovers that which is the
sole object of her thoughts by day, and her
dreams by night—a lover!  There is a
mysterious emotion so pleasing to her heart, so
flattering to her fancy, and altogether so
peculiarly grateful to her mind in being beloved,
that she gives way to all the fervour of a first
passion with joy and trembling.  Ha! thou
knowest the hearts of our Italian girls: warm,
tender, and easily subdued; what more can
lover wish?

The garrisons were marched to the Carinthian
frontier, and the cavaliers came no more
to the cottage of Batello: he spent the most
of his time detailing his battles and reading
the Diaries and Gazette at the wine-house;
while his old housekeeper (whom my cowl
kept in awe) was always occupied in household
matters.  I kept Rosario close to his task,
and therefore had the dear girl all to myself.

What could she hope for in yielding to such
a passion?  Remorse, despair, and madness!
But of these the young damsel thought not then.
Ha!  I was then graceful and well looking, and
we both were young and ardently in love.
My eyes at one time, my tremulous tones at
another, had informed her of the mighty secret
which preyed upon my heart; and which my
lips dared not reveal until the rapturous
moment when I perceived the mutual flame that
struggled in her bosom.  Then, but not till
then, did I pour forth a rhapsody expressive
of my love; when yielding to its burning
impulses, all the long-concealed ardour of my
heart burst at once upon her ear.  Love lent a
light to my eyes, a grace and gesture to my
figure, and imparted new eloquence to my
tongue: I was no longer myself; no more the
cold, cautious friar, but the impetuous Italian
lover.  The monk was forgotten in the man;
my vows in the delight of the moment; and
the lovely Paula sank upon my shoulder
overcome with love and terror.  O, hour of
joy! when I first pressed my trembling lip to
that soft and beautiful cheek.  Long years of
penance and of prayer—of dreary repining, of
soul-crushing humiliation and sorrow—were all
repaid by the bliss of that embrace: which I
have never forgotten.  No! not all the years
that have passed since then; not all the dark
villanies I have planned and perpetrated: and
they are many; not all the dangers I have
dared: and they are countless as the hairs of
your head; not all the toils and miseries of a
life can efface it from my memory.  I was
happy then: I who, perhaps, have never been
so since. * * * * *

A footstep aroused us, and the blushing girl
shrank from me as the little boy Rosario came
gamboling towards the arbour with a chaplet
for her hair.  I cast a fierce glance of hatred
upon him.  Even Paula was piqued, and
refused to receive the flowers; upon which the
child wept, and pulling my cassock, prayed
me to lecture his sister for being so coy.

"Scold her, Father Lancelloti!" said he,
rubbing his glittering eyes with his plump
little hands; "for she will neither kiss me nor
receive my roses to put among her pretty hair,
as she used to love to do."

"Give me the flowers, child," said I; "shall
*I* kiss sister Paula for you, Rosario?"

"O, yes, yes," cried the little boy, "or
sister Paula will kiss you, and then me."

Our lips met, and the agitated and infatuated
Paula embraced the child, who laughed
and clapped his hands with innocent glee;
and yet he knew not at what.  At that
moment the long sword of the captain jarred on
the gravel walk, and his heavy tread rang
beneath the trellis of the garden.  Aware that,
as a priest, I had wronged him in the declaration
made to his daughter, and that I had
committed a deadly sin before God, I shrank
from meeting him; and, leaping over the
garden-wall, returned to the monastery, where,
not without sensations of triumph, I recounted
my conquest to Petronio and the hunchback.

Three days I visited her as usual, and
rejoiced in the success of my amour; for I
loved her tenderly and dearly.  My air was
so sanctified that the most jealous guardian
would not have suspected me; then how much
less the good Batello, who, by his profession,
had been accustomed to intercourse with men
of the strictest honour, and suspected no man
of duplicity, because his own brave heart was
guileless.

My rose-bud of love was just beginning to
bloom, when matters were doomed to have a
terrible crisis.

One bright forenoon, when Rosario had
finished his task, I was about to return to
Friuli, and merely bowed to Paula, because
her father was present.

"Brother Lancelloti," said he, grasping my
cope, "hast heard the news?  The senate is
about to declare war against the Turks, and
the capeletti are to be doubled.  Brave news
for an old soldier, eh!  I may be a colonello,
with Rosario for captain!  Come hither, thou
chubby rogue—wouldst like to be a captain?"

"O, yes, if sister Paula would play with me
as she used to do, and kiss me instead of
Father Lancelloti."

"Rosario! what sayest thou?" cried the
fierce old soldier with a stentorian voice, while
Paula grew pale as death, and my spirit died
away within me; but the terrified child made
no reply.  The captain's face was black with
rage: his eyes sparkled, and stern scorn curled
his lip; yet he spoke calmly.

"Go—go, Father Lancelloti, and may God
forgive you!  I will not require the services of
your faithful reverence from to-day.
Away—march! or you may fare worse: dare not to
come here again, I am Annibal Batello—thou
knowest me!"  And, touching the hilt of
his sword, he turned on his heel and left me.

I rushed away, overwhelmed with bitterness,
rage, and humiliation, and hating Rosario with
the hate of a fiend.

To Truffi and Petronio, my story was the
source of endless merriment: the hunchback
snapped his fingers, whooped, and laughed
till the cloisters rang with his elfish joy.
Deprived of my mistress, whom I dared not visit
for dread of the captain's sword, stung by the
taunts of my friends, dejected and filled with
gloomy forebodings, the cloisters soon became
intolerable to me.  I formed many a romantic
and desperate scheme to rid myself of those
cursed trammels which monkish duplicity had
cast around me in boyhood: but thoughts of
the holy office, the Piombi, and the fate of my
father, filled me with dismay; and I dared
not fly from Friuli.

One day, whilst wandering far up the banks
of the Isonza, with a heart swollen by bitter
thoughts, I plunged into the deepest recesses
in search of solitude.  Reaching the cascade
which falls beneath the ancient castle of Fana,
I paused to listen to the rushing water, whose
tumult so much resembled my own mind.  The
voice of no living thing, save that of the lynx,
broke the stillness around me: the lofty trees
of the dense forest, clad in the richest foliage
of summer, cast a deep shadow over the bed
of the dark blue stream; which swept
noiselessly on, between gloomy impending cliffs,
until it reached the fall, where it poured over
a broad ledge of rock, and thundered into a
terrible abyss, whence the foam arose in a
mighty cloud, white as Alpine snow.  Rearing
its grey and mossy towers high above the
waving woods, the shattered rocks, and roaring
river, the ancient castello looked down on the
solitude beneath it.  A mighty place in days
gone by, it had been demolished by the bailiff of
Friuli, for the crimes of Count Giulio (see
vol. i. p. 186), and was now roofless and ruined;
the green ivy clung to the carved battlement,
and the rays of the bright sun poured aslant
through its open loops and empty windows.
But the scenery soothed not my heart: I
burned for active excitement, to shake off the
stupor that oppressed me.

A turn of the walk brought me suddenly
upon the little boy, Rosario, who was weaving
a chaplet of wild roses and trailing daphne;
culled, doubtless, for the bright tresses of
Paula.  Remembering some stern injunction
from his father, on beholding me he fled as
from a spectre.  Like a tiger, I sprang after
him: fear added wings to his flight; but I
was close behind.  A fall on the rocks
redoubled my anger and impatience, and I
caught him by his long fair hair, while he
was in the very act of laughing at my mishap.

"Cursed little babbler!" said I, shaking
him roughly; "what deservest thou at my
hands?"

"Spare me, good Father Lancelloti, and I
will never offend again."

"Silence, or I will tear out thy tongue!"

My aspect terrified him, and he screamed
on his father and Paula to save him.

"Paula!" said I, shaking him again, "thy
devilish tongue hath destroyed Paula and
me too!"

"Spare me," said he, whimpering and smiling;
"and pretty sister Paula will kiss you for
my sake."

"Anathema upon thee!"  His words redoubled
my fury, and I spat on him.  The
cascade roared beside me, the deepest solitude
was around us, hell was in my heart, and the
devil guided my hand; I launched the
screaming child from the rocks: headlong he fell
through the air, and vanished in the cloudy
spray of the vast abyss.  The bright sun
became suddenly obscured by a cloud, and a
deeper gloom stole over the dell of Fana: the
ruined tower seemed a monstrous head, and its
windows invidious eyes looking down on
me—the landscape swam around, and I heard a cry
of *murder* above the roar of the cascade.  The
yell of a lynx completed my terror, and I
rushed in frenzy from the spot.  * * *

I was in my dormitory; the darkness of
night was in my soul and all around me:
overwhelmed with an excess of horror for my
wanton crime, I spent the night in the agonies
of penance and prayer, and making mental
vows to sin no more.  Had the universe been
mine, I would have given it that Rosario
might be restored to life.  O, that I could
have lived the last day over again, or have
blotted it for ever from my mind!  But,
alas! the strong and dark fiend had marked me
for his own.  Through the silence of the still
calm night, came the rush of the distant
river: there was madness in the sound; but
I could not exclude it, and the cry of the poor
child mingled ever with its roar.  Humble in
spirit, and contrite in heart, at morning matins
I bowed down in prayer among the brotherhood.
The sublime symphonies of the hymn
Veni Creator, or of the litanies of our lady of
Loretto, the song of the choir and the
mellifluous strain of the organ, rang beneath the
vaulted dome like the voice of God and the
knell of death; and yet they spoke of hope—hope
to the repentant—and I prostrated myself
before the altar: tears burst from my eyes,
and the fire of my heart was assuaged.

I left the monastery to seek some calm
solitude, wherein to pour forth my soul in secret
prayer; but my evil genius was beside me,
and guided me to detection and disgrace.
I wandered on, but knew not and cared not
whither; wishing only to fly from the haunts
of men and my own burning thoughts.  Vain
idea!  Rosario, as he sank among the spray,
his sister's tears, his father's sorrow, were ever
before me, and I looked upon myself with horror.

"Good father!" cried a voice, disturbing my
dreadful reverie; "O, reverend signor, help, in
the name of the Blessed Trinity!"

I started with dismay—what did I behold?
The white-haired veteran, Batello, bearing in
his arms the dripping corpse of Rosario, while
Paula clung to him overcome with sorrow and
terror.  Even the venerable goatherd, whose
crook had fished up the dead child, was moved
to tears; while I, the cause of the calamity,
looked on with unmoved visage.  Was it an
index of my mind?  O, no! a serpent was
gnawing my heart: I could have screamed
with agony; and my breath came close and
thick.  I trembled and panted while Batello
spoke.

"Fra Lancelloti," said he, "thou comest
upon me in an hour of deep woe, when I have
much need of godly consolation; but not from
thy lips.  A week ago we quarrelled: I know
the weakness of the human heart, and from
the bottom of my soul forgive thee; for in
this terrible moment I cannot look on any man
with anger.  Pass on, in the name of God! for
thy presence is—I know not why—peculiarly
hateful to me at this moment.  Many a dead
face have I looked upon by breach and
battlefield, but thou—my Rosario—thy mother—"
and the old soldier kissed his dead child, and
wept bitterly.

The goatherd, who had been observing me
narrowly, now whispered in Batello's ear.
His eyes glared, and relinquishing the body,
with one hand he grasped his sword, with the
other my throat.

"Double-dyed villain!—hypocrite!—thou
knowest of this, and canst say how Rosario
died!  Speak, or this sword, never yet stained
with the blood of a coward, shall compel thee."

"Sacrilege!" I gasped, while Paula swooned:
"Sacrilege!—I am a priest—"

"Rosario's hand grasps part of a rosary—lo! thy
chaplet is broken, and the beads are
the same.  Speak, ere I slay thee!" and he
drew his sword.

Trembling, I glanced at my girdle: but
a half of my chaplet hung there; the other
was grasped in the tenacious hand of Rosario.
Overwhelmed with terror, I attempted to
escape; and, in the blindness of his fury, the
old man struck me repeatedly with his sword,
while he cried aloud for help.  Transported
with fury at the sight of my own blood, and
dreading discovery, I became mad, and plunged
yet deeper into crime: closing with him, my
strength and youth prevailed over his frame,
now enfeebled by age, wounds, and long
campaigns; I struck him to the earth, and with
his own sword stabbed him to the heart.  His
blood streamed over Paula—I remember
nothing more.  I fled to the hills, and,
throwing off my upper vestments, wandered in wild
places, far from the reach of the Grand Bailiff;
who offered five hundred ducats for my head,
sent the carbineers of Gradiska and the vassals
of the duchy to hunt me down, and established
such a close chain of communication along the
frontiers that escape was almost impossible.
He solemnly vowed to avenge the murder of
Batello (who had been the friend and fellow-soldier
of his father, the old Count of Lanthiri)
and I should assuredly have become his victim,
and been consigned to the gallows or the
Holy Office, had I not been joined by Gaspare
Truffi; who, after transferring to his own pouch
every bajoccho in the convent treasury, had
come to share my fortunes in the wilderness.

Changing our attire, we embarked for Greece;
but were captured off Calabria by a corsair of
Tunis.  Whereupon I instantly turned
Mussulman, and served his highness the Bey with
such courage and devotion, that, as Osman
Carora, I became the idol of the Tunisians, and
terror of the Mediterranean.  Enough!—thou
knowest the rest.  Shipwreck and the fortune
of war placed me in the power of my old friend
Petronio—and I am here."

"And Paula?"

"Became Contessa di Lanthiri, and soon
forgot poor Fra Lancelloti."

.. vspace:: 2

Such was the story related to me by the
third captive whom those vaults contained:
I have jotted it down just as it was related to
me; but without the many pauses of maudlin
grief, or oaths of rage, with which his
half-intoxicated state caused him to intersperse it.

I need hardly add that I left this deliberate
ruffian to his fate, locking all the doors
securely behind me; and, to make the keeper
more alert in future—as I intended to return no
more—I left my false keys in his niche in the
little chapel.  The terrified warder, on finding
a set of keys the exact counterpart of his own,
declared they must have belonged either to
Virgil or to the devil: they were destroyed,
the vaults sprinkled with holy water, and the
wizard was seen no more.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A NARROW ESCAPE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A NARROW ESCAPE.

.. vspace:: 2

It was a clear and beautiful morning when I
issued forth on my return to the cardinal's
villa.  As I passed a cantina by the roadside,
under a trellis in front of it, I encountered two
personages whom I had no wish to meet on
that side of Massena's lines: the surly
Captain Pepe, who treated me so insultingly at
Crotona, and Truffi the hunchback, whom I
recognised notwithstanding his disguise—a
white Cistertian frock and shovel hat.
Draughts, dominoes, and wine-horns were
before them; and they had apparently passed
the night at the table over which they leaned,
sleeping away the fumes of their potations.

As I passed, an unlucky house dog leaped
forth from his barrel, yelling and shaking his
chain.  The captain, yet half intoxicated,
started up and felt for his sword, and I saw a
bastia knife gleaming in the long lean fingers
of the cripple.

"Corpo!" said he, "'tis only a priest."

"Hola! call you that fellow a priest?"
replied Pepe, balancing himself with difficulty:
but, drunk as he was, he had the eyes of a
lynx, and knew me in a moment.  "Mille
baionettes! an English spy.  Ah, Monsieur
Aide-de-camp!—villain!  Hola, the quarter
guard!  Hola, the provost, and the noose from
the nearest tree: *à la lanterne*!"

He staggered towards me with his drawn
sabre, and I supposing the cantina was full
of soldiers, became alarmed, as the hideous
Truffi yelled and whooped till the welkin rang.
My death was certain if captured: not even
York could have saved it, or those important
despatches with which the general entrusted
me.  But I thought less of them than of
Bianca, life, liberty, and honour.  I easily
wrenched Pepe's sabre from him, and knocked
him down with my clenched hand: his head
clattered on the hard dusty road, and he lay
motionless.  Truffi rushed on me with his
poniard, but I dealt him a blow across the
head with my sabre, and he fell prone over the
body of his companion.

I fled to the villa, entered unseen, and threw
myself panting upon my bed; where, notwithstanding
my fears and agitation, I soon fell fast
asleep.

In two hours after I was awakened by
Catanio, whose countenance betokened something
unusual.  My first thought was of Captain
Pepe.

"The courier has arrived from Rome, and
his Majesty awaits you."  I leaped up, joyful
at being undeceived so agreeably.

"Has he brought the signora's dispensation?"

"His Majesty has not said."

My toilet was soon completed, and I was
ushered into the presence of the cardinal, who
was seated at breakfast.  His Irish valet was
in attendance.  The plainness of his equipage
contrasted strongly with the splendour of his
pretensions.  He was busy reading, and heard
not our approach.

"You see him, perhaps, for the last time,"
whispered Catanio.  "Behold! does there not
reign around him a mystic dignity that makes
him seem as much a king as if he stood in the
halls of Windsor or Holy rood?  Ah, who can
look on such a man, declining into the vale of
life, venerable with years, the majesty and
memory of ages, without being moved?  But
this is a cold and calculating age, without
veneration for the past; and the regrets of
those who love it, provoke but a smile from
the selfish and unreflecting."

Without partaking of his enthusiasm, I was
not a little moved by his tone and words.

"Catanio, place a chair for Captain Dundas,"
said the cardinal, perceiving us.  "Sir,
you will breakfast with me, as I have
intelligence for you.  Our most Holy Father
has been pleased to dispense with the vows
of the Signora D'Alfieri at my intercession;
and on presenting this document to the
Abbess at Canne, she will be free to quit
the convent and resume her place in society.
This is the despatch from the spedizioniere of
the papal court."

I returned thanks with suitable sincerity of
manner.

"Zamori, a Calabrian fisherman of Gierazzo,
is now in the harbour of Carine with his little
vessel, which, as Catanio informs me, will sail
in the evening; on receipt of my order,
Zamori will convey you to any part in
Calabria, or place you on board the British
frigate now cruising in the Adriatic."

"A fisherman's bark will be but a
comfortless place on these rough waters, for the
delicate signora.  But O, most sincerely have
I to thank your Eminence for the interest you
have taken in this matter, and the kindness
you have shown me."

"Captain Dundas, here at least I am a
king!" said the old man, whose broad brow
became clouded for the first time.  "Though
exiled, forgotten by Britain, and standing on
the verge of the tomb, I will yield my
pretensions only with my last breath."

My reply was interrupted by the appearance
of six French soldiers, with a sergeant, coming
down the avenue at a quick pace, with their
bayonets fixed.  I remembered my encounter
with Pepe, the keen glances of Compere in
the church, and all the dangers of my situation
flashed upon me: I stood irresolute whether
to fight, fly, or surrender.

"Sir, they are no doubt in pursuit of you,"
said the cardinal, his aged cheek beginning
to flush: "but will they dare to cross my
threshhold?  Alas! what will they not?  The
invasion of Rome, the expulsion of the sacred
college, and the seizure of Pius himself, are
yet fresh in my recollection.  Catanio meet
them at the porch, and in the name of God
dare them to enter the house of one of his
servants!"

"Alas!" replied Catanio, "let me implore
your majesty to pause.  We are but three
aged and infirm men, against seven soldiers,
armed, insolent, and rapacious; as the followers
of a usurper ever are."

"This is no time for delay.  Away, Captain
Dundas!" exclaimed York; "you must fly.
Catanio will lead you to the beach ere the
house is surrounded.  Farewell, sir! a long
farewell to you: we may never meet again!"

Deeply moved by the old man's manner,
I bowed, and, according to the custom, kissed
the hand he extended towards me: a massive
ruby ring—the great coronation ring of our
ancient kings—sparkled on his finger.

Catanio hurried me away, and by the most
unfrequented paths we reached the beach;
while the soldiers surrounded and searched the
villa.

The cardinal died a few months afterwards,
at Rome, in the eighty-second year of his
age, and was buried between his father and
brother at Frescati.  Henry IX. is inscribed
on his tomb; which the genius of Canova has
adorned with the most splendid sculpture.
It is a curious fact, that till the last day of
his life, the cardinal was in communication
with many men of rank, wealth, and power,
who seemed still to have entertained the
chimerical hope of placing him on the British
throne; and many documents discovered after
his decease, and now preserved in our archives,
prove that his family had, even then, numerous
adherents in the three kingdoms: some of
them men whom the Government could little
have suspected of such sentiments.  Buonaparte,
too—that overturner of kings and
kingdoms—is said to have expressed a wish to
place him on the throne; and, as an earnest
of his friendship, robbed him of his French
estates: but the star of the Stuarts had set.
George III. kindly and wisely passed over
in silence the names of those whose romantic
enthusiasm, or political bias, the papers
of the cardinal-duke had so awkwardly revealed.

I got on board Zamori's little sloop in safety;
and, in obedience to the cardinal's command,
the warp was cast off, the sweeps run out, and
he anchored about half a mile from the shore.
Catanio left me, promising to return after
dusk with the signora, whom I anxiously
awaited; expecting every minute to see bayonets
glittering on the sunny beach, or a boat
filled with armed men push off towards the
barque of Zamori.

The latter was a garrulous old fellow, whose
tongue gave me very little time for reflection.
Night began to close over Canne; and I beheld
its approach with joy: the day had seemed
interminably long.  The evening gun was fired
from the French fort, the tricolor descended
from its ramparts, and I heard the evening
hymn floating over the glassy sea from the
various craft around us; where many of the
sailors lay stretched upon bundles of sails,
smoking cigars, tinkling the mandolin, and
enjoying the rich sunset of their glorious clime.
Sinking behind the mountains, the sun bade
us adieu; darkness gradually crept along the
winding shore, and white vapours curled in
fantastic shapes from the low flats and ravines:
slowly and brightly the moon soared into view,
bathing land and ocean in a flood of silvery
light.

I lay on a bundle of sails listening to the
skipper's legends of the young Count of
Caulonia, who fell in love with a mermaid that
arose from her coral cave in the Gulf of Gierazzo,
and sat beneath his castle walls singing as
the syrens sung to Ulysses; and of the
wondrous demon fish caught in Naples, in 1722,
with a man in armour in its stomach; and
Heaven knows what more.  Hearing the
dash of oars alongside the *Echino*, as Zamori's
bark was named, and seeing a boat shoot under
her quarter, I leapt up.  I went to the side
and received Catanio, who handed up Francesca
D'Alfieri.  The poor girl was so happy
to find herself free, and entrusted to my care,
that she could only weep with joy; uttering
sobs in the depths of an ample satin faldetta
which the abbess had given her, with two
rosemary sprigs sewn crosswise in front, to scare
away evil spirits.

"Farewell to you, captain!" said Catanio,
or Duncan Catanach; "do not forget us when
you go home to the land we love so well."

"Good-bye: God bless you, old man!" I
replied, as the boat was pushed off and moved
shoreward.

The dark grave has long closed over the
faithful Catanach and his illustrious master;
but memory yet recalls the old man's visage:
I can see it as I saw it then; clouded by
honest sorrow, and its hard wrinkled features
tinged by the light of the moon.

An hour afterwards we were ploughing the
waters of the gulf, with the broad latteen sail
of the *Echino* bellying taut before the breeze
as she cleft the billows with her sharp-beaked
prow.  Zamori grasped the tiller with important
confidence; the crew, his two athletic and
black-browed sons, remained forward, and I
seated myself beside the signora, who permitting
her hood to fall back, the moon shone
on her beautiful features and glossy hair.  So
dangerous an attraction near old Zamori
disturbed his steering, and the *Echino* yawed till
her sail flapped to the mast.

"A sweet face!" he muttered, as the boat
careened over; "but it will work mischief, like
the mermaids."

"O, signor, I am happy, so very happy!"
said Francesca: the richness of her tone, and
the artlessness of her manner moved me.
"Shall we soon see Calabria?"

"That is Capo Trionto," said I, pointing ahead.

"Dear Calabria!" she exclaimed, kissing
her hand to the distant coast; "there was a
time when I thought never to behold thee
more!  Beautiful star!" continued the
enthusiastic girl, pointing to a twinkling orb:
"Signor, is it not lovely? alas! 't is gone:
perhaps it is a world!" she added, clasping her
hands, as it shot from its place and vanished.
The increasing roughness of the sea, as we
sailed along the high Calabrian coast, soon
made Francesca uneasy: her prattle died
away; she became very sick, and lay in the
stern-sheets of the boat, covered up with
Zamori's warm storm jacket, and a spare jib:
both rather coarse coverings for a beautiful
and delicate female.  At length she slept; and
I was left for a time to my own reflections.

About midnight, I was roused from a sound
nap by Zamori.

"Look around you, excellency," said he, in
a whisper; "saw you ever aught so splendid—so
terrible?"

Like a vast globe of gold the shining moon
was resting on the summit of Cape Trionto;
which, rising black as ebony from the ocean,
heaved its strongly-marked outline against the
illuminated sky: its ridge was marked by a
streak of fiery yellow.  The water was
phosphorescent; the waves seemed to be burning
around us, and we sped through an ocean of
light!  The spray flying past our bows
seemed like sparks of living fire; the ropes
trailing over the gunnel, and the myriads of
animalcules which animate every drop of the
mighty deep, were all shining with magic
splendour.  An exclamation of rapture
escaped me: at that moment the moon sank
down behind Trionto; in an instant the
sea became dark, and not a trace of all that
glorious and magnificent illumination
remained behind.

"Have you seen these often, Zamori?"

"No!" said he, shuddering and crossing
himself; "but such sights never bode good.
We shall have the French in Lower Calabria
soon.  'Tis Fata Morgana," he added, whispering;
"she dwells in the straits of Messina:
I have seen her palace of coral and crystal
rise above the waves.  She is a mermaid of
potent power: God send that we have no
breeze before morning!"

Cape St. James was in sight when the sun
arose from the ocean, revealing all the glories
of the beautiful coast and sparkling sea.  After
the stout Calabrians had knelt and prayed to
a rudely-carved Madonna nailed above the
horse-shoe on the mast, I partook of their
humble breakfast; which consisted of olives,
salt-fish, maccaroni, and sour wine: the signora
was too much indisposed to join us.

I looked forward with pleasure to assuming
my important command at Scylla; but other
prospects made me happier still: I welcomed
the freshening breeze, as the little bark
rushed through the surging sea which boiled
over her gunnels, and roared like a cascade
under her counter; while the ruin-crowned or
foliaged headlands, and the countless peaks
which towered above them, changed their
aspect every moment as we flew on.  I thought
of my smiling Bianca, and hailed with joy the
hills of Maida.  We beheld the evening sun
gilding the Syla, and at night were off Crotona,
and saw the lights glimmering in its narrow
streets and gloomy citadel, where Macleod was
stationed with his Highlanders.  Anchored
close under its ramparts, lay the *Amphion*, and
brave Hanfield's sloop of war, the *Delight*.
The sky was dark and lowering, the sea black
as ink: everything portended a rough night,
and I was well pleased that our voyage was over.

My despatch for Captain Hoste required him
to bring round the Ross-shire Buffs without
delay to Messina; and the order was forthwith
given to heave short, to cast loose the sails,
and lower away all the boats.

My old friend Castagno, with a party of the
Free Corps, formed the guard at the citadel
gate; I was immediately recognized, and
consigning the happy Francesca to his care, beat
up the quarters of Macleod: I found him
comfortably carousing with Drumlugas and some
of his officers, who were passing a portly jar
of gioja round the table with great celerity.
When the curiosity and laughter occasioned
by my attire had subsided, and when the
general's order had been read, I related my
adventures; passing over the visits to the
vaults, and the discovery of Francesca D'Alfieri.

An hour before gun-fire the Buffs were
all on board the frigate: her ample canvas
was spread to the breezes of the Adriatic,
and by sunrise we saw her vanish round the
promontory of Lacinium.  The Cavaliere
Benedetto, with four hundred rank and file of the
Free Corps, was left to hold Crotona; while,
by Macleod's order, I took command of a
company of those troops which the *Amphion*
could not accommodate: that evening, bidding
adieu to brave Castagno (whom I never saw
again), we marched *en route* for St. Eufemio,
where I was to see them safely embarked for Messina.

Thanks to Macleod and his officers, my
attire had now become a little more
professional: one gave me a regimental jacket,
another a tartan forage-cap, a third a sash, and
Drumlugas presented me with a very handsome
sabre; of which he had deprived the Swiss
colonel whom he vanquished at Maida.  In
this motley uniform, I rode at the head of the
Free Company; which formed a very respectable
escort for Francesca and her sister, who
accompanied us: both were mounted on fiery-eyed
Calabrian horses, a breed famous for their
strength and endurance.  While so many
bayonets glittered around them, the ladies
had no fear of banditti; Ortensia laughing
merrily, made her horse curvet and prance,
and lent her soft melodious voice to the jovial
chorus with which the Italian soldiers lightened
the toil of their morning march.  But Francesca
was reserved; and beneath her veil I
often saw tears suffusing her mild and melancholy eyes.

"Dear Francesca, why are you so sad?" asked
her sister; "O, now is the time for joy!  See
how brightly the sun shines on the distant sea,
and how merrily the green woods are waving
in the breeze.  Most unkind, Francesca! for
your sake, I have left my poor Benedetto in
that gloomy castle of Crotona.  Laugh and be
joyous.  Think on the happiness awaiting us
at home, and the embrace of our dear little
Bianca, when she throws her arms around you."

"And Luigi," added Francesca, unable to
restrain her tears.

The path we pursued was different from that
which I had travelled before, and the intense
solitude around it was almost oppressive.  We
were marching through a dense forest, where
not a sound broke its stillness, save the cry of
a solitary lynx or the flap of an eagle's wing,
as he soared to his eyrie in the sandstone cliffs
which reared their rugged front above the
woodlands.  White wreaths of distant smoke
shot up in vapoury columns through the green
foliage, announcing that the wild contained
other human beings than ourselves; but
whether these were poor charcoal-burners, or
robbers roasting a fat buck on the green sward,
we knew not.  We passed one or two lonely
cottages, where the labouring hinds were
separating grain from its husks, by the ancient
modes—trampling the corn under the hoofs of
cattle, or rolling over it a large stone drawn
by a team of stout buffaloes.

Calabria was then (and perhaps is yet)
widely different from every other part of Italy:
its peculiar situation, its lofty mountains, its
dense forests spreading from sea to sea and
intersected by few roads, and its hordes of
banditti, made it dangerous and difficult of
access to the artist and tourist; consequently,
until the close of Manhes' campaign of
blood, it was an unknown territory to the
rest of Europe.  These circumstances
rendered the natives rude in character and
revengeful in spirit; and thus a mighty
barrier rose between the lower orders and the
noblesse: who (in the words of a recent writer
on Italy) "live wholly apart from the
people—they compose two entirely distinct worlds."

After halting in forests during the sultry
noon, cantoning in villages, and marching in
the cool morning and evening for two days, we
arrived near Amato, a little town within a few
leagues of the Villa D'Alfieri.  We were
traversing a deep pass of the Apennines, when
the evening, which had been serene and fine,
became clouded: the lowering sky portended
a coming tempest.  We pushed on, at an
increased pace, to reach a castellated villa, the
residence of a Calabrian of rank, which we
saw perched on an isolated mass of rock, about
a league up the mountains.  Striking and
picturesque appeared the Vale of Amato, as the
setting sun poured its last blaze of radiance
down the deep gorge between the dark wooded
hills, gilding the crenellated battlements,
Saracenic galleries and Norman keep of the distant
castle; and reflected in the river, which glowed
like a stream of molten gold between thickets
of sombre cypress and fragrant orange-trees.
Gradually, the hue of the setting orb changed
from bright saffron to deep red; and a flood
of crimson lustre fell over everything, tinging
the lofty hills, the thick woods, the glassy
river with a blood-red tint, which rapidly
became more sombre as the sun disappeared
behind the pine-clad hills.  Then thunder
rumbled through the darkening sky; gloomy
banks of cloud came scudding across it, and
volumes of vapour rolled away from the bed
of the Amato.

"On, on!" cried Francesca; "O, the storm
will be a terrible one: feel you not the very
blast of the sirrocco?  Alas! we may die among
the mountains.  Yonder is the residence of
Guelfo the Buonapartist—ah! the subtle
knave!  If we trust ourselves under his roof,
say not a word of Luigi, and mention not our
names.  Ah! if he should recognise us: you
remember that terrible night with the
conciarotti and the mob of Palermo."

They pushed forward at a gallop, and I
followed; after leaving orders with old Signor
Gismondo, who—as I ought to have
mentioned before—was captain of the Free
Company, to continue his route double-quick to
Amato, where we would rejoin him by
daybreak next day.  Gismondo was now grave,
reserved, and melancholy in the extreme: but
I was much pleased at renewing my acquaintance
with him.  Poor man! it was fated to be
of short duration.  We had scarcely separated
before the lightning gleamed between the
splintered rocks of the pass; the air became
sulphurous, close, and dense; in five minutes
it was dark; we saw the luminous glow-worms
sparkling amid the dewy grass beneath
the shady foliage, while ever and anon the red
lightning shot from peak to peak, illuminating
the scenery with its lurid glare.  After
scrambling up a steep ascent, the face of which was
scarped and defended by four pieces of *French*
cannon, we reached the gate of this Neapolitan
lord; whom I had no wish to meet again,
as his bad political bias had gained him an
unfavourable name in Calabria.  Numerous
towers and curtain walls of red stone
surrounded the building; few windows were
visible outwardly, and those were far from
the ground and well barred with time-worn
stancheons.

Passing through a gate surmounted by a
wolf's head cabossed on a shield, and
surrounded by the collar of shells, with the
crescent and ship of the Knights' Argonauts
of San Nicolo, we dismounted in the courtyard.

"Alas! for poor Gismondo and his soldiers!"
exclaimed Francesca, as the gates
were closed; and the descending storm burst
forth in all its fury.





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.. _`CASTELGUELFO.—THE WOLF OF AMATO`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


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   CASTELGUELFO—THE WOLF OF AMATO.

.. vspace:: 2

By the barone, a short and meagre little man
of a most forbidding aspect, we were received
with all due honour and courtesy, and without
being recognised; but his residence was so
full of armed men, that it could scarcely afford
us accommodation, ample though its towers
and corridors seemed to be.

"These are Lucchesi, the most hideous
provincials of Italy; those wanderers who
spread over all Europe with organs and
monkeys," whispered Ortensia, as we passed
through the court, which was crowded with
the most savage-looking fellows imaginable.
Many were half naked, or clad only in the
skins of sheep and lynxes, beneath which
might be seen the remains of a ragged shirt,
a tattered vest, or breeches, once red or yellow;
their legs and feet were bare; some had old
battered hats, or red slouched caps: but the
greater number had only their shock heads of
hair, bleached by the weather till it was coarse
as a charger's mane, and overhanging their
gaunt ferocious visages, grim with starvation and
misery: which ever accompanied French invasion.
A few wore the gallant bandit costume
of the south, and all were carousing, and
filling the hollow towers, the dark arcades,
and echoing corridors with bursts of brutal
laughter to lighten their work: for all were
busy, polishing rifle and pistol locks, and
grinding the blades of sabres, poniards, and
pikes.  My fair companions shrank with
dismay from the hall windows when they viewed
the assemblage below, and even I did not feel
quite at ease; especially after seeing about
two hundred stand of *French* arms and
accoutrements ranged along the vestibule.

"Signor Barone, you keep a strong garrison
here," said I, smiling, while we surveyed
the motley crew of ruffians from a lofty oriel;
"do you expect Massena to pass the Amato soon?"

"That would be superb!" replied he, with
a grin, which revealed his ample and wolfish
jaws.  "No, no, 't is only my good friend
Scarolla, the valiant captain of four hundred
free companions, who is here with his band: we
are bound on a little piece of service together.
Ha! ha! if that fool Belcastro had not
poisoned himself instead of the Maltese
Knight, he would have been here too."

At that moment Scarolla approached: I
attentively surveyed the celebrated bandit-chief,
whose name, in the annals of Italian ferocity,
stands second only to that of Mammone, "the
blood-quaffer."  He was above six feet high,
and moulded like a Hercules; dark as that of
a Negro, his mean visage announced him a
Lucchese; long black hair hung down his
back, and a thick beard fringed his chin.
The band of his ample beaver, his velvet
jacket and mantello were covered with the
richest embroidery, and a silver hilted poniard
glittered in his waist-belt.  His brows were
knit and lowering, his eyes keen and sinister:
the ladies trembled beneath the bold scrutiny
of his glance, and shrank close to my side for
protection while the withered little barone
introduced us.

"Signor Inglese, the valiant Capitano
Scarolla; brave men ought to know each other:
you are both captains, remember."

"Serving under different leaders," I replied,
while bowing, and repressing a scornful smile.

"Superba!" cried the little barone, laughing
and rubbing his hands; but Scarolla's brows
knit closer, and his eyes kindled at my
inuendo.

The hall was now lighted by several tall
candelabra; their lustre was reflected from
the gilded columns and pendants of the lofty
roof, and the frames of dark, gloomy, and
mysterious portraits of the ancient Guelfi;
who seemed scowling from their pannels on
their degenerate descendant and his unworthy
confederate.

That ancient apartment, when viewed as I
beheld it, one-half bathed in warm light, and
the other sunk in cold shadow, seemed the
very scene of a romance; to which the graceful
figures of the Signora del Castagno and her
sister, and the picturesque garb of the tall
Scarolla gave additional effect.  Now were
appropriate sounds wanting; for a storm raged in
the valley below, thunder growled in the
mountains above, and the rain rushed like hail on
the casements; the painted traceries of which
were often lit by fitful gleams of the moon or
the blue forked lightning, as it shot from hill to hill.

Uneasy in the presence of Scarolla, the
ladies, after a slight refreshment, withdrew to
repose; promising to be up with the lark for
our journey to-morrow.

When travelling, or on active service, one
is compelled to accommodate oneself to every
kind of society, place, and circumstance; and
upon this philosophical principle, I made
myself quite at home, and supped merrily with
the barone and bandit: of whom the servants
stood in the greatest awe.  Supper over,
wine was produced: however abstemious the
Italians may be, I saw no sign of the national
trait that night, at Castelguelfo; where we
drank the richest continental wines, emptying
the decanters in rapid succession, as if we had
been three Germans drinking for a wager.

Rendered mellow by his potations, our host
became talkative; and, in spite of the nods and
contemptuous frowns of the impatient Scarolla,
informed me that he was collecting men to
make a political demonstration, of which I
should soon hear at Palermo—an attack on a
powerful feudatory, with whom he had a
deadly quarrel, which the presence of our army
only smothered for a time.

"It will be superb," grinned the barone.
"I hate him with the stern bitterness of a
thorough old Calabrese.  Thrice has he
crossed me at court: he caused Ferdinand to
regard me with coldness and jealousy, and
when all the nobles of the province received
the order of San Constantino, I alone was
left undecorated; and my name, the oldest in
Naples, was forgotten.  We have now the
country to ourselves; and taking advantage of
the lull, all Italy, from Scylla to the Alps,
shall ring with my retribution.  Yesterday,
Crotona was abandoned to the Calabri; the
soldiers who fought and won at Maida have
all withdrawn, and there is no one to mar my
revenge.  O, it will be signal!  In their king's
service, the followers of my foe are all in
garrison at Reggio; and his residence is
unprotected.  I have a hundred sbirri well mounted,
armed and faithful; Scarolla has four hundred
of the bravest rogues that ever levelled a
rifle.  Superba!  Loyal visconte, beware the
fangs of the Wolf!  Per Baccho! there shall
be a modern feud between the Guelfi and
Alfieri, famous as that they had of old—ha! ha!"

"The Villa D'Alfieri is then the point of
attack," said I.

"Superba!" screamed the little barone, who
was becoming more inebriated: "yes; I will
clothe its walls in flames; and if blood can
quench them, then so shall they be quenched.
Yea, in blood, shed where my ancestor's yet
cries for vengeance.  Viva Guesippe Buonaparte!"

"One alone shall be spared, excellency;"
remarked Scarolla, who was also becoming
excited.

"So I have promised you, prince of rogues,
as the price of your services.  The plunder of
the villa belongs to your followers; and to you
falls that glorious prize, the theme of our
improvisatori, the pride of the Calabrias——"

"Bianca D'Alfieri!" added Scarolla, his
eyes lighting with insolent triumph.

"Superb! is she not?" laughed the barone.

"God curse you both," I muttered;
instinctively feeling for my sabre, and gulping
down my wine, to hide the passion that boiled
within me.  I thanked Heaven that they knew
not of Gismondo and his company; by whom I
hoped the villa would be saved from this
revengeful rebel.

"When does the attack take place, signor?"

"To-morrow, at midnight.  We will burn
a light at St. Eufemio that will astonish the
good citizens of Messina, and scare Fata
Morgana in her ocean palace.  You are on your
way to Palermo?"

I bowed.

"Say, when you get there, that Castelguelfo
is in league with Regnier, has burned the
grand bailiff, and hoisted the standard of
Guiseppe of Naples: cospetto! the cross of the
iron crown will outweigh the star of Constantine!"

"Success to the expedition, signori," said I,
drinking to conceal my anger and confusion.
"Faith! this is quite a revival of that ancient
feud, of which the improvisatori sing so
much."

"And long will they sing of the diabolical
treachery of the Alfieri."

"Signor, I would gladly hear the relation."

"You shall, in a few words.  You have
heard of the famous fighting Dominican
Campanella, who, in 1590, raised the banner of
revolt in the Calabrias: my ancestor, Barone
Amadeo, disgusted by Spanish misrule, joined
him with three hundred men-at-arms; but
these were all defeated and slaughtered by
the followers of the then Visconte Santugo,
on the same field of Maida where you so lately
vanquished Regnier.  Then commenced the
quarrel between the Guelfi and the Alfieri;
which, though we never came to blows, has
survived for two centuries, and has settled
down into coldness, mistrust, and jealousy,
intriguing at court and petty squabbling at
home.  We are old-fashioned people here;
but France holds out civilization and
regeneration to us.  Well, Messer Amadeo was
defeated, and Santugo gave his castle to the
flames, so that the Wolf of Amato might have
nowhere to lay his head.  An outcast, deserted
by his followers and abandoned by all, he
wandered long in the wild forest of St. Eufemio,
until, reduced to the last extremities
of hunger and despair, he resolved to throw
himself upon the generosity of his triumphant
enemy; and knocking at the gate of the castle
of Santugo, craved the insolent porter to
admit him to the visconte's presence.  He was
absent, fighting against Campanella; but
Theodelinde of Bova, his young wife, resided at the
castle during his campaign.

"Gaunt, from long continued misery, overgrown
with a mass of beard and hair—clad
in the skins of his namesake the wolf instead
of the knightly Milan steel, and grasping a
knotted staff in lieu of the bright-bladed
falchion of Ferrara—Messer Amadeo had more
the aspect of an ancient satyr than a
Neapolitan cavalier.

"'Madonna mia!" cried Theodelinde, with
dismay, 'Who art thou?'

"'Signora, thou beholdest Guelfo, the
persecuted lord of Amato, who is come to cast
himself at thy feet.  My territories spread
from the Tyrrhene to the Adriatic Sea; they
have passed away, my people are destroyed,
my castle is ruined, and I have nowhere to
lay my head, save in the grave.  Though thy
husband's foe, take pity upon me, gentle
signora!  I am perishing with want; for the
ban of God and the king are upon me, and
no man dares to give me a morsel of bread
or a cup of water.'

"Gentle in spirit, and milder in blood than
our Italian dames, Theodelinde came of an
old Albanian race; and, moved with pity,
wept to behold a warrior of such high courage
and birth reduced to such exceeding misery.
Enjoining her maidens to secrecy, she
provided him with food and raiment, and
concerted means for his escape into Greece.
The unfortunate Amadeo was grateful, and,
touched with her generosity, swore on the
cross that he would forgive the visconte for
all the persecutions to which he had subjected
him.  That night he retired to rest in peace,
beneath the roof of his deadliest enemy.

"Long exhaustion caused a deep slumber
to sink upon his eyelids, and he heard not
the clang of hoofs and the clash of steel
ringing in the wide quadrangle, announcing that
Santugo had returned, flushed with victory
and triumph; his sword reeking with the
blood of the revolters.  Theodelinde rushed
forth to meet her husband, and their meeting
was one of joy: her tears of happiness fell
on the steel corslet of the stern visconte,
and he too rejoiced; for the Spanish king had
promised to bestow upon him all the possessions
of Amadeo, if before the festival of the
Annunciation, which was but three days
distant, he placed the Wolf's head on the high
altar of St. Eufemio.

"The gentle viscontessa knew not of this
bloody compact; but presuming on the joy and
tenderness displayed by her husband, and
shrinking from aught that resembled duplicity,
she led him to the chamber of Amadeo.  He
was reposing on a stately couch, and fitfully
the beams of the night-lamp fell on his pale
forehead and noble features.  He started,
awoke, and saw—what?  Theodelinde by his
bed-side, with her stern husband clad in
complete armour.  Santugo, his barred visor up,
regarded him with a lowering visage; while
he grasped a heavy zagaglia, such as our
estradiots used of old, and which glittered
deadly like the eyes of him who held it.  Then
Theodelinde knew, by the glare of that terrible
eye, that Amadeo was lost, and she sank
upon her knees.

"'Oh, pity him and spare him for my sake:
spare him if you love me, my husband.'

"But the ruthless Alfieri heard her not—saw
her not: he beheld only the aggrandisement
of his power, and hearkened only to
the whisperings of avarice and enmity.
Amadeo leaped up; but his foe was too swift for
him.  Hurled with equal force and dexterity, the
zagaglia flew hissing from Santugo's hand, and
its broad barbed head cleft the skull, and
lay quivering in the brain of Amadeo.
Theodelinde sank down on the floor in horror; while
the visconte cut off the head with his poniard,
and knitting the locks to his baldrick,
galloped to the church of St. Eufemio, where
he flung the gory trophy on the altar.  The
ghastly skull remained there on a carved stone
bracket, for half a century; until the cathedral
of St. Eufemio was destroyed, on the
anniversary of the deed, by the earthquake of
1638.  Those who viewed its fall beheld a
spectacle which was beyond description
terrible!  The earth yawned, and the stately
church with its three tall taper spires; its
pinnacles, rich with gothic carving; its windows,
sparkling with light and gorgeous with tracery;
its massive battlements and echoing aisles, sank
slowly into the flaming abyss,—down, down,
until the gilded cross on the tallest pinnacle
vanished.  Convents, stately palaces, and
streets sank down with it, and where
St. Eufemio stood, there lay a vast black fetid
lake, rolling its dark sulphurous waves in the
light of the summer moon.  Ho! ho! what
a tomb for the skull of the Wolf!

"The Guelfi were landless outcasts, until,
by the treaty of Utrecht, in 1713, Naples
passed away from Spanish domination; and
under Charles of Parma, my father recovered
the old possessions of our house: now, in
imitation of Amadeo, I am ready for revolt;
and, with every chance of success, to-morrow
shall unroll the banner of Joseph of Naples,
whom Madonna bless!  To-morrow, let the
Alfieri and loyalists beware!  I will not spare
even the linnet in the cage, or the dog that
sleeps on the hearth.  Drink, Scarolla, to the
Signora Bianca; who by to-morrow eve will
be hailed as thy gay capitanessa!"

But Scarolla heard him not: his head had
fallen forward on his breast, and long ere the
host's story was concluded, he was snoring
with the force of a trombone.





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.. _`HAPPINESS`:

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   CHAPTER V.


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   HAPPINESS.

.. vspace:: 2

By daybreak next morning we were clear of the
castello; for we quitted its walls while its
ruffian inmates were buried in slumber.  I was
happy when the ladies were mounted, and
once more on the road; having been under
considerable apprehension for their safety:
dreading, perhaps, our detention as royalist
prisoners in the barone's residence.

"A rough night the last for a march,
signor," said I to Captain Gismondo, whom
we found parading the Calabri in the street of
Amato.

"A tempest, signor! the blue glare of the
lightning alone revealed to us that foaming
river which we forded, the water rising to our
waist-belts; and the rain that rushed down
from heaven was every drop large enough to
beat in our drumheads."

Ordering the company to march by a solitary
and long forgotten road, towards St. Eufemio,
I informed Gismondo and my fair charge
of the diabolical plan laid by the barone and
his revolters to destroy the villa, and assign the
innocent Bianca to the wretch Scarolla as the
price of his co-operation.  Her sisters shrieked
with terror, and old Battista gave me a stern
smile while laying his hand on his sword.

"I know a path across the mountains,
signor; I travelled it once to Monteleone: my
little daughter was with me then;" he sighed
deeply.  "By Ave Maria this evening our
good friends the Alfieri will have a hundred and
fifty bayonets at their disposal.  Compagna! threes
right, quick march!" and we moved
off with rapidity.

Marching by the most retired roads, we
made a circuit among the mountains to deceive
the barone, if any of his scouts should have
followed us.  The evening sun was casting
the long shadows of the lofty hills of Nicastro
across the woods and valleys of St. Eufemio,
the waters of the bay were rolling in their
usual varied tints of sparkling blue, and the
eve was so calm and still, that the dash of the
lonely breakers, as they flowed on the sandy
beach, was heard many miles from the shore;
mingling with the solemn hymn of the Sicilian
mariners, and the crews of those picturesque
feluccas which spread their striped latteen sails
to the breezes of the strait.

Leaving Gismondo with his company to follow,
I pushed on with the ladies at full gallop
towards the villa: they were both expert
horsewomen, and quite outstripped me, as we
flew along the sandy marino.  Their merry
laughter and taunting cries of "Fi! fi!  Signor
Capitano," were very galling to me; for I
was considered the best horseman (except
Lascelles) on the Sicilian staff, and had twice
won the regimental and brigade cup at the
Palermitan races.

"On my honour! ladies, if I held the reins
of my brave English grey instead of those of
a chubby Calabrian horse, you would not have
distanced me thus," said I, when they halted
to let me come up with them.

The battery erected by the soldiers of Sir
Louis de Watteville was now abandoned and
demolished; the cannon were away, and the
platforms overgrown with luxuriant grass.
How stirringly my time had passed since the
morning when our army landed on the beach
close by!

The moment we rode into the quadrangle
of the villa, the clattering hoofs roused the
whole household, as the blast of a trumpet
would have done.  To be brief: great was the
joy diffused by our arrival.  We disturbed the
old viscontessa from cards, with which she
was rapidly gaining from old Adriano all the
ducats she had paid at confessional an hour
before for peccadilloes.  The young visconte,
pale and worn with long illness of mind and
body, received the trembling Francesca to his
arms as if she had been restored to him from
the tomb.  The Italians are peculiarly
exciteable, and his transports were wild in the
extreme.  He had expected to behold his bride
no more; and now she was hanging on his
bosom, free, happy, and more beautiful than
ever.  As I had long foreseen, he placed in my
hand that of his blushing cousin, Bianca; while
the venerable viscontessa wept and prayed
with joy, scattered a handful of cards and
counters over us, in her confusion, and
embraced us by turns.  The whole household,
male and female, from Andronicus the
chasseur to the little ragazzo who turned the
spits, joined in a general chorus of joy; they
commenced the furious tarantella in the
quadrangle, and the whole mansion rang with shouts:
which were soon to be changed for those of a
less agreeable nature.

Around the white neck of Bianca, I threw
the riband with the gold medal presented to
me by Cardinal York, whose kindness had
restored Francesca to light and life; and the
sweet girl kissed it, promising to treasure it
for his sake and mine.  She appeared so
beautiful, so blooming and happy, as she hung
upon my shoulder in the recess of a lofty
window, with the light of the western sky
streaming on her bright curls and glittering dress;
and Santugo seemed so much absorbed in the
presence of her sister, who was seated between
him and his mother, with a hand clasped
fondly by each; that I was loath to disturb the
happy group and blight their general joy, by
speaking of Guelfo: but the appearance of
Gismondo's company marching along the
marino, and the advanced hour of the evening,
made it imperative that arrangements should
be made for fighting or flying.  All changed
colour when I mentioned Castelguelfo:
Santugo's brow grew black, and his mother burst into tears.

"O, Luigi! to remain would be madness,
when Giacomo and all our people are serving
as soldiers at Reggio!" she exclaimed.

"It ill beseems you, signora, to counsel me
to my dishonour;" replied the fierce young
man, with singular hauteur, while his lip
quivered and his dark eyes shone with fire.
"Like all the family of Amato, Dionisio is a
coward at heart, and a rebel Buonapartist;
and shall I, who am esteemed among the
bravest and most patriotic of our noblesse, fly
before a base leaguer with banditti?  Never!
With Gismondo's Calabri, and the armed men
I can collect on an hour's notice, to the last
will I defend my father-house; fighting from
chamber to chamber and story to story, and
die rather than yield, even should Guelfo
involve the whole fabric in flames and destruction."

"Ammirando!" exclaimed Gismondo, entering,
"you speak as I expected to hear the son
of my old comrade; whose honours you will
never tarnish.  Courage, ladies!  One hundred
and fifty bayonets are here, under my orders;
and with Madonna's blessing, and our own
hands, the Wolf may fall into as great a snare
as old Amadeo did in the days of poor Campanella."

The viscontessa shuddered: but her son
took down his sword from the wall.

"Dundas," said he; "to you, who are a
soldier of greater experience than any here (not
even excepting our old guerilla, Gismondo),
I look principally for advice during this
night's uproar.  Come, signor, leave Bianca,
and loosen your sabre in its sheath.  Ladies,
away to your mandolins and embroidery, or
to ave and credo; your presence alone
unmans me.  Ola, Zaccheo! where the devil is
my old courier tarrying now?  Bolt and
barricade every door and window, and muster and
arm the valets.  Even the little ragazzo must
handle a musket to-night."

"Had we not better send a horseman to the
Royal Reggitore of Nicastro for aid?"

"An insolent Sicilian dog!" replied Santugo.
"No, no; we must trust to Heaven and
our own bravery."

Land and ocean had grown dark, or
what is deemed so in fair Ausonia.  The
bright stars studding the whole firmament,
and the pale silver moon rising over the dark
green ridges of the wooded hills, shed their
mystic light on cape and bay over Amato's
frowning rocks and flowing river; illuminating
the tall round tower, the broad façade, and
many arcades of the Villa D'Alfieri, and
bathing in silver the orange woods around it.

Before the hour of the projected attack, we
had all prepared for defence; and our arrangements
had been made for a vigorous one: every
door, window, and aperture were strongly
barred and barricaded; piles of furniture,
statues, cushions, ottomans, massive tomes
from the library, and everything suitable, were
pressed into the service; forming barriers in
the passages and on stair-landings, in case of
an assault.  Ere midnight tolled from the
sonorous old clock in the quadrangle, all the
ladies and their attendants were stowed away
in the attic story, and one hundred and
eighty men were stationed at the different
posts assigned them below.  Gismondo
commanded one wing of the mansion; his
lieutenant and Alfiero, two cavaliers of the House
of Bisignano, the other; while Santugo and
myself occupied the centre.

The soldiers were so well posted, that the
different approaches to the villa were
completely enfiladed; while that by the quadrangle
would be exposed to a deadly cross fire
from fifty windows.  In this order we awaited
the revolters.

On making my rounds, to see that all were
on the alert, I visited the ladies; who, in the
attic story of the old round tower, were quite
secure from musketry.  The old viscontessa
was on her knees praying: she had
relinquished her cards for "The Litanies of our
Blessed Lady;" and a crowd of female domestics
knelt around her.  Bianca and her sisters
were clustered together, with arms entwined,
like three beautiful graces; but looking pale
and terrified: awaiting the strife with beating
hearts and eyes suffused with tears.

"Dearest Claude!" said she whose gentle
voice I loved best, "for God's sake!  O, for my
sake! do not expose yourself heedlessly to
danger."

"Courage, dear one," said I, putting an
arm playfully round her; "we must all fight
like the Trojans of old.  Think of what will
be the fate of us all—of yourself in particular—if
Guelfo and his ruffian compeers capture the
villa to-night.  If I can put a bullet into the
head of this new suitor, Scarolla—Tush,
Bianca! ridiculous, is it not?"  She made a
sickly attempt to smile, but bowed her head
on my shoulder and wept.  I heard Santugo
and his chasseur uttering my name, and calling
aloud through various parts of the mansion;
but I was too agreeably occupied to attend to
them just then.

"Allerta!" cried Gismondo; and knowing
the military warning, I hurried away to the
scene of action.

"See you the rascals, signor?" said he,
pointing from a barricaded window, to a
dark mass moving along the distant roadway,
and rapidly debouching into the lawn.  They
marched in the full glare of the moonlight,
and the gleam of steel flashed incessantly from
the shapeless column.  They carried two
standards, and one was a tri-color.

"Some of those Jacobin dogs are the iron
miners of Stilo: they have long been stubborn
traitors," said Santugo, in accents of rage.

"And bold Scarolla, so long the scourge of
Frenchmen, why leagues he with villains such
as these?"

"You forgot, signor," replied the young
lord, with a grim smile, "that he is either to
gain a noble bride, or an ounce bullet to-night."





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.. _`THE VILLA BESIEGED`:

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   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE VILLA BESIEGED.

.. vspace:: 2

"Trombadore, sound the alert!" cried I to
the little Calabrian trumpeter.  The sharp
blare of his brass instrument awoke every
echo of the great villa; there was a clatter of
accoutrements, a clashing of bayonets and
buckles, a hum, and all became still as the grave.
We now heard the tread of the advancing
force, which divided into two bodies; one to
assault the house in front, the other in flank.
A red light shot up between the trees of the
avenue, as an earnest of what was to ensue:
the gate lodge had been given to the flames.

A steep sloping terrace, enclosed by a high
balustrade, encircled the whole villa: six iron
wickets, leading to the lawn and garden, had
been well secured, and this outer defence
formed our first barrier against the foe; who
advanced within a few yards of it, before I
ordered the trumpeter to sound again.  At
the first note, a volley, which the assailants
little expected, was poured upon them, throwing
them into the utmost confusion, and driving
them back with slaughter.  They replied with
promptitude, and poor old Gismondo fell dead
by my side.  My blood now got heated in
earnest!

"Bravissimo soldateria!" I cried to the
Free Calabri, while brandishing my sabre and
hurrying from post to post to animate their
resistance: "level low, and fire where they are
thickest!" The roar of the musketry stirred
all the echoes of the vast resounding building:
its long corridors, lofty saloons, and domed
ceilings, gave back the reports with redoubled
force; every place was filled with smoke,
without and within; every window and aperture
was streaked with fire, bristling with bright
steel bayonets, and swarming with dark fierce
visages.

Our fire made frightful havoc among the
revolters; who numbered above a thousand,
all keen for plunder, infuriated by unexpected
opposition, and maddened by wine drank in
the various houses and cellars they had
pillaged on their march: their yells were like
those of wild beasts or savages.

The sbirri, or feudal gens-d'armes who
wore the barone's livery, were lost among
the dense rabble of barefooted miners from
Stilo, grim charcoal-burners, and Scarolla's
squalid banditti.  A revolting array of hideous
faces I beheld moving beneath me in the
moonlight; distorted by every malignant and
evil passion, and flushed with wine, fury, and
inborn ferocity.  In the blaze of their
brandished torches, glittered weapons of every
description, from the pike twelve feet long,
to the short spadetto and knife of Bastia.
Onward they rushed, a mighty mass of ferocity
and filth; and again they were repulsed,
leaving the quadrangle strewn with killed and
wounded.

"Viva Giuseppe! superba!" cried a shrill
quavering voice: it was that of the barone,
whom we now saw heading a third attack
in person; whilst a strong party, making a
lodgment under the portico, assailed the
grand entrance with crowbars and levers.
The colonnade protected them from our fire,
and the massive frame-work of the door was
fast yielding to the blows of pickaxes and
hammers with which the strong-armed miners
assailed it; whilst their courage increased, as
the barrier gradually gave way before their
strenuous efforts.  At last a tremendous shout
announced that an aperture was made; upon
which I ordered the barricades of the vestibule
to be strengthened, and lined by a double
rank of soldiers, entrusting their command to
the young Alfiero Caraffa.

The fire of the besiegers had now reduced
our force to about eighty effective men; and
my anxiety for the safety of the villa and its
inmates increased with the wounds and deaths
around me.  The whole terrace on the land-side
was lined with marksmen, who knelt behind
the stone balusters, and fired between them
with deadly precision at the large upper
windows; through which the white uniforms and
gay trappings of the Royal Calabrians were
distinctly visible in the moonlight.  I dreaded
the continuation of this deadly fire more than
a close assault; and to increase my anxiety,
Andronicus, who acted as our commissary,
came with a most lugubrious visage to inform
me that the ammunition was becoming expended,
and that the pouches of the Free Calabri
were almost empty.

"God! we are lost then!" I exclaimed:
this information fell upon me like a thunderbolt.
I hurried to Santugo, whom I found
kneeling, rifle in hand, before a narrow
loophole, endeavouring to discover the little
barone, the main-spring of this revolt; whom
it was no easy task to perceive, among such a
rabble, although we heard his croaking voice
and chuckling laugh every moment.

"Superba! viva Giuseppe Buonaparte! *viva
la Capitanessa Scarolla*!"  The banditti answered
by a yell of delight.  "On, on brave rogues;"
he added, "we will have two pieces of cannon
here in an hour."

"Cannon!" I reiterated, and exchanged
glances with Santugo.  We were both
astounded by the intelligence.

"O, Claude!" said my friend, "I tremble
only for my mother, for Francesca and her
sisters.  For myself, per Baccho! you know
I would fight, without a tremor, till roof and
rafters, column and cupola, fell in ruins above
me.  Is all lost, then?'

"No," said I, speaking through my hand;
for the noise of the conflict was deafening;
"we may save the villa yet, and all its inmates:
but a bold dash must be made.  Look yonder! what
see you?"

"I understand—the task is mine."

"Mine, rather."

"No, no, Signor Claude, I have Francesca
at stake."

"And I, Bianca—we are equal."

"I care not.  Ola, Andronicus! saddle my
cavallo Barbero, and look well to girth and
holster—quick, away, Signor Greco!"

What we saw was the British fleet, consisting
of a gigantic ship of the line and three or four
frigates and corvettes, standing slowly down
the Straits of the Pharo, and keeping close in
shore; attracted, probably, by the sound of the
firing.  I knew the flag-ship of Sir Sidney
Smith, by its old-fashioned poop-lantern; and
my project was to despatch a messenger on
board, craving help.  But how could one leave
the villa? it was environed on one side by surf
and steep rocks, shelving down to a whirlpool;
on the other by fierce assailants who were
merciless as the yawning sea.

Desperate was the venture: but that it must
be attempted, we knew was imperative.  A
friendly contest ensued between us and the
two Cavalieri Caraffa; each insisting on being
the executor of the dangerous service.  We
contested the point so long, that it was at last
referred to a throw of dice: the lot fell on
Luigi; who prepared at once for the deadly
mission, by divesting himself of his mantle,
buttoning his short velvet surtout closely about
him, and taking in three holes of his sword
belt; while I hurriedly indited the following
note to the admiral.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class: noindent white-space-pre-liine

"VILLA D'ALFIERI.
*Sept.* 20*th*, 1808.

.. vspace:: 1

"Sir,

.. vspace:: 1

"I have the honour to request that you will
order as strong a detachment of seamen or
marines as you may deem necessary, to be
landed at the villa of the Alfieri, which is
closely besieged by the Baron of Castelguelfo,
a Buonapartist, who is now at the head of a
numerous force of Italian rebels.  To protect
the loyal family of the bearer, the Visconte di
Santugo, I placed in the villa a company of
the Free Corps, and have already to regret
the loss of Captain Battista Gismondo, and
nearly sixty rank and file.  Our case is
desperate.  The villa will not be tenable one
hour longer, as the barone (whom Regnier has
supplied with all munition of war) is bringing
two pieces of cannon against it, and our
cartridges are totally expended.  I have the
honour, &c. &c.

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"CLAUDE DUNDAS,
Capt. 62d Regt."

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

Admiral Sir SIDNEY SMITH,
H.M. ship *Pompey*.

.. vspace:: 2

According to the fashion of many large
Italian houses, the stables formed a part of
the principal building; and so in the present
emergency it was lucky that the horses were
at hand.  Santugo's black Barbary horse,
with its red quivering nostrils, eyes sparkling
fire, and its mane bristling at the noise of the
musketry, was led by the Greek chasseur
through a long corridor to a saloon which
overlooked the grottoes by the sea-shore.  The
saddled steed was an unusual visitor in that
noble apartment; where statues, vases,
pictures, and sofas, were piled up in confusion to
form barricades before six tall windows which
faced the straits.  One was open, revealing the
bright sky, the sparkling sea, Sicilia's coast
and the sailing fleet; while ten Calabri, with
their bayonets at the charge, stood by to guard
the aperture.

The brave young noble mounted, and stooping
as he passed out, guided his horse along a
ledge of slippery rock, and the casement was
immediately secured behind him.  We watched
him with equal anxiety and admiration, as he
rode along the perilous path, where one false
step of the Barbary would have plunged him
in the whirlpool, which roared and sucked in
the foaming eddies, beneath the villa walls.
The instant he passed the angle of the building
which was swept by the fire of the assailants,
there burst from them a simultaneous
yell; which was answered by a shout of
reckless defiance from the daring Santugo, who
driving spurs into his fleet horse, compelled it
to clear the high balustraded terrace by a
flying leap.  Then his long sword flashed in
the moonlight as he slashed right and left,
crying—"Viva Carolina!  Ferdinando nostra
e la Santa Fede!" cutting his way through the
yelling mass, escaping bullet and steel as if he
had a charmed life, he passed through them
and was free; and I had no doubt would gain
the village (where the boats lay) safely and
rapidly.

Enraged at his escape, the revolters pressed
on with renewed fury, but changed their mode
of attack.  A cloud now passed over the moon
involving the scenery in comparative darkness;
but it was soon to be illuminated in a manner
I little expected.

There flashed forth a sudden glare of light,
revealing the sea of ferocious visages and
glancing arms of the enemy, the bloody
terrace heaped with dead, the dark arcades,
carved cornices, and lofty portico of the villa:
a lurid glare shone over everything, and a man
advanced to the terrace holding aloft an Indian
sky-rocket; a terrible species of firework often
used by the French.  Its yellow blaze fell full
upon the face of the bearer, in whom I
recognised the villainous engineer, Navarre; I
snatched a musket from the hand of a dead
soldier, but ere it was aimed the traitor had
shot the fiery missile from his hand and
disappeared.

This terrible instrument of eastern warfare
forced itself forward, roaring and blazing
towards the villa, and breaking through a
window, plunged about as if instinct with life,
setting fire to everything inflammatory within
its reach.  From its size and weight, and the
formation of its sides, which were bristling
with spikes, it finally stuck fast to the flooring
of a room; where its power of combustion
increased every instant, and a succession of
reports burst from it as its fire-balls flew off in
every direction.  All fled in dismay, to avoid
being blown up by the sparks falling into their
pouches, scorched to death by remaining in its
vicinity, shot by its bullets, or stabbed by the
spikes; which it shot forth incessantly, like
quills from a "fretful porcupine."

In vain I cried for water: no one heard me;
the diabolical engine bounded, roared, and
hissed like a very devil, involving us in
noisome and suffocating smoke; and in three
minutes the magnificent villa was in flames,
and its defenders paralysed.

"Superba!" cried the barone.  "Viva Guiseppe!"
and the triumphant yells of his enraged
followers redoubled.  I turned to the
Cavalieri Caraffa.

"Gentlemen, keep your soldiers at their
posts to the last," said I, "while I provide
for the retreat of the ladies."

"How, signor?" asked Andronicus; "on
every hand they environ us, save the seaward;
where a whirlpool—O, omnipotente!"

At that moment we heard the report of a
cannon; a round shot passed through the great
door, demolishing in its passage a beautiful
fountain of marble and bronze, and the water flowed
in a torrent over the tessellated pavement,
while musketry was discharged in quick
succession through the breach.  To augment our
distress, the barone's guns had come up; and
the triumphant cries, the ferocity and daring
of the assailants increased as the hot flames
grew apace around us.  Shrieks now burst
from the summit of the round tower:
overwhelmed with anxiety and rage, and faint
with the heat and smoke of the fire-arms and
conflagration, I hurried up the great staircase
to bring away the females, who could not
remain five minutes longer: but where or how I
was to convey them, Heaven only knew!

The moon, which had been obscured for
some time, now shone forth with renewed
lustre; and I saw the sea brightening like a
silver flood, as the last clouds passed away
from the shining orb.  O, sight of joy!  Three
large boats filled with marines and seamen
were at that moment pulled close under the
rocks; to which they had advanced unseen by
the foe.  The headmost had already disappeared
in the sea grottoes; and I heard the
measured clank of the rowlocks, and saw the
oar-blades of the sternmost barge flash like
blue fire as they were feathered in true
man-o'-war style.  The boats shot under the rocks,
like arrows: one moment the glittering moon
poured its cold light on the glazed caps and
bristling bayonets of the closely packed
marines—on the bright pike-heads, the gleaming
cutlasses, and little tarpaulins of the
seamen—and the next, it shone on the lonely
seething ocean.

"Saved, thank Heaven!" I exclaimed, rushing
down the stair.  "Bravo, soldateria! fight
on, brave Calabri, for aid is near.  Hollo,
Zaccheo! throw open the windows to the back,
and bring down the ladies before the fire
reaches the upper stories.  Hollo, signor
trombadore! sound the *rally*, my brave little
man!"

The poor boy was so terrified that his
trumpet-call was only a feeble squeak; but the
survivors of the company, about fifty in
number, rushed from all quarters to the spot.  A
volley of musketry announced that our marines
had opened on the assailants.

"Let us sally out—away with the barricades!"
cried Lieutenant Caraffa; and we
rushed forth with charged bayonets, eager to
revenge the slaughter and devastation of the
night.  The regular fire of a hundred marines
from the terrace—to which Santugo led them
by a secret passage from the grottoes below—threw
the revolters into a panic; and their
discomfiture was completed by a strong
detachment of seamen, headed by Hanfield the
gallant captain of the *Delight*, whom Sir Sidney
had sent in command of the expedition.
Rushing over the lawn with a wild hurrah, they
fell slashing and thrusting with cutlass and
pike among the recoiling rabble of the barone;
who, abandoning their two six-pounder guns,
fled, *en masse*, with rapidity: but fighting every
step of the way towards the mountains, and
firing on us from behind every bush and rock
which afforded momentary concealment.  In
the pursuit I encountered the formidable
Scarolla, who fired both his pistols at me without
effect, as I rushed upon him with my sabre:
clubbing his rifle, he swung it round his head
with a force sufficiently formidable; but
watching an opportunity when he overstruck
himself, I sabred him above the left eye, and beat
him to the ground; when some of his followers
made a rally and carried him off.

"Viva Guiseppe!" cried a well-known voice
close by me; and looking round, I beheld the
little author of all the mischief, struggling in
the grasp of a seaman; whom, by his
embroidered anchors, I recognised as boatswain
of the *Delight*.  He was not much taller than
his antagonist, the barone, but strong and
thickset, with the chest and shoulders of an
ox; an ample sunburnt visage, surmounted by
a little glazed hat, and fringed by a circular
beard of black wiry hair below, his cheek
distended by a quid, and an enormous pig-tail
reaching below his waist-belt, made him seem
a very formidable antagonist to Guelfo; whom,
he had knocked down, and over whom he was
flourishing his heavy cutlass, squirting a little
tobacco-juice into his eyes from time to time.

"Maladetto!" growled the Italian lord, "O,
povero voi, Signor Marinero!"

"Avast, old Gingerbread!  I speak none of
your foreign lingos," replied the boatswain.

Flushed with rage and disappointment, the
barone struggled furiously with his strong
antagonist, who held him at arms' length, in
doubt whether to cleave him down or let him
go; till Zaccheo, the Greek, approached, and,
ere I could interfere, ended the matter, by
driving his couteau-de-chasse through the
heart of Guelfo, who expired without a groan.

By daybreak, the fighting was over.  A
poor little midshipman and several seamen
were killed; a hundred of our mad assailants
lay dead in the quadrangle, and as many
more round the terrace.  In the villa, half its
garrison lay killed or wounded around the
windows, from which the flames and smoke
rolled forth in mighty volumes; many were
roasted or consumed before we could remove
them: poor old Gismondo with the rest.
Hanfield ordered his men to save the villa
from further destruction; but the flames had
gathered such force, that for a time every
effort seemed fruitless.  Assisted by three
boats' crews from the flag-ship, they pulled
down a part of the mansion, and turned the
water of the *jets d'eau* on the rest, to prevent
the fire (which was confined to one wing) from
spreading to the main building.  After an hour
of toil and danger, during which I worked
away in my shirt-sleeves until I was as black
as a charcoal-burner, the flames were
suppressed: but how changed was the aspect of
the once splendid villa!

One portion of the building was roofless
and ruined: its lofty casements shattered, its
corbelled balconies, tall pillars, and rich
Corinthian entablatures, scorched by fire, and
blackened by smoke; the ravaged gardens
and terraces were strewn with corpses, the
halls, saloons, and corridors, encumbered with
the same ghastly objects, splashed with blood,
and filled with confusion and destruction;
pier-glasses, vases, and statues, were dashed
to pieces, hangings and pictures rent and torn.
The quiet library and elegant boudoir rang
with the cries of the wounded, or the reckless
merriment of the sailors, who caroused on the
richest wines.  But Santugo looked around him
with the most perfect *sang froid*.

Twenty prisoners we had captured were sent
over to Palermo, where they expiated their
revolt in the horrible dungeons of the Damusi,—the
most frightful perhaps in the world, where
their bones are probably lying at this hour.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE NUPTIALS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE NUPTIALS.

.. vspace:: 2

When the fight was over, the fire extinguished,
and the dead all interred, I repaired to the
grotto, where the ladies and their attendants
were shivering with terror and the cold air of
the sea, which every instant threw a shower of
sparkling spray into the damp vaults.  A statue
to St. Hugh, before which three dim tapers
were always burning, gave a picturesque aspect
to the natural grotto; and a rill of limpid water,
at which the saint had quenched his thirst,
gurgled from the rocks into a rich font of white
marble.  Around this little shrine the females
were clustered; and a cry burst from them
when I approached in my unseemly garb,
spotted with blood, blackened by powder, smoke,
and toil, and plastered over with clay, as if I
had been dipped in the mud-baths of Abano.

The carriage was brought; the horses of the
ladies were saddled, and they left the half
ruined villa with a strong escort, to take up a
temporary residence at the castle of Angistola,
the property of the Duke of Bagnara, near
Pizzo.  After seeing the remains of the
Calabrian company embarked for Messina in our
gun-boats, I, accompanied by Santugo, followed
the ladies at full gallop; leaving the old
chasseur to act as commandant at the villa.  I
despatched a mounted servant to Scylla, for
some of my baggage; a suit of uniform
especially, as my harness was quite ridiculous in
the gay *salons* of the duchess.

At Angistola, the ladies soon recovered from
their terror and fatigue: the beauty of the
scenery, where the steep Apennines sloped
down to the Gulf of St. Eufemio, covered with
dark pines or orange trees, and the
deep-wooded dell through which the river wound,
seemed gloomy, solemn, and picturesque.  The
Duke of Bagnara held a military command at a
distance; but his fair duchessa, who was one of
the reigning beauties of the Sicilian Court,
received us with every honour and kindness.

A few days after our arrival we had the
castello filled with milliners from Palermo, and
the ladies were constantly clustered in deep
consultation around the duchess in her
boudoir; the visconte was joyous and gay—a fête
was evidently approaching: he was about to
espouse his cousin, with all the splendour that
wealth could yield, and the imposing pomp of
the Catholic Church impart; and (to be brief)
I found myself on the same happy footing with
my dear little Bianca, without the portentous
question having been asked.  It was all quite
understood: we had made no secret of our
mutual attachment, which was revealed by every
gentle word and tender glance.  Our marriage
was the earnest wish of Santugo and the
vicontessa; and as for her principal relative, the
withered little Prince of St. Agata, as the girl
was without a ducat, he cared not a straw who
became her husband.

The day before the auspicious one, old Fra
Adriano came jogging up to the castello on his
ambling mule, in the execution of his office as
family confessor, to confess us all, according to
the Italian custom, before marriage.  To this I
objected, first with a joke, and then gravely;
much to the horror of the reverend friar: he
turned up his eyes, and muttering "ahi! eretico!"
went in search of Bianca, who confessed
to him—Heaven knows what!  So innocent a
being could have nothing to reveal, save her
own happiness and joy.

Adriano had scarcely left me, when I saw a
sergeant, in the welcome and well-known
uniform of my own regiment, ascending the steep
avenue to the castle porch.

"What can be the matter now?" thought I;
and at such a time—the deuce!  "Well, Gask,
what news from the corps, and what has brought
you here?" said I, as he entered the room and
stood straight as his half-pike, which he held
advanced.  "Take a chair, man," I added, with
that kind familiarity with which an officer
ought always to greet a soldier of his own
regiment in a strange place.

"Sir, I have brought a letter from Sir John
Stuart.  Being on my way to join the garrison
at Scylla castle, he sent me over in a gun-boat
from Messina, that I might deliver this; which
he was anxious you should receive without
delay."

I tore open the note.  It ran thus;—

.. vspace:: 2

"*Messina, Tuesday morning*.

.. vspace:: 1

"DEAR DUNDAS,—Join your garrison at
Scylla without a moment's delay: General
Sherbrooke threatens to supersede you, and
order you to join the 'Wiltshire' at Syracuse;
as he understands that you attend more to the
ladies than H.M.'s service.  Massena and
Regnier are concentrating forces in Upper
Calabria; the chiefs of the Masse are
wavering; and you may expect more broken heads
by Christmas.  Adieu!  I start for London
to-morrow.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"I am, &c. &c.,
    "J. STUART, Major-General."

.. vspace:: 2

"So, Gask, you are bound for Scylla?" said
I, glad the note contained only a friendly hint.

"Yes, sir."

"You will go with me, as it is unsafe for you
to travel alone in such a country as this.  I set
out the day after to-morrow."

"I am much obliged to you, sir, for your
forethought.  Do we march by daybreak?"

"No, no," I answered, laughing; "that would
scarcely suit; but retire with the chamberlain,
who will order you a luncheon and tell you
news."

Though pleased with Sir John's friendly
attention, I could very well have dispensed
with the presence of my countryman, the
sergeant; who was a true blue Presbyterian from
the Howe of Fife, an ardent worshipper of Eben
Erskine, and one, consequently, who would
look with pious horror on the popish ceremonies
of the morrow: which there was no doubt
he would witness, with the household of the
castello.

Poor Gask!  He was a worthy and good
soldier, for whom the whole corps had a sincere
respect.  Educated for our stern Scottish kirk,
some misfortunes in early life forced him into
the ranks, where his superior attainments and
classical education made him a marvel among
the Wiltshire men, and gained him three
stripes, although it could do nothing more; the
quiet tenor of his way being the reverse of the
smart drill-corporal or bustling sergeant-major,
who looks forward to the post of adjutant.  He
was the beau-ideal of a Scottish soldier, grave,
intelligent, and steady; and was seldom seen,
unless, book in hand, reading in some retired
nook, when his comrades were roystering in
the canteen or sutler's tent.  Poor Gask! this
page is the only tribute to your memory.

Next day the marriages were celebrated
with great pomp, in the church of St. Eufemio,
at Nicastro: that of the visconte and Francesca
took place first, and was followed by that of
Bianca and myself.  A new uniform coat was
quite spoiled by the holy water, which the
bishop sprinkled over us very liberally; and
my white "regimental breeches" were totally
ruined by the rough Mosaic of the church,
when I advanced on my knees, with a lighted
candle in one hand, to present bread and wine
to the bishop, while old Adriano waved the
stole over us, according to the usage of the
land.

"Ah! if any of our mess could see me just
now, how the rogues would laugh!" thought I,
while scrambling along the aisle, with the hot
wax dropping on my fingers from the confounded
taper, which I did not hold so gracefully
as Bianca held hers.  Grand as the
ceremony was, I disliked so much of it, and dreaded
to encounter the cold smile and smirking face
of Sergeant Gask; who stood, upright as a pike,
among the kneeling domestics.

We were glad when the bishop concluded
the ritual, the fundamental part of which was
simple enough; but I could very well have
dispensed with all that Italian superstition had
added to it: yet I behaved with such decorum,
that the bishop believed me as stanch a
Catholic as ever kissed cross, and fain would
gentle Bianca have thought me so too.  The
moment we left the altar a bright circle of
young ladies clustered round her, covering her
with kisses, while the people shouted, "O
giorno felice!  Viva il capitano!  Viva la
capitanessa!"

All blessed her, and muttered, "Bell'
Idolo!" as she passed forth: indeed, she
appeared as enchanting as beauty of the
most delicate caste, the richest attire, and most
splendid diamonds could make her; and if
always lovely, even in the plainest garb,
imagine how she must have shone in her
magnificent bridal dress, when her eyes
beamed with delight and her soft cheek
turned alternately deep red and deadly pale,
as the blood came and went with the varying
thoughts that agitated her—awe and modesty,
love and exultation!

"Giorno felice, indeed!" thought I; and
springing into the carriage beside her, we
drove off for the castello, as fast as four
galloping horses could take us.  The sonorous
organ, the chanting priests, the ringing bells,
the shouts and discharge of fire-arms, died
away behind us; and accompanied by a gay
cavalcade of the fairest and noblest in the
province, our marriage train swept through
the solitary vale of the Angistola at full speed,
towards the castle: where a lordly fête awaited
us, and from the tall windows of its hall a
blaze of light was shed on the darkening
scenery and winding river as we rode up the
gloomy avenue.





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.. _`THE TEMPEST.—THE LAST OF THE HUNCHBACK`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.


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   THE TEMPEST—THE LAST OF THE HUNCHBACK.

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Leaving Santugo and his bride with the
duchess, we set out next day for Scylla; our
calesso having an escort, without which, it
was impossible to travel in such a country.
Gask occupied the rumble beside Annina,
while a chasseur with ten sbirri sent by
the duchess, rode five in front and five in
the rear; their leader riding some hundred
yards in advance.  All these men wore the
duke's livery; they were well mounted, and
armed with carbines, sabres, and pistols.  The
calesso was furnished with a loop-hole,
opening under the rumble, through which I could
blaze away with my pistols, in case of having
to retreat skirmishing.

The scenery was now beginning to assume the
brown warm tints of autumn; but the savage
mountain gorges, the deep woods, the winding
shore and beetling cliffs, through which the
road lay, were not less beautiful than when I
passed them before, with poor Castelermo.
The ramparts of Monteleone, the bosky forest
of Burello, the silver windings of Metramo,
the famous vineyards of Rossarno and Gioja
were all passed rapidly; and plunging down
into the wilderness, between the Apennines
and the sea, we had accomplished half our
journey, when a tremendous storm overtook us.

Our hearts were so full of happiness, and
each was so much absorbed in the presence of
the other, that we marked not the flight of
time; and though our carriage rolled on
through the most beautiful scenery of that
wild province, we bestowed scarce a glance or a
thought upon it.  Yet we conversed very
little; for an overwhelming sense of happiness
had quite subdued Bianca's vivacity.

I deemed myself the luckiest member of our
Calabrian army.  Hundreds had come only
to find a tomb on the plains of Maida, before
the ramparts of Crotona, or in the trenches
of Scylla.  A few had gained a step of
promotion and a little honour; the general a
great deal—the title of count, and from the
city of London a substantial dinner at the
Mansion-house, with the present of a splendid
sword: but I had gained Bianca d'Alfieri,
who had last season turned half the heads in
Palermo.  "Bravo Claude!" thought I; "it
is quite a regimental triumph, and deserves
to be borne on our colours.  At Syracuse, the
mess will drink deep when they hear of it!"

The darkening of the sky, across the azure
surface of which dense columns of cloud were
moving in rapid succession, and the exhalation
of a chilly vapour and malaria from the
stagnant pools of a dismal swamp in which we
suddenly became entangled, all foreboded a
coming storm.  The sea, when seen at intervals
between the opening hills, was black as
ink, and fleckered with masses of foam.
Vessels were making all snug aloft and getting
close under the lee of the shore to avoid the
threatened tempest, which was soon to sweep
over the bosom of the trackless ocean.  The
rumbling of the carriage, and the hoofs of
our galloping escort sounded deep and hollow
between the echoing hills.

"Signor," said their decurione or chasseur,
riding up to the window which I had let
down for the admission of air, "in three
minutes we shall have a tremendous storm:
perhaps la capitanessa would wish to seek
a place of safety."

"But where?"

"Madonna only knows, excellency.  The
earth shakes, the air is thick.  I am an old
man, and remember with dread when last I
saw such signs.  Fly to the shore—the sea
may ingulph you; to the hills—they may fall
down and overwhelm you; to the plains—and
the solid earth may yawn beneath your feet."

"Pleasant!" I said, considerably startled;
"what do you advise? to seek Seminara?
The spire of the Greek cathedral rises yonder
above the pine woods and vapour of the marshes."

"No, signor, we are safer on the mountains
or in the marshes: here let us remain and
trust to Madonna for protection."

"In God alone is all my trust!" said the
Scottish sergeant, whose knowledge of Latin
enabled him to understand the sbirro; "but
as for your Madonna——" he snapped his
fingers without concluding.

The blackness was increasing fast, and we
sought the shelter offered by a thick pine
wood to escape the pelting rain; which rushed
down in a torrent, every drop larger than
a pistol bullet.  As it would have been
unsoldier-like to remain in the calesso while
our escort were exposed to the storm, I passed
the time under the trees rolled up in my
military cloak, after securing the carriage
doors to protect Bianca and her attendant;
who drew their veils close to shut out the
flashes of vivid lightning which every instant
illumined the darkest dingles of the forest.
A terrible noise, such as I had never heard
before, rumbled in the earth and air.  I looked
to the sbirro; he was crossing himself and
muttering an ave, while a sour presbyterian
smile curled the lips of Gask, who leaned on
his pike beside him.  The chasseur, or
decurione, ordered the horses to be unharnessed
from the carriage; and I had soon reason to
thank him sincerely for his forethought.

We saw the flames of distant Etna casting
a light across the western sky; but in every
other direction the heavens were involved in
gloom or dark grey twilight.  The whole
atmosphere, however, soon began to assume an
aspect so fiery, that over Seminara the dense
clouds seemed as if rolling in flames; and we
beheld the tall *façade* of the Greek abbey, the
dark mountains and the arches of a ruined
aqueduct between them, standing in bold
outline and strong relief on the red and
luminous background.  The scene was wild
and magnificent; but the drenching rain, and
the roaring wind, which shook the strongest
pines like ostrich feathers, and almost blew
us away with the branches, leaves, and stones
which it swept over the waste, the sulphureous
state of the atmosphere, and the ground
trembling beneath our feet, made us feel,
altogether, too uncomfortable to enjoy the
splendid aspect of the heavens and earth agitated
by such a storm.

It was truly Calabrian!  Our horses snorted
and pranced, their manes bristled, their
prominent eyes shot fire; and it required all our
efforts to calm them, and keep them from
breaking the bridle-reins which we had
buckled to trees.  Suddenly a most appalling
clap of thunder burst over our heads, like
the broadside of a fleet.  A lofty and
precipitous cliff of volcanic rock, which reared up
its rugged front not far from us, heaved and
reeled like some mighty animal convulsed with
agony: shaken to the base by some tremendous
subterranean throe, it rocked visibly, and
the foliage on its summit was tossed like
raven plumage on a hearse by the motion.

Anon a cry of dismay burst from the sbirri.
An enormous mass became detached from the
highest peak; rolling from its perpendicular
front and rebounding from cliff to cliff it
came thundering into the plain below, bringing
with it a mighty ruin of shattered stones,
dust, trees and soil, which fell like the
fragments of a mountain, and with a force that
shook the ground we stood on.  The crash
was deafening; a storm of leaves, small
stones, and dust flew past us, and for a
minute the air was fearfully dense, gloomy,
and palpable.  I reeled, and clung to the
carriage-wheels for support; Bianca swooned;
Gask was praying devoutly with his grenadier
cap off, and the sbirri muttered their aves
aloud: above us the thunder rolled on from
peak to peak, and the lightning shot between
them, while the air grew darker and more
sulphureous.

Terrified by the shaken rock and the bursting
thunderbolts, our fiery horses became mad:
they foamed, snorted, plunged, and kicked
fire from the stones; the four that were
unharnessed from the calesso broke loose and
fled, at full speed, towards Seminara, pursued
by the decurione and his sbirri, who were
eager to save them: they were noble bays, and
favourites of the duchess.  Thus the sergeant
and I were left alone standing by the calesso.

"Ghieu, ho! ho!" cried a croaking voice
in the thicket; I heard a chuckling laugh,
and a figure rolled up like a ball, making a
summerset over the rocks and stones, lighted
close by my feet.  "Buon giorno, signor
capitano! he, he! ho, ho! fine evening, eh?"

Like a gigantic toad, Gaspare Truffi stood
before me, with his long matted hair waving
over his frightful visage; his torn cassock
revealing a leathern baldrick furnished with
pistols, poniard, and horn.  Like the very
demon of the storm, he whooped and yelled.
A broad-leaved hat of the largest size
overshadowing his figure like an umbrella, gave
a peculiarly droll effect to his aspect.

"A delightful evening!" he croaked; "how
does our Calabrian weather agree with your
stomach, Signor Inglese?  Ill, I think, to
judge from that lugubrious visage of thine.
Ola, Lancelloti! come hither and behold the
good padre confessor who came so devoutly
to worm a story out of you in the bishop's
vaults: he, he! ho, ho!  Feel you how the
ground shakes?" he added, stamping his
shapeless feet on the quaking turf; "feel you
how earth and air tremble?  Ammirando! there
is a rebellion in hell, for our good friend
the devil is gone to the witch-tree at
Benevento to-night: ha, ha!"

"Beard of Mahomet!" cried a distant voice,
"where are you, cursed crookback?" and at
that moment I saw my friend of the vaults
advancing towards us, clad in the usual
brigand costume, with malice in his eye and a
cocked rifle in his hand.  Other figures, like
dim ghosts appeared through the dark misty
vapour that floated round us, and I knew that
we had fallen in with a party of banditti.

"Come on, comrades," cried Truffi; "here
is a calesso containing, I doubt not, the Signora
Bianca, whom we all know of.  Viva! a prize
worth a thousand scudi!"  He advanced to the
door of the carriage, but with the butt of his
pike Gask dealt him a blow which levelled
him on the turf.  Uttering a yell he rushed
like a lion upon his assailant; who, not
expecting so vigorous an onset from a figure so
decrepit, was taken completely by surprise and
deprived of his weapon, which Truffi snapped
like a reed; rending the tough ash pole to
threads with his sharp teeth and long bony
fingers.

He drew his stiletto; and I, narrowly escaping
a rifle-shot from Lancelloti, closed with
the hideous dwarf, whose insulting demeanor
had roused both my hatred and anxiety.
Though once before, in a personal struggle
I had obtained convincing proof of his
wondrous strength, I disdained to use my sabre
against him; but striking the poniard from
his hand, endeavoured to hurl him to the
earth by grasping his leather girdle.  In
vain! his short bandy legs upheld his shapeless
body, like pillars of steel, while his strong
and ample hands grasped me like grappling
irons.

Lancelloti advanced with his clubbed rifle;
but Gask assailed him with his sword, and I
was left to deal with Truffi alone.  I heard the
cries of Bianca during the lulls of the storm,
and my anxiety was great: the sbirri had all
disappeared, the misty figures were rapidly
increasing in form and number, and shouts
rang through the echoing wood.  At this most
critical moment, when engaged in a desperate
struggle, the earth shook under our feet and a
sensation like an electric shock shot over every
nerve.  We paused and glared fiercely at
each other.

Again, there was a rumbling in the lurid air
above, and the quivering earth beneath: yet
we relaxed not our vice-like grasp.  What a
moment it was!  The shaking rocks, the
waving trees and the whole country around us
were torn by one of those mighty convulsions
so common to the Calabrias.

Never shall I forget my sensations when,
within a yard of where we struggled, the earth
gaped and rent; showing an awful chasm
about twenty feet wide: my heart forgot to
beat; my blood curdled!  From the gap there
arose a thin sulphury light, illuminating the
trees above and the distant dingles of the wood,
shining on the wet trunks and glistening
leaves; showers of sparks and columns of
smoke arose from it, with balls of ignited
matter, which hissed in succession as they rose and
fell, or exploded among the wet foliage of the
forest.  Beautiful was its aspect when
illuminated by the mysterious yellow glare of
that smoky chasm; and I saw the distorted
form of Truffi, in strong outline between it
and me.  I felt his grasp tightening: we were
near the gulf, and I read his hellish purpose
in the twinkling of his red hollow eyes.
Gathering all my strength for one tremendous
effort, great beyond my hopes, I flung him
from me into the flaming chasm: but the shock
threw me prostrate on the turf.  I leaped up:
Truffi had vanished in that appalling grave,
which was now closing rapidly, and soon shut
altogether; the sparks and ignited matter
arose no more, and the wood became involved
in double gloom.

Dismayed at the horrible living tomb which
had so suddenly engulphed the hunchback,
Lancelloti shrank back; and I leaned against
the carriage overcome with my own emotions.
The wind was dying away: the heavy pine
branches hung down motionless.  One voice
alone broke the stillness; it was that of the
Scottish serjeant who prayed devoutly.  Though
as brave a fellow as ever drew sword, he was
terrified at that moment.

We soon heard the galloping of hoofs, and
the decurione, with the ten sbirri, came back;
upon which Lancelloti and his company
disappeared and we saw them no more that
night.

"The carriage horses?" I inquired.

"O, signor! they have all rushed over the
cliffs of Palmi and perished in the sea!"
replied the breathless sbirro.

"Bianca," I exclaimed, "O God, what a
fate you have escaped!  Signor decurione,
never can I sufficiently reward you for desiring
the horses to be unharnessed so soon!"  I
shook the hand of the sbirro, while my heart
sank at the contemplation of what might have
happened.

It was long ere Bianca recovered from the
horrors of that night; which, indeed, were such
as might have shaken a stouter heart than that
of the gentle Italian girl.

We reached Seminara with great difficulty,
dragging the calesso by the saddle horses; but
on obtaining mules at the Greek abbey, we
again set out for Scylla, *viâ* Bagnara: where
soon afterwards I had a sharp encounter with
the voltigeurs of the 23d regiment (French).





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.. _`A MILITARY HONEYMOON`:

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   CHAPTER IX.


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   A MILITARY HONEYMOON.

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On the day after assuming my command at
Scylla, I ordered out the little garrison in heavy
marching order, and found it to consist of picked
young fellows of my own regiment, 250 file,
with five officers.  This small party, with the
garrisons at Reggio and Crotona, Amanthea
and Monteleone, formed the whole force left in
Calabria, with orders to defend their several
posts to the last extremity.  The last four
places were held by Italians alone.

I found that every means had been taken to
render the famous rock, and the stronghold of
the race of Ruffo, yet more impregnable.  In
place of the princely cardinal's banner, our
gaudy union spread its scarlet folds to the wind,
the mighty breach—to me the scene of an
adventure never, never to be forgotten—was
now closed up, and a strong stone bastion,
surmounted by six iron twenty-four-pounders,
frowned grimly in its stead.

We were often visited by Santugo and his
bride: he belonged to the Reggio garrison,
which was commanded by the Prince of St. Agata.
My brother officers were all agreeable
men, and the time passed very pleasantly.
Bianca's residence shed quite a halo over the
formal barrack and rugged castello, which was
enlivened by a continual round of fair visitors
from Fiumara, Reggio, and the neighbouring
villas.  Those gay subs who had looked forward
with repugnance to detachment duty in the
gloomy castle of Cardinal Ruffo, became
delighted with the station and the gaiety of the
entertainments.  The towers rang perpetually
with the dulcet voices of Italian girls, the
twangling of mandolins, or the notes of the
piano.  Every evening, the hall—where the
ambitious cardinal had formed his deep laid
schemes of political intrigue, where his mailed
ancestors had drunk "the red wine through the
helmet barred," and where the Norman knight
and Saracen emir had met hand-to-hand in
deadly strife—was the scene of a waltz or
quadrille party; or rang to the mad and merry
tarantella, the modern remnant of the ancient
bacchanalian dance.  Never since the days of
Faunus, Saturn's fabled son, Ausonia's oldest
king, had the rock of Scylla witnessed such a
continuance of festivity.

Amid this joyous career, we had all a narrow
escape from malice and treason.

One evening Gask appeared with a very long
face, and informed me that the castle well had
been poisoned, for the purpose of destroying us
all.  Twenty men lay sick in hospital, and a cry
of rage went through the whole castle.

"Poisoned—O, lord!" cried Gascoigne,
who was with me at the time, and snatching up
a decanter of brandy, he nearly drained it at
one gulp.  Gask had seen a man in the garb
of the Campagnia di Morti prowling about the
margin of the well, whom we had no doubt was
the perpetrator of the villany.  While I was
making inquiries and despatching parties in
pursuit of him, Oliver Lascelles entered my
room with a drawing in his hand.

Oliver was an artist, and a complete enthusiast
in Italian scenery, and still more so in
Italian women; every moment stolen from
duty was devoted to the pencil, and many of his
warmly tinted sketches, done in a masterly
manner, are at this moment in my portfolio.  I
have often admired his coolness, when, under a
heavy fire, he has seated himself to sketch the
enemy's position, a striking ruin, a fallen
column, or piece of ancient sculpture, from
which his sword had scraped the moss.

"Behold a portrait of our friend of the Campagna
di Morti," said he, displaying his drawing.
"I saw the rogue seated by the fountain, and
admiring his picturesque costume, and his
striking countenance, with well-knit brows, the
eyes deep set in the head, and having that
determined scowl which is esteemed so classic, I
gave the fellow a ducat to sit; so here you have
his features fairly done in crayon."

"The scoundrel! they are those of Navarro,
the Italian engineer, who deserted to the French
after assassinating the Maltese knight in
mistake for me.  He is no doubt employed by
Massena as a spy upon us.  By Heaven, Lascelles,
if I had the rascal here I think I could
pistol him this instant!"

"That would make a spirited sketch too:
but he cannot be far off, and Gask with his
party will probably capture him."

I resolved to hold a drumhead court-martial
on him the moment he fell into our hands, and
promised twenty guineas to his capturer.  But
we saw him no more: for a time at least; and, to
prevent such attempts in future, I placed a
sentinel at the fountain, which after a time became
purified.  Macnesia's skill saved the twenty
soldiers, who were brought almost to the brink
of the grave: they had all narrowly escaped
death; as a quantity of acquetta was found in
the water when Macnesia analyzed it.

To expatiate on the happiness I enjoyed at
Scylla would be too common-place; and I have
a great press of other matter to relate.
Rumours of Massena's advance from Cassano,
and the retreat and dispersion of the chiefs of
the Masse, spread dismay through all the Lower
Province, and roused us from our short dream of
pleasure.  All families of rank again returned
to Palermo; but a few spirited cavaliers retired
to the savage fastnesses of the hills, where the
brave Paesani and wild banditti made common
cause against the invader.  The arrival of a
detachment of the Royal Artillery, brought
from Messina by the *Delight*, and a despatch
from Major-General Sherbrooke, directing me
to "defend Scylla while one stone stood upon
another," caused me to make the most strenuous
preparations for a vigorous resistance; being
anxious to render myself worthy of the
important trust reposed in me—the defence of
the key of the Italian Peninsula.

The presence of Bianca was the only damper
to my ardour; for I anticipated with dread the
dangers to which she would be exposed when
the coming strife closed around us: but to my
earnest entreaties that she would join her aunt
and the young viscontessa, who had retired to
Carolina's court at Palermo, she answered only
by her tears and entreaties that I would not
send her away, but permit her to share all the
perils to which I might be exposed.  Poor
girl! little knew she of war and the manifold horrors
of a protracted siege, or a fortress carried by
assault: but to resist her charming entreaties
was impossible; and my anxiety increased as
the distance between us and the enemy lessened.
How marriage spoils the *esprit du corps*!  Every
officer and private of the 62nd looked forward
with ardour and hope; and I felt the old reckless
spirit rising, notwithstanding the fears that
oppressed me.

The daily arrival of couriers from the Masse,
and from the armed cavalieri on the mountains,
the telegraphing of despatches to and fro with
Messina, the hourly training of soldiers at the
batteries, the visiting of guards, which were
doubled at night, and all the eternal hubbub
created by the near approach of the foe, kept
me fully occupied; and never, even when
tenanted by the martial cardinal, had Scylla
witnessed such military bustle and excitement.

Advices soon reached us that General
Regnier had invested the castle of Crotona; which,
after a bold defence by the Free Calabri, had
been compelled to capitulate when the heavy
battering train of the French opened on its
decayed fortifications.  All Naples was
exasperated by the intelligence that the gallant
Cavaliere del Castagno had been hanged as a
traitor by orders of Regnier; whose forces,
eager to revenge the triumph of Maida, marched
rapidly by the shores of the Adriatic: they
crossed the mountains at Francavilla, fighting
every inch of the way with the Masse and the
bold comrades of Francatripa, Fra Diavolo,
Benincasa, and Mamone, and reached Monteleone,
which the Italians abandoned; and once
more the tricolor of the Buonapartists was
triumphantly hoisted on its ramparts.





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.. _`WRECK OF THE "DELIGHT"`:

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   CHAPTER X.


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   WRECK OF THE *DELIGHT*.

.. vspace:: 2

Towards the end of December, the French
had pushed forward as far as Seminara; and,
by the concentration of troops and a train of
heavy ordnance at that place, I had no doubt
that preparations were making to besiege the
castle of Scylla.  Every exertion was made by
the loyalists to prevent the carriage of
cannon into that corner of Calabria: working
parties of soldiers and armed peasants were
continually employed in trenching and
barricading the roads, and rendering the passes of
the Solano impracticable; thus making every
approach down from the hills of Milia as
difficult as possible.

Along these heights and passes, I stationed
strong bodies of armed Calabrese, entrusting
the defence of the Solano to the Cavaliere di
Casteluccio; who, since his escape, had
distinguished himself on a thousand occasions:
so miraculous were his adventures, that the
superstitious provincials believed he had been
rendered bullet-proof by the witches of Amato.
But so overwhelming was the force of Regnier,
that all attempts to bar the passage of his train
proved, ultimately, unavailing.

On the last day of that eventful year, the
glitter of arms and the pale white smoke of
musketry were seen spreading over the Milia
Hills; between the peaks of which the morning
sun poured down his strong and ruddy light on
the scene of contest.  The drums beat, and we
got under arms.  Our Calabrian out-picquets
and fatigue-parties were driven down from the
mountains by three battalions of French
infantry, led by General Milette, and were
pursued by four squadrons of hussars until close
under cover of our twenty-four-pounders.

Regnier was now in complete possession of
those important heights; and his working
parties were daily and nightly employed in
repairing or forming roads for the conveyance
of their battering train from Seminara.  Their
operations were retarded and rendered perilous
by the incessant attacks of the followers of
Casteluccio and Francatripa; but a damper
was given to our zeal by the surrender of a
numerous garrison at Reggio, where an Italian
force, under the Prince of St. Agata, capitulated
after a brief resistance.  The castle of
St. Amanthea, a property of the Prince di Bisignano,
was captured by assault, after a desperate
defence by the gay Captain Piozzi: he was
slain by a cannon-ball, and thus the fair and
fickle Despina was once more left a widow.
On—on pressed the foe.  The banner of
Ferdinand IV. had sunk from every rampart in
Calabria, save the solitary stronghold of Scylla.
We found ourselves alone, and could hope for
little from resistance; as all the forces of
Massena were pouring southward, with orders to
capture it at every risk of life and expense of
blood.

Every night the sky was streaked with fire,
showing where Favazina, Fiumara, San Batello,
and many a hamlet were given to the flames,
after being ravaged by the foragers of the
enemy; and every breeze bore past us the cries
of slaughtered men and the shrieks of miserable
women.

The fall of Reggio was first announced to us
by seeing Santugo's battalion of the Calabri
retreating upon Scylla in solid square, pursued
by cavalry, and galled by three curricle guns;
which followed them at a gallop and were
discharged from every eminence that afforded
an opportunity of sending a shot into the
retiring column: on its arrival, it occupied the
half-ruined town below us.

Shortly afterwards, four Sicilian gun-boats,
each carrying a twenty-four pounder in its bow,
were captured by the enemy close by Scylla;
and these cannon were landed and added to
the train against the fortress.  The moment it
was known they had fallen into Regnier's
hands, the *Delight* sloop-of-war, commanded
by Captain Hanfield, stood close in shore
to recapture them; and we watched her
operations, from the ramparts, with the greatest
interest.

Although the last day of December, it was a
beautiful evening, and the golden Straits were
gleaming in the light of the setting sun, then
verging, through a sky of the purest azure,
towards the green and lofty mountains which
rise behind the spires and towers of Messina.
The French beached the gun-boats in succession;
and, covered by field-pieces and surrounded
by squadrons of cavalry, we feared the
sailors of the *Delight* would never cut them
out or destroy them.  Protected by the ship's
broadside, three well-armed boats put off from
her, and pulled shoreward, with the gallant
intention of spiking the gun-boats' artillery at
all risks.

Fire flashed incessantly from the red portholes
of the *Delight*; and the white smoke of
her cannon, rising through her taut rigging in
fantastic curls, rolled away over the still bosom
of the glassy Straits.  The shot of the French
field-pieces fell in a shower round her advancing
boats; and wherever a ball plunged into
the bright ocean, a pillar of liquid, like a
water-spout, reared into the air with a hollow roar:
a dozen of those crystal columns shot up
their foamy heads at every moment, as the
sailors pulled steadily towards the beach.  In
the headmost boat waved a large union-jack;
and beside it, in the stern-sheets, sat Hanfield,
waving his sword and cheering on his men.
Close in his wake came the other boats,
crowded with red and blue jackets, and glittering
with boarding-pikes, bayonets, and cutlasses;
while the glistening blades of the feathered oars
flashed like silver in the sunlight, as they rose
and fell in measured time, shooting the swift
boats onward.

Crowding on the ramparts, the 62nd cheered,
and threw their caps into the air; a response
arose from the deck of the distant sloop,
when lo! a most unlooked-for misfortune took
place.  Scylla, that place of horror and mystery
to the ancient mariner, and before whose
"yawning dungeon" Æneas and Ulysses
quailed with terror, was still fraught with
danger.  Under a press of canvass, the *Delight*
sailed obliquely, to keep company with her
boats: there was a stiff breeze blowing straight
from Sicily, and she stood close along shore,
with every inch of her snowy canvass filled,
when we beheld her shaken by a tremendous
shock: her stately masts shook like willow
wands, her long pendant fluttered, her broad
sails shivered in the breeze, and she careened
suddenly over.  An exclamation burst from
every lip.

"Ashore!" cried the soldiers, with sorrow
and dismay, as her tall fore-topmast fell
overboard; the main and the mizen followed it
with a hideous crash: the beautiful vessel,
which a moment before had been sailing so
smoothly and swan-like, so trimly and saucily,
lay a dismasted wreck, bulged on a sunken
rock within a few furlongs of the beach, with
her lee guns buried in the water, and all her
seamen and marines who were not floundering
in the wreck around her, clinging to her
windward bulwarks.

A triumphant *vivat!* burst from the enemy,
who plied their field-pieces with redoubled
ardour; and a cry, loud, fierce and hoarse,
answered from the English boats.  The oarsmen
paused, and the utmost confusion took place:
there seemed a doubt whether to advance to
the attack, or return to the assistance of their
drowning messmates.  Exasperated by the
wreck of his dashing vessel, and filled with a
desire for vengeance, the gallant Hanfield (an
officer of great professional knowledge, and
high individual worth) ordered the boats to
advance: but his efforts were fruitless.  His
craft were soon crippled by the French
cannon-shot and grape, which killed or wounded
the majority of his force before it came near
the Sicilian prizes.  Hanfield, with many
of his sailors, was killed, and Captain
Seccombe, of the *Glatton* frigate, who happened to
be on board the *Delight*, received a severe
wound, of which he died a few days after.
The boats' crews were all captured; and those
men on the wreck went off in two remaining
boats to save themselves from the same fate.
To prevent Regnier from using the cannon
remaining in the *Delight*, in prosecution of
the siege, the moment it was dark enough
I left the sea-staircase, in a boat, with ten
soldiers, and setting fire to the vessel, burned
her to the water's edge: so ended this catastrophe,
which shed a gloom over us all for
some time.





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.. _`THE VOLTIGEURS.—THE MASSACRE OF BAGNARA`:

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   CHAPTER XI.


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   THE VOLTIGEURS.—THE MASSACRE OF BAGNARA.

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Il Cavaliere di Casteluccio, some of whose
followers still hovered about the Solano, having
sent me accurate information of the position
and arrangement of Regnier's outpost at
Bagnara—the point nearest to us in his possession,
and held by the voltigeurs of the 23rd (French)
Light Infantry—I concerted a plan to form a
junction with the Cavaliere's Free Company,
and cut off that detachment; as the castle had
been quite blocked up on every side since
Regnier had pushed his advanced parties as
far south as Bagnara and Favazina.

On a misty night in the month of February,
an hour after tattoo-beat, I marched out one
hundred rank and file (more indeed than could
be spared from my small garrison), and was
joined by three times that number of the Free
Calabri, led by Santugo.  Guided by the
distant watchfires of General Milette's picquets,
which formed a fiery chain along the Milia
heights, we moved by the most unfrequented
paths and gorges: the last were numerous
enough, as the whole country bore traces of
that terrible convulsion of nature, which
twenty-four years before engulphed Bagnara
and three thousand of its inhabitants.  Hideous
scaurs and chasms rent in the sandstone rocks
and salt-hills, together with the banks of vapour
exhaled from the marshes, completely screened
our movements from the enemy; scattered
parties of whom watched the operations of the
banditti and the Masse (a force now rapidly
melting away), who were apt at all times to
beat up their quarters.  The system of perpetual
harassing was vigorously maintained, to prevent
the formation of roads for the conveyance of
their battering train towards the scene of the
intended siege.

After a time, the night became so dark that
the visconte was doubtful which was the way;
as the dense vapour rolling down from the
mountains cast a double gloom over everything.
Opening the door of a wretched hut, I found
an old crone, who dealt in spells and love
potions, spreading her shrivelled hands over the
expiring embers of a few dried sticks.

"Beware, excellency, the hag is a sorceress!"
said Giacomo, as I entered.

"Signora," said I, unheeding his caution,
"we are in want of a guide to the olive wood
of Bagnara: can you procure us one for the
service of Ferdinand and la Santa Fede?"

I glanced at her son, or grandson, a boy
about fifteen, a model of that bloom and
symmetry so common in the youth of Spain and
Italy; he was almost naked, or clad only in
skins.  "Go thou, Pablo," said the crone.

"Ahi! madre," said he, shrinking back, "like
my father, I may be shot by the French."

"Via—away!" she replied, sternly.  The
strict filial obedience exacted by the ancients
yet existed in these remote provinces; so
taking his knife and pole, the youth at once
prepared to accompany us.

Guided by him, we reached the neighbourhood
of Bagnara about midnight, and halted
in an olive wood, situated on an eminence
above the town: it was then reduced to a few
cottages, occupied by the voltigeurs; who had
taken all the usual means to render their post as
strong as possible, by loop-holing the walls to
enfilade the approaches, and barricading the
ends of the little street with trees, furniture,
brushwood, and banks of earth.

"Chi è là?" cried a sonorous voice from the
wood as we entered it.

"*Italia*," answered the first file of our
advanced guard, and the Cavaliere di Casteluccio
rode up at the head of his company of volunteers;
all bold athletic fellows, armed with rifles
and poniards, and carrying their ammunition in
leather pouches or large buffalo horns.

Below us, in Bagnara, all was still; the poor
doomed soldiers slept soundly: not a light
twinkled, not a sound broke the silence, save
the rustle of the leafless trees, or the dash of
the lonely sea as it rolled on the shingly beach.
At times a red light shot across the sky to
the westward; it rose from the peak of Stromboli
in the distant isles of Æolus.  We held a
council in the olive grove before advancing.

"Signor Casteluccio, be so good," said I,
"as to describe the enemy's post."

"The voltigeurs are 600 strong, and
commanded by a Colonel Pepe——"

"Any relation of Don Pepe?" asked the
visconte, laughing.

"A tall lanthorn-jawed fellow, with a scar
over the left eye," said the cavaliere.

"The same," said I: "we have met before."

"He occupies the house of the podesta, a
stone building, well loop-holed and barricaded;
the approach to it is defended by three
twelve-pounders, which sweep the principal street, and
are always loaded with round and tin-case shot.
A hundred voltigeurs garrison the house; the
others are quartered in those adjoining; and
the defensive arrangements are such, that they
can all act in concert, and, like a star-fort, the
post gives a cross fire at every angle."

"The safest approach?"

"Is from the seaward.  There a deep rut
leads directly from the shore to the town;
thick foliage overhangs it, under which we
can advance unseen.  A single sentinel guards
the point—the night is dark—you comprehend
me?" added the cavaliere, smiling grimly, as
he touched one of those villainous stilettos,
which his countrymen were never without.

"Ay, Signor Paolo," I replied; "once in
we will do very well; but as the voltigeurs
sleep with their muskets loaded and their
belts on, they will start to arms the moment
the sentinel fires his piece."

"But he must be disposed of," said Santugo,
coolly.  "Giacomo!"

His fac-totum appeared immediately.

"A French sentinel occupies the ravine
through which we must advance undiscovered.
He must not fire: you will see to this as you
value life."

Giacomo bowed intelligently, and was withdrawing,
when the voice of Gascoigne arrested
him.

"You murdering: villain, come here! what
the devil—will you permit this piece of
rascality, Dundas?"

"Assuredly not!" said I, dismounting from
Cartouche.

"I am an English officer, and not an
assassin!" said Lascelles, in great wrath.

"You have both only anticipated me," I
replied.  "Santugo, we cannot permit the
poor soldier to be slain in a manner so
dastardly.  No!  I would rather advance under
the hottest fire of musketry, than consent to
it: my own soldiers at least will follow me."  A
murmur of assent rose from the 62nd.

"Cospetto!" exclaimed Santugo, impatiently;
"and to save the life of this paltry
voltigeur, who will perhaps be shot afterwards,
you may sacrifice all our lives and the
success of the expedition?"

"I understand the scruples of our friends,"
replied Casteluccio; "and will undertake that
in ten minutes Signor Dundas will have the
voltigeur beside him, safe and sound: unless,
indeed, he makes a great resistance; in which
case I cannot assure you of my being very
patient."

In three columns we moved to the attack.
Santugo with his corps marched on one flank
of the post; the cavaliere, with his Free
Company, on the other; with my hundred men, I
chose the central point of assault by the gorge;
and the report of the first volley was to be the
signal for the onset.  Luckily for us, a thick
white vapour, rolling from the sea, enveloped
all Bagnara, veiling our movements
completely: the enemy had not the remotest
suspicion of our vicinity.  My soldiers were in
light marching order, with sixty rounds of
ammunition; we went down the hill double
quick, and entered the gorge softly in sections
of threes.  Casteluccio accompanied us to
seize the sentinel; but I had little reliance to
place on the successful fulfilment of his promise.

"The sentinel once captured, we will rush
upon them like a herd of wolves; and the
massacre of Bagnara shall live in Calabrian
story, like the Sicilian vespers of old!" said
the cavaliere, in a low, hoarse tone.  His eyes
sparkled; he drew his poniard, and stole from
my side towards the unsuspecting voltigeur,
whom we discerned about fifty yards from
where my party halted.  Under the shade of
a foliaged cliff he stood motionless, with his
musket ordered, and his eyes bent on the
ground.  His voice alone broke the intense
stillness of his post, and had he been less
occupied with his own thoughts, he must
undoubtedly have seen us; but the mind of the
poor Swiss conscript was perhaps far away,
where his mother's vine-clad chalet looked
down on the vales and cataracts of his native
canton: sadly and slowly he hummed the
pastoral "*Ranz des vetches*," and saw not the
foe who, crouching like a lynx, with one hand
on his lip and the other on his weapon, stole
softly towards him.  I waited the issue with
anxiety.

"Silenzio!" exclaimed the strong cavalier,
in a fierce whisper, as he grasped the sentry
by the throat.  The poor Swiss boy (for he
was but a boy after all) understood not the
word; but the sudden stifling grasp, and the
sight of the glittering bastia poniard, almost
deprived him of his faculties: taken
completely by surprise, he dropped his musket,
and was dragged among us a prisoner.

"Signor, I have redeemed my promise,"
said the breathless Paolo.  "May this be an
omen of what is to follow!"  He sprang up the
rugged face of the gorge to rejoin his party,
while mine moved forward double quick.
Leading the way, sabre in hand, I scrambled
over a bank of earth; a strong wicket in which
led to the guard-house.  We were provided
with sledge-hammers; and the noise of breaking
it down brought out the guard: they fired,
and two soldiers fell dead beside me; we
answered by a volley, and the whole cantonment
was alarmed in a moment.  With the
charged bayonet and clubbed musket we
rushed upon the guard, which we overwhelmed
and captured in a moment.

"Lascelles, take twenty men, and beat down
the Seminara gate: Santugo will enter that
way.  Off, double quick!"

The surprise was so complete, that the
resistance we encountered on every hand was
faint: the guards were overpowered, the
avenues beaten open, and the fierce followers
of the visconte and Cavaliere Paolo spread
like a pack of famished hounds over the little
town; slaying all they met, without mercy or
remorse.

The party occupying the podesteria gave us
more trouble than we had expected.  I saw
Colonel Pepe, in his shirt and trousers, rush
from the door to the three field-pieces, which
he discharged in rapid succession; and their
canister shot did terrible execution among the
dense column of Calabrians rushing up the
street.  Ere he regained the door, a shot from
a rifle arrested him; he tossed his arms wildly
above his head, and then fell backwards a
corpse.  The entrance was closed and barricaded;
and a close and destructive fire was
opened from every window, and those countless
loop-holes with which the walls had been
hastily perforated: flashes, smoke, and half
naked men were seen at every aperture; and
the gleams of the musketry illuminated the
whole place.

Aware that not a moment was to be lost, as
the cavalry at Seminara or the picquets of
Milette would be all under arms at the sound
of the first shot, I resolved that a vigorous
attempt should be made to storm the podesta's
house; which, from its size and strength, had
become the principal keep or stronghold of
the enemy.  Desiring Gascoigne, with a
suitable party, to collect as many prisoners as
possible, I led forward my own immediate
command.  Our approach was completely
enfiladed by the adjoining houses, from which
the French poured forth a fire with such
destructive precision and rapidity, that in a few
minutes the street presented a horrible
spectacle; being heaped with killed and wounded,
whose blood crimsoned the gutters on both
sides of the way.  Directing Santugo to assail
the house in rear, Casteluccio and I led on a
mixed force of British and Calabri; but so
terrible was the leaden hail the French
showered on three sides of us, that we
were repulsed with immense slaughter: the
cavaliere received a severe wound in the
sword-arm; yet he quitted not the ground,
but brandishing his sabre with his left hand,
continued to animate his followers by his
presence and cries of "Viva Ferdinand IV!"

Again I led forward the remnant of my
party, and again we were forced to recoil, but
succeeded in bringing off one of the curricle
guns; with a wild shout of triumph it was
wheeled round, double shotted, and discharged
against the house.

"Hurrah!" cried I, almost frantic with
excitement, ramming home another ball with my
own hand; "Bravo!  Gask, keep your hand
tight on the vent—ready the match—stand
clear of the recoil—fire!" and again it belched
forth destruction.  Thrice it was fired, and
thrice the shot struck the same place; an
enormous rent yawned in the wall, and a mass
of masonry fell to the earth: yet the French
fought with undiminished courage.  The side
of a room had been completely breached.

"Forward the 62nd!  Advance the Calabri!
On them with the bayonet—charge—hurrah!"  Animated
by my example, and notwithstanding
the deadly fire poured on them from every part,
onward they went, with that heroic ardour
which soon after swept the armies of Napoleon
from the fields of Spain and Flanders.  We
burst in amongst the voltigeurs; whose
diminutive stature placed them at the utmost
disadvantage, when opposed to English soldiers
and the tall athletic Calabri in the fierce
hand-to-hand combat which ensued.  A desperate
struggle followed; for a time the podesteria
seemed shaken to its base, and in the close
melée I received a severe blow from a clubbed
musket: but the voltigeurs yielded themselves
prisoners of war in five minutes; and my
soldiers immediately encircled them, to
protect them from the knives and bayonets of the
infuriated Italians.

In the despatch of General Sherbrooke it is
mentioned, that "in the night attack on
Bagnara, the voltigeurs of the 23rd Light Infantry
were cut to pieces."  This was literally the
case: so merciless were the Calabrese, that a
great number of the poor Frenchmen were
slaughtered in their beds (a blanket, a
greatcoat, or a bundle of fern), and no wounded
man escaped them.  Of Colonel Pepe's 600
voltigeurs, 450 lay, like himself, weltering in
blood, in the streets and houses of Bagnara.
I did all that man could do, short of assaulting
the Calabrians, to stop the horrid slaughter;
but my efforts were unavailing, and the blood
of these brave men was poured forth like
water: the soldiers of the 62nd revolted at
such cold-blooded cruelty, and expressed their
indignation aloud.  The poor remnant of the
23rd were moody and silent, cast down in spirit
and pale in visage, ragged and half naked, when
I paraded them outside the town; just as the
grey day-light brightened the Milia peaks, and
the sea began to change its hue from inky grey
to sparkling blue, as it rolled on the rocky
promontories of Scylla and Palmi.  Our casualties
were numerous: but one officer, a hundred and
fifty rank and file, and three pieces of cannon
were the prizes of the night.  To gain these,
four hundred and fifty of their comrades had
been destroyed; and almost in cold blood too!





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.. _`A RETREAT IN SQUARE.—THE PRISONER OF WAR`:

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   CHAPTER XII.


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   RETREAT IN SQUARE.—THE PRISONER OF WAR.

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Borne on the morning breeze from Seminara,
the distant sound of a cavalry trumpet warned
us to retire with precipitation.  We spiked the
guns, blew up the tumbrils, and, setting the
town on fire, soon destroyed all of Bagnara
that the last earthquake had left unengulfed.
Lighted by the red blaze which the burning
houses cast on the green hills, the dark pine
woods, and the impending masses of basaltic
rock frowning over mountain-streams and deep
defiles, we continued our retreat double-quick,
without the aid of our little guide, Pablo; who,
at sound of the first shot, had vanished, without
waiting for his promised reward.

"Hark to the tantara of the trumpets!
Milette's cavalry brigade is coming on," said
Santugo, checking his black Barbary horse and
listening to the distant sound.

As he spoke, French cavalry appeared on
the Seminara road, galloping in file along the
narrow way by which we were hurrying towards
Scylla; whose ramparts we discerned
above the morning mist, about three miles off.
The rising sun gleamed gaily on the long
lines of shining helmets and glancing sabres, as
the horsemen swept through the deep dell in
close pursuit.  The fire of Casteluccio's
volunteers, who formed our rear-guard, served to
keep them in check for a time, and impede
their advance by the fall of steeds and their
riders; but on our debouchement into more
open ground, I formed the whole into a
compact square, with the prisoners in the centre.
The cavalry now pushed on at a furious gallop,
and, as they cleared the gorge, the trumpeters
sounded in succession "form squadron;" the
right files trotted, while the left swept round at
full speed; and, the moment each troop formed,
it rushed upon us with a force and impetuosity
which must have stricken terror into the
Calabrese: but the proud troopers recoiled before
the levelled bayonets and steady fire of a few
brave men of my own corps, who formed the
rearward face of the square.

Successively the six squadrons of a whole
corps of light cavalry swept after us, and
successively they were compelled to break into
subdivisions, and retire to the right and left
round the flanks of their column, while the
next in order advanced to the charge.  They
suffered severely: both horses and riders lay
rolling in heaps, while we lost not a man, as
the troopers never fired their pistols: probably
to spare their countrymen who were our
prisoners.  Just as a brigade of horse artillery
came at a gallop from the dell, and were
wheeled round on an eminence to open upon
us, we gained the shelter of a pine thicket, and
in perfect safety retired leisurely upon Scylla.

Casteluccio's band—whose retreat to their
fastnesses in the Solano the advance of Milette's
cavalry had completely cut off—I added to the
garrison of the town.  The wound of the brave
cavaliere was severe, and a musket-ball had
broken his left arm.  Our surgeon, Macnesia,
reduced the fracture; but the patient was quite
unserviceable, and therefore retired for a time
to Messina.

After the transmission of our prisoners and
wounded to the same place, in the boats of the
*Electra* frigate, I gladly retired to my quarters;
where the joy and tenderness of Bianca soon
made me forget the excitement and weariness
of the past night.  That evening the mist,
which had all day hovered over land and sea,
cleared away; when we plainly saw the French
working parties on the mountains, forming the
road from Seminara, under the protection of
strong escorts of cavalry and infantry.

Occasionally a puff of white smoke, curling
from the brow of a cliff or from a neighbouring
thicket, and an immediate commotion among
the enemy, announced a sudden shot from a
concealed Calabrian rifle, which had struck one
from the roll of the soldiers of the empire.
Banditti, and broken parties of the Masse,
stuck like burrs in the skirts of the French;
and the loss of life occasioned by such desultory
warfare was immense.

Bianca shuddered as she surveyed the distant
foe and glanced at the castle batteries below
us; where, in regular order, stood the long
lines of iron twenty-fours and thirty-twos, with
all the accompaniments of rammers, sponges,
and handspikes; pyramids of balls occupying
the spaces between.  The glittering bayonets
shone on every bastion and angle; while the
numerous sentinels, and the hourly rounds of
the watchful commanders of guards, denoted
an alertness and excitement: a vicinity of
warfare equally appalling and novel to her.  Whilst
we were watching all these preparations, a
little drummer beat the warning for the
"evening retreat;" the sharp rattle of his drum
agitated Bianca so much, that she burst into
tears, and, sinking on my shoulder, exclaimed,
"Oh, Claude! would to God, we were safe at
Palermo!  All this is indeed terrible."

"All *this*!" I reiterated.  "Faith!  Bianca,
I see nothing terrible here.  The guards on the
alert, the cannon in order, the duty carried on
strictly, all bespeak the orderly garrison.  But
if the mere sight of these things and the clatter
of that little boy's drum affright you, think
what will be your terrors when yonder hill
bristles with brigades of cannon, vomiting death
and fire; when every point around us glitters
with steel, and even the roar of Dragara is lost
in that of the conflict; when men are falling
like ripe grapes in a storm, and the shot flying
thick as hail, rending battlement and tower.
Oh! think of all these dangers, dear one; and,
once more, let me entreat you—implore you,
to retire to Messina.  Consent, Bianca; and I
will this moment order a gun to fire for the
*Electra's* boat."

"And you counsel me to leave you so
soon?" said she, bending her soft eyes on
mine.

"Your gentle mind cannot conceive the
horrors of a siege.  Scylla I must defend to the
last, for such are my orders: but how long can
such a little fortress withstand the mighty army
of Massena?  Our separation, Bianca, can only
be for a time——"

"Caro Claude, for a time—but how long?
You may be taken prisoner and carried to Don
Pepe's dungeons in Dalmatia, and I may never
see you again.  When I think of poor Benedetto's
fate—oh, horror!  Say no more, Claude:
death only shall separate us."

The entrance of Bob Brown or Annina
(they now composed our entire household) put
an end to this pathetic interview.  Bianca
smiled through her tears, and looked so
beautiful and happy, and love made me so selfish,
that I said no more of her retiring to Sicily.

The evening was sunny and still, the air
serene, and the sea calm, except around the
rock of Scylla.  The green Sicilian shore
rose up, clearly and distinctly, from the azure
ocean; and the sails of the *Amphion*, the
*Electra*, the *Glatton*, the *Pompey*, and all our
numerous war-ships which studded the Straits,
shone white as snow in the sunbeams; while
Sicilian gun-boats, slave-galleys, and xebecques
dotted the sea between: the cloudless sky
and the range of hills which terminates at the
Faro, formed the background.  Our casements
were open, and the setting sun poured his
bright rays into the castle-hall; the roof of
which was covered with the dilapidated frescoes
of Matteo Prette, and the faded coats armorial
of the princes of Ruffo Scylla.  It was a noble
relic of other days.  Massive Ionic columns of
Sicilian marble, with bases of green Corsican
jasper, rising from a tessellated floor, supported
its arched roof; between these, in niches, were
some rare pieces of ancient sculpture, dug from
the ruins of the neighbouring Columna Rhegini:
or, perhaps, relics of that edifice which Anaxilaus,
its prince, first raised on the rock to defend
him against the warriors of Tuscany.  The
early flowers of a warm Italian spring were
blooming in the balconies, and their sweet
perfume was wafted around us.

Bianca was seated at work, brocading a piece
of scarlet Palmi silk, while I lounged on a
sofa reading the last "Gazetta Britannica;"
a silver caraffa of the cardinal's muscadel stood
close at hand, and I thought, while knocking
the ashes from my third cigar, that my situation
on the staff would be a very pleasant one,
if Monsieur le General Regnier contented
himself by remaining entrenched at Cassano,
instead of beating up my quarters at the
extremity of lower Italy.

A smart single knock at the door announced
Sergeant Gask.

"Mr. Lascelles has sent me to say, sir, that
the officer taken prisoner at Bagnara, who
wished to be sent to Dalmatia on parole,
appears to be an Italian."

"The rascal!" I exclaimed; "but perhaps
he is a Roman or Venetian."

"He says the last, sir; but I could swear
that he is a Calabrian born and bred."

"Bring him here, with a file of the barrier
guard, that I may examine him myself."

Gask retired, and in five minutes returned
with the prisoner—a sullen and dogged-like
fellow, wearing a plain French uniform, blue,
with scarlet facings, an aiguilette and
shoulder-scales.  He was swarthy, and his lank
moustaches gave him a melancholy aspect; while
the rolling of his restless eyes announced that
he was very ill at ease.

On his entrance with the escort, Bianca
withdrew.  Imagine my surprise on recognising
Pietro Navarro, who grew deadly pale on
beholding me.

"Good-evening!  Signor Navarro," said I;
"I did not expect to meet a descendant of the
worthy inventor of mines under circumstances
so degrading."

"I am Pepe Biada, a Venetian, bearing a
commission in the artillery of the emperor.
You are making some mistake, signor, and I
warn you to beware of reprisals.  A heavy
brigade of guns are already *en route* for Scylla,
which cannot hold out a day against the forces
now marching on it—no, San Martino!—not a
single day."

"San Marteeno?  ha! the true Neapolitan
twang that," I exclaimed.  "How many men
are moving on this point?"

"Six thousand, exclusive of artillery, horse,
and sappers," he answered, gruffly.  "I
demand, signor, as a Venetian, in the service of
the King of Italy, that I may be permitted to
retire on my parole of honour."  He spoke
boldly, and seemed to imagine that his
information had staggered me a little.

"You must first be examined by a military
court-martial.  I have not forgotten that night
when you poniarded the brave cavaliere of
Malta in mistake for me.  On clearing
yourself of that, and several other gross
misdemeanours, you will be transmitted to Sicily,
to be treated as the government shall deem
fit.  You will be good enough to hand me
your sabretache?  Take him away, Gask, and
guard him well—he deserves no mercy.  Give
Captain Gascoigne my compliments—send him
here, and desire the orderly drum to beat for
orders."

Navarro, finding that his assertions of
innocence were made to one who was too well
convinced of his guilt, in silence unbuckled his
belt, threw it with the sabretache towards me,
and retired with his escort.  From its bulk
and weight, I thought it contained something
of importance; but found only an Italian work
on engineering by Donato Rosetta the canon
of Livournia, together with a few sketches of
forts and roads.  One of these was important
enough: it showed the castle of Scylla,
with the positions to be occupied by the
French cannon; their proposed approaches
and trenches were laid down, and our weakest
points were marked.  This document was a
fresh cause for exasperation: from his knowledge
of the fortress and its locality, Navarro
must have been of the utmost use to General
Regnier; and I was determined to bring him
to trial without delay.  My process was harsh:
but let the peculiar nature of my position, the
power with which I was vested, and Navarro's
crimes, excuse it.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE DRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL.

.. vspace:: 2

I paraded the whole of the little garrison, and
ordering a drum-head court to assemble
immediately, wrote the charges on which the
prisoner was to be arraigned before it: but
I was interrupted by an outcry and combat
in the guard-house.  Snatching the sword
from Gask's belt, he had attempted to stab
him, and break away by force; but the
soldiers beat him down with the butts of their
muskets, and he was secured with handcuffs,
an iron bar, and a padlock.

Formed in close column, the whole garrison,
including the free corps of Santugo (who,
although their lieutenant-colonel, was, oddly
enough, under my orders,) paraded to hear
and behold the proceedings.  So exasperated
were the Calabri, that the presence of British
soldiers alone prevented them from sacrificing
the unhappy Navarro, and thus destroying
all that judicial form which I meant to give
to our proceedings.

In centre of the castle court was placed a
drum, with a Bible, pens, ink and paper upon
it.  The president stood on one side, and
the members on his right and left hand;
Navarro, with his escort, stood opposite: I
had to act in the triple capacity of prosecutor,
witness, and approver.  The paper found
attached to the poniard in Castelermo's bosom,
the likeness of Navarro, disguised as one of
the Campagnia di Morti, together with the
contents of his sabretache, I laid before the
court for examination.

Brief as the proceedings of such a tribunal
always are, ours were necessarily unusually
so: a forward movement was at that moment
being made by the French cavalry, and we
were pressed for time.  The following is
a literal transcript of the short and singular
document indicted by Lascelles on that
occasion: it is still in my possession:—


"Proceedings of a drum-head court-martial,
held on PIETRO NAVARRO, late of the
Sicilian Engineers, by order of Captain
DUNDAS, 62d Regiment, Commandant of
the Castle of Scylla.

"The court being duly sworn, and having
weighed and considered the evidence against
the prisoner and his defence, are of opinion
that he, Pietro Navarro, is guilty of the
following charges:—

"*First*, Of assassinating Marco di
Castelermo, a Knight Commander of Malta, and
Captain of the Free Corps.

"*Second*, Desertion to the enemy.

"*Third*, Conspiring with rebels to destroy
the Villa D'Alfieri.

"*Fourth*, Poisoning the well of H. M. Castle
of Scylla, and thereby endangering the lives of
the garrison.

"*Sentence*, To be shot or hanged, as the
Commandant shall direct.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "MEMBERS.
   "PAT. GASCOIGNE, Capt. 62d Regt. Pres.
   "O. LASCELLES, Lieut. 62d Regt.
   "PELHAM VILLIERS, Lieut. 62d Regt.
   "CONTE D'ARENA, Lieut. Free Corps.
   "CONTE DI PALMA, Lieut. Free Corps.
   "Scylla, Feb. 1808."

.. vspace:: 2

To this I affixed my signature, with the fatal
words "*confirmed—to be shot*."  Navarro grew
pale as death when I laid down the pen; and
as I gave the command, forming the close
column into a hollow square by marching it
to the front and wheeling the subdivisions
of the central companies outward, he seemed
to receive an electric shock.  He moved
mechanically to the front; when I desired
Lascelles, who acted as our adjutant, to read the
brief proceedings.  So flagrant were his crimes
that to have yielded him one privilege as an
officer, was not even to be thought of, and he
was treated in every respect as a private soldier.

Oliver read the proceedings and sentence
first in English, and then in Italian; Navarro
listened with dogged silence, knowing well
that entreaties were useless if made to the
stern military tribunal before which he found
himself so suddenly arraigned.  His lip
quivered, and his brow blanched, when the last
words "to be shot," fell upon his ear, and he
gave me a dull inquiring stare, as I folded the
paper and thrust it into my sabretache.

Though my glance was firm and my voice
never quavered, I felt for the poor wretch,
undeserving as he was.  He hovered on the
brink of eternity, and my lips were to utter
the command which would at once send him
into the presence of his Creator.

*Mine*—there was something terrible in the
idea: I paused for a moment; a beam of hope
lightened his gloomy eyes and brow.  The
place was so still that one might have heard
a pin fall: but delay was cruel.

"Unhappy man!" said I, "you have heard the
opinion and sentence of the court.  The latter
must be carried into execution in twenty minutes,
and it would be well to employ that little time
in pure repentance, and in solemn prayer."

"O, omnipotente!" he exclaimed, raising
up his eyes and fettered hands; "in twenty
minutes, can so many years of sin and
enormity be repented of?  O, San Giovanni, thou
whose most holy order I have outraged!  O, San
Marco the glorious!  Eufemio the martyred! and
thou, sweetest Madonna! intercede for me
with One whom I am unworthy to address?"
Deeply touched with his tone, I turned to
Santugo: but he was too much used to hear
such pious ejaculations on every frivolous
occasion to care a straw about them; and
leaning on his sabre he surveyed the culprit
with a stern glance of distrust and contempt.

"Down on your knees, villain!" he
exclaimed, "and pray with a will; for I fear
you are standing on the brink of eternal damnation!"

"O, horror!" cried Navarro; and losing all
self-possession, he sank on his knees, and began
to repeat his paternoster with great devotion.

"I regret that we have here no priest of
the Catholic church to attend you in this
terrible hour;" said I, "but yonder is a good
and worthy soldier who has once been in holy
orders, and if his prayers——"

"Away!" cried Navarro, as Gask took a
Bible from his havresack, and laying his
grenadier cap aside, advanced towards him.
"Better a Turk than a Jew; but in such an
hour as this, better the devil than a heretic!
Away, accursed!  I spit upon you!  I will
trust rather to my own prayers than thy
intercessions——"

"I presume not to intercede," said poor
Gask, meekly, as he closed the Bible; "I am
but a humble soldier, though I have seen
better days; and I am a sinner, doubtless,
though never committing sin wilfully.  I
entreat your permission to accompany you in
prayer, to soothe your last moments, in such
wise that through the blessed mercy of the
Lord of Hosts——"

"Ghieu, setanasso!" screamed the assassin,
quite beside himself; "away, heretic!  Better
the most ribald monk of Pistoja than such
as thee!"

"Fall back, Gask; the man is frantic,"
said I.  "Tell off a section with their arms
loaded; desire the pioneers to dig a grave in
the cardinal's bastion, and their corporal to
bind up the prisoner's eyes."

Gask saluted and retired to obey; while
the prisoner, covering his face with his
fettered hands, appeared to be engaged in the
deepest prayer.  The men of the 62nd evinced
considerable repugnance to become his
executioners: such a duty being always reserved as
a punishment for bad or disorderly soldiers;
and there was not one among them who could
be deemed to come under either of these
denominations.  A whisper circulated through
the ranks, and I knew that I was imposing
an unpleasant duty upon good men.  The
visconte divined my dilemma.

"Dundas," said he, "as Italians, let ours
be the task to punish this wretch: whom I
blush to acknowledge a countryman!
Giacomo, take twenty of our corps, and shoot
him through the back: but unbind his hands,
that he may tell over his beads once more
before he dies."

Giacomo selected his marksmen, and drew
them up opposite a high wall, before which
Navarro knelt about thirty paces from them.
As the Calabrians loaded, two pioneers with
a shovel and pickaxe approached; and on
seeing them the prisoner seemed seized with
a frenzy.  Suddenly he sprang up and fled
towards a parapet wall with the fleetness of
a hare, and a scene of the utmost confusion
ensued: shot after shot was fired at him, but
missed.  It was madness to hope to escape
from Scylla, filled as it was with armed men,
enclosed on three sides by the surging sea,
on the fourth by steep cliffs, and girdled by
lofty towers and bastions.  Frantic with
desperation and terror, the miserable Navarro
rushed up the platform of one of the
gun-batteries, and swung himself over the
parapet; escaping a shower of balls aimed at him
by the half-disciplined Calabri, who had all
rushed in disorder to the walls: destruction
dogged him close.  Beneath, the cliff
descended sheer to the sea three hundred
feet below; above, the parapet bristled with
weapons, and was lined with hostile faces.
Chilled with a sudden horror, when the dash
of the foaming sea and the hollow boom of
those tremendous caverns by which the rock
is pierced, rang in his ears, he became
stunned; and closing his eyes, clung to a
straggling vine or some creeping plants, with
all the stern tenacity that love of life and fear
of death inspire: never shall I forget the
expression of his face when I looked over the
parapet upon him.  It was ghastly as that of
a corpse: his short black hair bristled and
quivered on his scalp; his deep dark eyes
glared with terror, hatred, and ferocity, till
they resembled those of a snake; and every
muscle of his face was contracted and
distorted.  He swung in agony over the
beetling cliff, on which he endeavoured in vain to
obtain a footing; but its face receded from
him, and he hung like a mason's plummet.

"Giacomo," said the visconte, "end his misery."

The Calabrian levelled his musket over the
breast-work, and his aiming eye, as it glanced
along the smooth barrel, met the fixed and
agonized glance of Navarro.  He fired; the
ramparts round us, and the rocks and caves
beneath gave back the reverberated report
like thunder: the ball had passed through the
brain of Navarro, who vanished from the cliff,
and was seen no more.

So perished this unhappy traitor.





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.. _`DIANORA.—THE FORFEITED HAND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   DIANORA—THE FORFEITED HAND.

.. vspace:: 2

The exciting affair with Navarro was scarcely
over, before we became involved in another;
which, though of a different description, caused
me no little anxiety: of this, my gay friend,
Oliver Lascelles, was the hero.

Oliver was a handsome, good-humoured,
light-hearted, curly-headed, thoughtless, young
fellow; heir to one of the finest estates in
Essex, with a venerable Elizabethan manor-house
and deer park, a stud of horses and
a kennel of hounds.  He was a good shot,
and a sure stroke at billiards; could push
his horse wherever the hounds went, and,
when hunting, was never known to crane in
his life: he would spur, slapdash over
everything; and he always led the field.
However, these were but the least of his good
qualities: he possessed others that were of
a better order.  Oliver was, every inch, an
English gentleman and soldier; possessing a
refined taste, and more solid acquirements
than such as are necessary merely to enable
a man to acquit himself in fashionable or military
life: for, in truth, a very "shallow fellow"
may pass muster, at times, in the ball room,
on parade, or in the hunting-field.

About this time, when Regnier's advance
kept us all on the alert, Oliver, as if he had
not wherewithal to occupy his thoughts,
contrived to fall in love; and, to all appearance,
so earnestly, that I was not long in discovering
and rallying him about it.  People are very
prone to fall in love in that land of bright
eyes: the little god Cupid is still "king of
gods and men," in sunny Ausonia; where
love seems to be the principal occupation of
the inhabitants.

Though the advanced posts of the enemy
were now pretty close to us on all sides, our
fiery spark, Lascelles, went forth every
evening, to visit his inamorata; who dwelt in the
neighbourhood of Fiumara, which had now
become a French cantonment.  I have
elsewhere alluded to his artistic talent: he had
now conceived a violent fancy for delineating
Italian girls in all the glory of ruddy and
dimpled cheeks, dark eyes, braided hair, and
very scanty petticoats.  His apartments were
strewed with such sketches; and Bianca rallied
him smartly on finding that the same pretty
face was traceable in every drawing: Oliver
had evidently one vivid and particular idea
ever uppermost in his mind.  He had a rival,
too,—a devil of a fellow,—who contrived to
infuse an unusual quantum of mystery into
this love affair: all the perils of which I
will relate to the reader, while our friends,
the French, are labouring at the Seminara
road, in order to bring up their train of
cannon.

"Where away so fast, Oliver?" asked I, as
he was hurrying past me, one evening, about
dusk, muffled in his cloak.

"Only a little way from the castle," he
responded, somewhat impatiently.

"Southward, eh?"

"Ah—yes."

"To Fiumara?"

"Why—yes."

"Take care, Oliver, my boy!  The French
101st, a thousand strong, are cantoned there;
and the end of this nightly visiting may be
a few years unpleasant captivity in Verdun or
Bitche."

"Tush!" said he, impatiently; "I have my
sword and pistols."

"So much the worse; they may only provoke
the wrath of your captors.  'T is a pity
your fair one, Signora Montecino (that's her
name, I believe) lives in so dangerous a
vicinity."

"I am only going to visit the bishop of
Nicastro."

"A shallow excuse, Oliver: you are not a
man to relish the old bishop's society.
By-the-bye, his niece is very pretty; is she not?"

"Rather," said he, drily.

"So much so, that you think her face cannot
be delineated too often?"

"Stay, Claude; no quizzing: I won't stand it."

"She has a brother, or cousin, a sad fellow—an
outlawed guerilla, or something of that
sort; who has served under Francatripa, and
is stained with a thousand nameless atrocities.
And do you know what people say about the
pretty signorina herself?"

"What say they?" he asked, sternly.

"That she is a nearer relation of the good
padre bishop than he cares to have generally
known: priests' nieces——"

"D——n their impudence! only yourself,
Claude—Capt. Dundas, I must request——"

"O, yes; I understand all that: ha! ha!"

"No man in the service——"

"What! do you really love this girl, Oliver?"

"Yes; on my honour, I do."

"Very possibly: but—I speak as an old
friend—you do not mean seriously?"

He started, and coloured deeply.

"I know not," he muttered, hurriedly: "and
yet, Claude, I cannot be so base as to think of
her otherwise than as a man of honour ought
to do.  Her relationship to the old padre is,
to say the best of it, somewhat dubious: but
then, she is so good-tempered and ladylike—so
gentle, so beautiful, and winning—that I
cannot, for the soul of me, help loving her;
and I pledged——"

"Pledged!  Maladetto! as they say here, are
you engaged to her?"

"Why, I did not make a particular—that is
to say, not quite an engagement—pshaw! what
am I talking here about?"

"I see!  Ah, Oliver, you are evidently very
deeply dipped with her: you cannot steal a
march upon me.  Let me advise you, Lascelles,
to be cautious in your affair with this young
lady.  Your family, your fortune, all entitle
you——"

"Thanks, Dundas!  I don't require this
tutor-like advice," said he, putting his foot in
the stirrup of his roan-horse, with a dash of
hauteur in his manner.

"At Fiumara, the French keep a sharp look
out," I urged.

"Be it so," said he: "thither I go at all
risks."

"You are not acting wisely."

"Granted—one never does so in love."

"Be cautious, Oliver!  I would be loth to
lose you; and I find it will be necessary to
'come the senior over you,' as the mess say,
and order that no officer or soldier shall go
beyond one mile from camp or quarters."

"Do so to-morrow," he added, laughing;
"but, meanwhile, ere the order is issued, I shall
ride so far as Fiumara to-night.  What is the
parole?"

"*Maida*—countersign *Italy*."

"Thank you: I do not wish to be fired on
by the blundering Calabri," he replied; little
imagining he would never require the watch-word.
"Adieu! by midnight I will return."

Breaking away, he leaped on his horse, and
dashing through the arched portal of the castle,
rode down the hill through Scylla at a furious
gallop.

I was under considerable apprehension for
my rash friend's safety.  Midnight passed:
slowly the hours of morning rolled on.  Day
was breaking, and the peaks of Milia were
burnished by the yet unrisen sun, when I visited
the posts to inquire for Lascelles.  He had not
returned; and as he had never before been
absent so long in such a dangerous neighbourhood,
I became very uneasy: deeply I regretted
that, even at the risk of unpleasant words, I
had not exerted my authority as commanding
officer, and compelled him to stay within the
castle.  The bugle sounded for morning parade
at the usual hour; but Oliver Lascelles was
not forthcoming: his place in the ranks was
vacant.

On the advance of the French, the old
bishop, before mentioned, had retired from the
city of Nicastro; abandoning to them his
residence—the ancient castle, famous as the place
where Henry, of Naples, expiated his rebellion.
Retiring to his little paternal villa, near
Fiumara, he lived in retirement, unmolested by
the French; who almost depopulated the
surrounding country by their tyranny, extortions,
and wanton outrage.  On the side of a hill, at
the base of which ran a deep and rapid stream,
its banks covered with orange and citron trees,
stood the bishop's villa.  It faced the straits of
Messina: high rocks and a thick wood of pines
hid it from the view of the foe at Fiumara;
otherwise their forage parties would assuredly
have paid it a visit.

On the evening I last saw Oliver, a young
lady was visible at an open window of this
mansion.  She was alone, and seated in a
reclining posture on an ottoman, upon which
lay her guitar: her hair, half-braided, half-disordered,
rolled in natural ringlets of the deepest
black over a neck of the purest white—so pure,
so transparent, that the blue veins beneath were
distinctly visible.  She was not tall, but of a
full and beautifully rounded form; and though
her features were not regular, yet their
expression was very captivating and piquant.
Her eyes were dark and brilliant, her lips
full and pouting, her cheeks flushed and
dimpled.

Notwithstanding the season of the year, the
air was close and still; the sun had set, and the
sky wore a warm and fiery tinge; but the hills
and wood were of a dark bronze hue.

Dianora Montecino listened impatiently.  She
awaited the coming of Oliver: but he came
not.  She often surveyed her figure in a mirror
which hung opposite, and a calm smile lighted
up her pretty face: it was one of complacent
but innocent admiration of her own attractions.
Her hair being in partial disorder, languidly,
with her delicate fingers, she endeavoured to
adjust it; then pausing, she sighed, and after
again consulting the friendly mirror, with a
pardonable coquetry, she allowed the flowing
tresses to remain free.

"He always prefers me in dishabille.  That
seems strange: and yet I think I really look
better so.  But truly, Signor Oliver, you tarry
long to-night."

The last flush of sunlight vanished from the
hills of Milia (or Mylæ), and now rose the
bright moon, shedding its softer light over land
and sea; tinging the straits with silver lustre,
and revealing the Sicilian feluccas, with their
striped latteen sails, and other picturesque
vessels, which the sombre shadows of evening
had for a time obscured.  At the base of the
hills the river wound between rocks and
thickets, its surface reflecting the innumerable
stars that studded the serene blue sky.  A
beautiful fountain beneath the terrace threw
up its jet of water like a ceaseless shower of
diamonds; the air was laden with the perfume
of the earliest flowers of an Italian spring,
and not a breath of wind was abroad to stir
their closed petals, then filled with fragrant dew.
Intently the young girl hearkened for the
tramp of her lover's horse; but he came not:
she heard only the tumultuous beating of her
own heart, and the monotonous plash of the
water falling from the bronze Triton's mouth
into the marble basin below.

A step was heard softly on the gravel walk:

"At last he comes!" she said, pouting;
while joy and hope sparkled in her dark
and liquid eyes: a man leaped over the
balustrade of the terrace.  "Dear Oliver,
you have come at last: but stay!  I owe you
a scolding, signor mio!"

"'T is not Oliver," replied the stranger,
with a husky, but somewhat sad tone of
voice; and he stood before her.  Dianora's
first impulse was to call for assistance; but
the voice of the stranger again arrested her.

"For God's sake, signora, do not summon
any one!  You have nothing to fear from
me—indeed you have not."

"Giosué, is it only you?" said the young
lady, with a tone of undisguised reproach and
vexation.  There was a pause.

The unwelcome visitor was a young man
about six-and-twenty, whose dress announced
his occupation and rank in life to be somewhat
dubious; but his air, though constrained
in the presence of Dianora, had a dash of
gallant and graceful recklessness in it.  He
wore the brigand garb, which had then
become a kind of uniform adopted by all
desperadoes; he had a carbine in his hand,
and a knife and four long iron pistols were
stuck in a yellow silk sash.  A loose velvet
jacket, knee breeches, and gaiters crossed
with red leather straps, displayed to advantage
his fine athletic figure; and round his
open neck hung a little bag containing a
charm, which he supposed rendered him
bullet-proof.  A large, shapeless, and battered
Calabrian hat, with a royalist red riband
flaunting from it, shaded his face; which was
fringed with a black and untrimmed beard,
and presented a kind of savage beauty: though
squalid through want, and fierce in its expression;
being marked with the lines of the worst
passions.  The young girl regarded him with
a glance expressive equally of timidity and
pity.

"Dianora—Dianora!" said he, reproachfully,
but mildly; "there was a time when
you were not wont to pronounce my name
in such a tone.  Alas! sweet cousin—like
myself, its very sound seems changed."

"Poor Giosué!" she began.

"Was not expected here to-night," said he,
bitterly.  "No; you await another.  Cattivo!
I know it."

He regarded her gloomily; his fierce dark
eyes sparkling in the twilight like those of
a basilisk; and she, who but a moment before
had been all eagerness for the arrival of Oliver
Lascelles, now mentally implored Heaven that
he might not come that night, for something
dreadful would certainly ensue.

"Dianora," said the young man, "is it
true what they tell me—that you love this
stranger?"

"As I never can love thee, Giosué,"
replied the girl, with timid energy.

"Malediction!  Have you forgotten how
you once swore your hand should be mine?"

"True, Giosué; but you were not then
what you have since become."

"Hear me, false one!  I swear by God and
his blessed saints, that the hand you promised
me shall never be the prize of another.  No!
Maladetto!  I will slay you rather!"  He
laughed bitterly, and spoke in a hoarse tone.
"You despise me, Dianora.  I am now a
penniless outlaw.  May our uncle, the
hard-hearted bishop, whose miserly cruelty has
driven me to despair——"

"O most ungrateful and unkind, Giosué! say
rather your own wild and intractable spirit
has occasioned your destruction——"

"And the loss of your love, Dianora?"

"Indeed, Giosué, I never could have loved
you as—you would wish to be loved: but I
have pitied you, wept for you, prayed for
you——"

"Bless you, dear girl," replied the young
man, with intense sadness; "you are very
good and amiable; but I feel that love for
you is making me mad!"

"Now, leave me, Giosué.  Should the
bishop find you here——"

"Say rather he whom you expect!" he
exclaimed, bitterly and jealously.  "Ha! false
and fickle one! within sound of my whistle
are those who in a moment would bear you
off to yonder mountains in spite of all
opposition, and leave in flames this villa of our
dog of an uncle.  But no, signora; I must
have your love freely, or not at all."

"A moment ago you threatened——"

"Peace!  Attempt not to stir until you have
heard me.  This cursed English lieutenant
(ha! malediction! you see I know him), if
he comes hither to-night may get a reception
such as he little expects."  He uttered a
ferocious laugh, and struck with his hand the
weapons which garnished his girdle.  They
clattered, and the heart of Dianora trembled
between fear and indignation; for nothing
rouses a young girl's spirit so much as
hearing her lover spoken of lightly.

"Cospetto! let this baby-faced teniente
beware," continued Giosué; "or, by the blessed
Trinity!  I will put a brace of bullets through
his brain."

"Wretch!" exclaimed the trembling Dianora,
"begone, lest I spit upon you!  O
Giosué! are you indeed become so ruffianly?
Have brigandism and outrage hardened you thus?"

He laughed sternly, and said, "You do
expect him to-night, then?"

"What is that to you?" she replied,
pettishly.  "Cousin, I will love whom I
please."

"You shall not love him."

Dianora, who was now angry in downright
earnest, began to sing, and thrum the strings
of her mandolin.

   |  "Me non segni il biondo Dio,
   |  Me con Fille unisca amore—"
   |

"Dianora!" exclaimed the young man, in
a voice half mournful and half ferocious.
"By the memory of other days, I conjure you
to hear me!  Think how, as children—as
orphans—we lived, and played, and grew
together—hear me!"  His voice grew thick;
but the irritated girl continued her song.

   |  "E poi sfoghi il suo rigore
   |  Fato rio, nemico ciel."
   |

"Cruel that thou art: thy wish will never
be realized!" he exclaimed, fiercely.  Still
she continued:—

   |  "Che il desio non mi tormenta,
   |  O——"
   |

"Maledictions on you!  Is it thus you treat me?"

Dianora laughed: he gazed intently upon her
with fierce glistening eyes; his white lips were
compressed with stern resolution, though
agitation made them quiver—and that quivering
was visible even in the moonlight.

"Dianora," said he, "for this time I will
leave you; but when again we meet—*tremble*!
Fury!  I am not to be treated like a child!"

"Do not be so passionate, signor cousin.
Madonna mia!  You are quite the Horazio of
Matteo Aliman's novel!"

"Beware," he responded, with a dark and
inexplicable scowl, "that your hand—the
hand pledged as mine—is not bestowed upon
your lover as Clarinia's was.  Farewell, fickle
and cruel Dianora!  Misfortune and love are
turning my brain."

"Say rather wine, dice, and debauchery."

"Diavolessa!" he exclaimed, in accents of
rage; and springing over the terrace, disappeared.

Dianora resumed her guitar; but she could
sing no more: her assumed nonchalance quite
deserted her.  The instrument fell on the
floor, and covering her face with her white
hands she wept bitterly: for Giosué's threats
and Oliver's absence terrified her.

The calm moon looked down on the dark
forests and the snaky windings of the river,
on whose glassy bosom here and there a red
glow marked the watch-fires of the distant
French picquets.  No one was ascending the
mountain side.  In the villa, in the valley
below, and on the hills around it, the most
intense silence prevailed.  Eagerly Dianora
listened.  Anon there rang through the welkin
a shrill whistle—the whistle of Giosué; a faint
cry succeeded: it rose from the river side, and
floated tremulously upward through the still
air.  Another, and another followed: they
were cries for succour!  Her brain reeled—she
sank upon her knees, and raised her
hands to Heaven—her heart beat wildly—she
panted rather than breathed.  "O, God!"
thought she; "if Oliver encounter the wild
comrades of Giosué, what have I not to dread?"

Appalled by her own vivid and fearful
thoughts, she sat as if spell-bound, listening for
other sounds, in an agony of suspense; but
none other arose from the dark wooded dell
than the murmur of the river, as its waters
rolled on their way to the ocean.

"Joy—joy—he comes at last!" she exclaimed,
as the hoofs of a galloping horse rang
on the narrow and rocky pathway, which wound
between thickets of orange and citron trees up
the mountain side.  "Dear and blessed Lady
of Burello, how I thank thee that he came not
sooner!  Three paters and three aves will I
say.—I see him now: 'tis he!  How bravely
he reins up his roan English horse, with its
high head and flowing mane!  There is the
dark cloak, and the little cap, beneath which
his brown hair curls so crisply.  Oh, well
should I know him among a thousand!"

With all the frankness and ardour of an
Italian girl she rushed upon the terrace, and,
waving her hand over the balustrade, said
playfully, "You have come at last, Signor
mio.  Fi!  I owe you a severe lecture: approach,
and receive it penitently."

At that moment, the horseman rode close
to the wall of the terrace, and threw an arm
around her.  Overcome by her recent agitation,
Dianora sank upon his breast, murmuring, in
tender accents, "Oliver—dear Oliver."

"The curses of the whole calendar upon
thee and Oliver too!  Ha! you greet not him
contemptuously with an old scrap of Metastasio.
Burning hell! traitress, I recall your
biting taunts, and will revenge me even as
Horazio did.  Lo! the hand you pledged unto
me shall yet be mine."

A smothered cry burst from Dianora.—Instead
of the handsome and flushed face of
Oliver Lascelles, a livid and unearthly visage,
distorted by the most vindictive passions, was
close to her cheek; two ferocious eyes glared
upon her, and the strong arm of Giosué was around her.

"Never again wilt thou scorn a lover, Dianora
Montecino; and dear will *that* taunt cost
thee which dictates my revenge."

His long keen acciaro gleamed in the moonlight,
as he grasped her beautiful hand with
the grasp of a tiger—instantly the sharp knife
descended upon the slender wrist!

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



Let me throw a veil over the horrors that
ensued.

The French sentinels on the windings of the
lonely river, the wolf in the distant woods and
the eagle on the rocks of Battaglia, must have
been alike startled by the agonizing shrieks of
Dianora.  Fearful they were; but of short
duration.  A moan succeeded—a moan of
terrible import.  Then rang the hoofs of a
horse as if spurred madly down the steep
roadway.  A turn of the dell hid the wild
horseman, and then all became still.

Her right hand severed at the wrist, her
nose cut off, and her face seamed with the
most frightful gashes, Dianora was found by
the alarmed household of the bishop, stretched
on the marble terrace, bleeding and
senseless—mutilated—dying.  She was borne away:
convulsions succeeded, and that night the unhappy
Dianora died.

She expired in the arms of the venerable
bishop, whose grief and horror rendered him
almost distracted.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MONASTERY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MONASTERY.

.. vspace:: 2

To return to Scylla.—The hour of parade
passed: Lascelles had not yet returned, and I
could no longer withstand my anxiety for his
safety.  Accompanied by my intelligent
countryman, Gask, a bugler, and twenty soldiers in
light marching order, each with sixty rounds of
ammunition, I departed in the direction of
Fiumara, on the almost hopeless errand of
endeavouring to discover him.  I now reproached
myself bitterly, and really thought I had been
much to blame in not restricting my rash
friend, even at the chance of a quarrel: it
could not have been of long duration.

Leaving Scylla as quietly as possible, we
marched towards Fiumara by the most lonely
and unfrequented route, through gorges and
thickets, expecting every instant to hear the
musket of our advanced file discharged, as a
signal that a patrol of French cavalry, or some
such interruption, was in sight.

It was a beautiful morning: the rays of the
bright sun streamed aslant between the peaks
of Mylæ, and the white dewy vapour curled
from the dells like a gauze screen, mellowing
the dark green of the pine thickets and the
blue of the gleaming ocean, which shone at
times between the openings of the high and
broken shore.  The morning hymn to the
Virgin, and the tolling of the matin bell,
floated through the still air from the dark old
walls of St. Battaglia; a monastery perched on
a rock, by the base of which the pathway
wound.  On we hurried; and soon Fiumara,
its houses shining in the sun, the red smoky
fires of the French camp, and their chain of
out-picquets near the river, appeared before us.

At the bottom of the hill on which the Villa
of Montecino was situated, just as we were
striking into the narrow path that wound up
its wooded side, our advanced file, (who was
about fifty paces in front), halted, and waved
his hand.

"Keep together, men! fix bayonets!—look
to your priming—forward!" I exclaimed, and
we rushed towards him.  There was no
immediate cause for alarm; but on a level spot of
green sward we discovered sufficient evidence
that some deed of violence and atrocity had
been perpetrated, and I trembled for my poor
friend Oliver!  On the grass lay his gilded
gorget, with its white silk ribbon rent in two;
near it lay a buff military glove, covered with
blood; a little further on we found his riding
switch, with his crest graven on its gold
embossed head.  All around, the trampled state
of the grass, the marks of feet (some of which
had evidently been shoeless), the deep indents
of horse-hoofs, and, worst of all, a pool of
coagulated blood on the pathway, led us to
anticipate some terrible catastrophe.  Loud
and deep were the threats and execrations of
the soldiers.

At an accelerated pace we pushed up the hill
towards the house of Montecino, passing on
our left the mouldering ruins of a castelletto,
or little fortalice; the broken ramparts of which
were almost hidden under heavy masses of dark
green ivy and luxuriant weeds.

Entering the bishop's disordered mansion
without ceremony, I halted the soldiers in the
vestibule, and desired a servant, who appeared,
to conduct me to her master.  The woman
vouchsafed me no other reply than a motion to
follow her: she was very pale, and her eyes
were red from recent weeping.  Opening a
door, she ushered me into a little darkened
oratory; where, on a bier before the altar
surrounded by tapers, shedding "a dim, religious
light," lay the sad remains of the hapless
Dianora.  They were covered with a white
shroud; and so completely, that I beheld not
the frightful ravages committed by the knife of
the assassin.  Beside the body—his white
vestments soiled with blood, his thin grey hairs
dishevelled, his aspect wild and haggard—knelt
Piero Montecino, the aged Bishop of
Nicastro; his attenuated hands clasped and
holding a crucifix, on which, at times, he
bowed down his reverend head.  His wonted
spiritual resignation, priestly dignity, and
stateliness of aspect were gone: his spirit was
crushed and broken.  How changed was his
whole appearance since the day when, with
Bianca, I stood before the altar in the church
of his bishoprick!

"O, Dianora! my daughter—my child!"
he exclaimed, in accents of the deepest grief:
"O, madonna, have mercy upon me!  Holy
Trinity, have mercy upon me!  Dianora,  my
blessed one!  Saint Euphemio, pray for her!
Saint Magdalene, pray for her!  Sweet lady of
Burello!—beatified Rosalia!—thrice blessed
lady of Loretto, mother of mercy! hear me,
and pray for her!"  Heavy sobs succeeded.

The touching tones of his voice, and the
passionate fervour of his devout appeals, deeply
moved me.  So intense was his sorrow, that it
almost warranted the suspicion of a nearer
relationship to Dianora than his vows and
character as a Catholic churchman permitted; but
no such ungenerous thought occurred to me
then: my heart felt only the deepest and most
sincere compassion for the bereaved old man.
He was so besotted with woe, that I saw it was
next to impossible to obtain from him the least
intelligence or advice; and, withdrawing softly,
I left the villa immediately.

When descending the hill towards the spot
where we had found the relics of our missing
comrade, we met a peasant, who, with a long
ox-goad, was urging a pair of lazy buffaloes
towards Scylla.  I desired my soldiers to bring
him before me, in the desperate hope of
obtaining some information concerning poor
Lascelles; and, strange to say, we could not have
had a luckier rencontre, or better intelligencer.

"Hollo, Signor Campagnuolo!" said I to
the cattle driver; "from whence have you
come this morning—Fiumara, eh?"

"No, Signor."

"Where, then?"

"From the monastery of Battaglia, down
the mountains yonder," he answered somewhat
reservedly; and, endeavouring to pass, he
added, "a holy day to you, Signor."

"Any movement taking place among the
French lately?—are any of their patrols out?"

"I have not heard, excellency; but a fugitive,
chased by a party of them, took refuge at
the monastery this morning, and is said to have
confessed to the Padre Abate a horrible crime."

"Ha! and is he now in the sanctuary?"
I demanded, eagerly.

"Prostrate on the steps of the altar: his
penitence is great.  Madonna intercede for him!"

"Thanks," said I, permitting the uneasy
rustic to pass on his way.  "Advance, soldiers—trail
arms—forward, double quick!  We have
got on the right scent at last, perhaps; and
there is not a moment to be lost."

With right good will the soldiers moved
forward towards the monastery; their arms
glancing and pouches clanking as they rushed
down the steep hill side.  The place of our
destination, a confused mass of irregular
buildings, stood near the river before-mentioned,
about a mile distant.  It was a monastery of
great antiquity; a high wall of grey stone
girdled it round, and above that rose its
campanile, a square tower, surmounted by a flat
tiled roof.  From the outer wall, the rocks on
which the edifice was perched sloped
precipitously down on all sides; especially towards the
south, where they descended in one unbroken
line to the deep dark waters of the still but rapid
stream, which wound through a chasm below.

As we began to ascend the steep and devious
path cut in the hard volcanic rock, and leading
directly to the monastery, we saw the monks
appearing and disappearing like black crows on
their high outer wall; and the arched gateway
was hurriedly closed: the fathers were evidently
in a state of consternation, and making all fast;
fearing that we might disregard the immunities
of the holy sanctuary.  All the friars had
vanished by the time we reached the
iron-studded door in the outer wall; over which the
evergreen, ivy, and long rank grass were waving in profusion.

We knocked loudly.  No answer was given.

"Sound!" said I, to the bugle-boy; and a
loud blast from his instrument made the old
walls, the echoing chapel, the bosky woods and
splintered rocks ring far and near.  Still the
summons was unheeded, and the impatient
soldiers thundered at the gateway with the
butts of their muskets.  The reverend fathers
no doubt suspected our purpose.

"What want ye?" said an old vinegar-visaged
friar, appearing on the top of the wall, which
he had surmounted by the assistance of a ladder.

"Are you all asleep within there?" I
answered, angrily.  "We want a fugitive, to
whom you have given refuge.  Call you this
civility, padre? and to us whose swords are
drawn in the cause of your country."

"Beware, Signori Inglesi! dare you violate
the rights of the blessed sanctuary?"

"You will soon learn whether we will not,
you old scarecrow!" I replied, with increased
impatience.  "Aprite la porta, Signor Canonico,
or by Heaven! we will beat it down in a twinkling!"

"Patience, capitano—patience, until I confer
with the reverend Superior."

"Be quick, then!  We must see instantly this
rascal who has obtained sanctuary.  The enemy
are so near, that we have not a moment to lose."

The monk disappeared.  I directed Gask,
with six soldiers, to watch the walls, and
capture or wound any man attempting to
escape; but not to kill—if possible.  I was
most anxious to learn with certainty the fate of
Lascelles: whether he had been assassinated;
or was lying perishing and mutilated in some
solitary place; or had been delivered up to the
French.  Indeed, I should have been relieved
from a load of anxiety, and felt overjoyed to
learn that his fate was only the last.  Gask was
as well aware as I how jealous the continental
monks were of the ancient right of sanctuary,
and he knew that they would rather favour the
escape of the vilest criminal than deliver him
up to offended justice.  Of their obstinacy in
this respect, I know of several instances: one I
will mention in particular.  It occurred at Malta.

A soldier of ours, when passing one day
through a street of Valetta, was run against
and thrown down by a provoking brute of a
pig.  Exasperated at having his gay uniform
soiled by the dusty street, he gave the grunting
porker a hearty kick; upon which the villainous
macellajo, to whom it belonged, drew his
poniard and stabbed him to the heart.  The
poor soldier fell dead on the pavement; the
murderer fled to the great church of St. John,
and obtained sanctuary.  Respecting the popular
prejudices of the Maltese (who regard with
the greatest veneration that sacred edifice,
which contains the sepulchres of innumerable
brave knights of the Isle,) the general
commanding permitted the hot-blooded ruffian to
remain some time in sanctuary, before he
applied to the bishop for the exertion of his
authority to have him delivered up to the civil
magistrates.  The prelate delayed, equivocated;
and the reverend fathers, foreseeing the violation
of their famous place of refuge, facilitated
the escape of the assassin, and so defeated the
ends of justice.

I was determined that the priests of St. Battaglia
should not cheat me so in this affair; and,
after desiring Gask with his party to keep on
the alert, I was about to have the door blown to
pieces by a volley of musketry, when the bars
were withdrawn, and it slowly revolved on its
creaking hinges.  The soldiers were about to
rush in; but the sight they beheld arrested
them: all paused, mute, and turned inquiringly
to me for instructions.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED.

.. vspace:: 2

The portal of the edifice slowly unfolded,
disclosing the whole array of priests, who,
clad in their floating vestments, advanced
chaunting from the oratory, with tapers
burning, censers smoking, and two emblazoned
banners waving: one of white silk, bearing a
large crimson cross, surmounted by the sacred
charge of St. Peter—the keys of heaven; the
other, the symbolical banner of St. Battaglia,
surrounded by all the imaginary odour and
glory of sanctity.  The spectacle was very
imposing: the tapers of scented wax, and
the silver censers filled with lavender flowers,
diffused through the air a fragrant perfume;
while the pale curling smoke that encircled the
gilded crosses and elevated images rendered—

   |  "——Indistinct the pageant proud,
   |  As fancy forms of midnight cloud,
   |  When flings the moon upon her shroud
   |      A wavering tinge of flame."
   |

The misty vapour, the flickering lights, and
the flowing garments of the fathers; the dark
walls of the old cloisters which rang to the
solemn and sonorous chaunt of twenty male
voices; the distant organ swelling aloud, and
then dying away in the hollow recesses of the
arched oratory, together produced a striking
effect.  The abbot, an aged priest of venerable
aspect, with a beard white as the new fallen
snow (then an unusual appendage to a canon's
chin), appeared at their head.  They halted
beneath the ivy-crowned archway; the chaunt
ceased, the soldiers drew back, and all were
silent: save the magnificent strains of the
organ reverberating in the vaulted chapel
and the rustle of the consecrated standards,
all was still.  The abbot, who no doubt
expected that this religious display would
impress us with a feeling of awe, then addressed me.

"Your purpose, signor?" he asked, mildly,
but firmly.

"Reverend abate," I responded, lowering
my sword respectfully, "I demand the person,
of a vile assassin, whom I have learned, from
unquestionable authority, you have concealed
within these walls!"

"He whom you seek is under the protection
of God.  Know, signor, that he who
puts forth a hand in anger against one who
seeketh and findeth sanctuary in the church,
is guilty of the most atrocious sacrilege!"

"On my own head be the guilt of the
sacrilege, Padre Abate.  Excuse us: the
French are in your immediate vicinity, and
we run the imminent risk of being all taken
prisoners.  One of our comrades, a young
officer of distinction, is missing; and a
frightful assassination has been committed at the
villa Montecino: we have every reason to
believe that your favoured fugitive is
implicated in both these mysterious occurrences.
I cannot parley with you, reverend signor: I
demand an interview with the criminal; and
if he is not instantly brought forth, I have to
acquaint you that I will search the monastery
by force; and, if need be, drag him from the
very altar at the point of the bayonet!"

Ere the indignant abbot could reply—

"Darest thou! abominable heretic as thou
art, violate the house of God?" cried a tall,
fierce-looking and fanatical monk, rushing
forward, with flushed cheeks and kindling eyes,
and holding aloft a ponderous ebony crucifix.
"Pause! lest the thunders of offended Heaven
be hurled upon ye: pause! lest the vials of
wrath——"

"Pshaw!" I exclaimed, impatiently; "we
may parley here till sunset.  Soldiers, forward
to the chapel: there you will doubtless discover
the rogue."  My followers rushed past; a volley
of execrations burst from the padri, and I was
assailed with cries of—

"Paganico infame! malandrino! infidel! damnable
heretic!" and a thousand other injurious
and ridiculous epithets.  I heeded them
not; but, at the head of my party, burst into
the chapel of the monastery.  I had augured
rightly: there the fugitive was discovered.

Pale as death, ghastly and bloody from a
sword wound on the head, a savage-looking
fellow was dragged by force from the foot
of the great gilt crucifix on the altar; to
the rail of which he clung for a moment with
convulsive energy.  The soldiers brought him
before me, and, by their fixed bayonets, kept
back the exasperated priests; who continued
to pour forth upon us a ceaseless torrent of
invectives and maledictions, which we regarded
no more than the wind.

"Are you the unhappy man who is guilty
of murder?" said I.  He replied only by a
wild and unmeaning stare.

"Unhappy wretch! your name?"

"Giosué of Montecino," said he, suddenly
and fiercely.  I trembled for poor Oliver, on
remembering the name of his rival.

"Villain! what fiend tempted you to slay
your unhappy cousin?"

He started, as if stung by a serpent.

"She is dead, then!" he said in a hoarse
and almost inarticulate voice, while his head
drooped upon his heaving breast.  Suddenly
uttering a howl like a wild beast, he broke
away from the soldiers, escaping their levelled
bayonets; and, finding the gate secured,
scrambled up the rugged outer wall like a
polecat; there balancing himself, he turned,
and regarding me with a scornful scowl, he
burst into a bitter and hysterical laugh.  The
soldiers rushed towards him, and one fired;
but I threw up his firelock, and the ball
passed close to the head of the assassin, who
never winced.  Escape was now impossible.
On one side of him bristled twenty bayonets;
en the other was a tremendous precipice, with
a deep river flowing at its base several
hundred feet below.  The slightest dizziness
might have been fatal to him.  But folding
his arms he uttered a laugh of defiance, and
called upon us to fire.  I was strongly tempted
to put his talisman to the proof; but restrained
my exasperated soldiers.

"Wretch," said I; "know you aught of a
British officer, who has been missing since last
night?"

"Yes," he replied, with a sardonic grin,
shaking his clenched right hand aloft with
savage exultation.  "These are the fingers that
fastened on his throat with a tiger's clutch."

"You slew him!" I cried, and drew a pistol from my sash.

"I did not—ha! and yet I did."

"How, villain?" He laughed scornfully again.

"Hear me, Giosué Montecino," said I:
"you see this pistol?  I might in one moment
deprive you of existence——"

"Ha! ha!" laughed the assassin.

"Yet I will spare your life, if you will tell
me the fate of my comrade."

"My life?  Bagatella! ho—ho!  I want it not.
Fools—dolts that ye are! think ye that I am
afraid to die?  Here is my breast—a thousand
bullets were welcome—straight to the heart—fire!"
and he smote his bosom as he spoke.
There was something almost noble in his
aspect at that moment, notwithstanding its
wildness and repulsiveness.

"Hear me, fellow:—the Lieutenant Lascelles"——

"Ha!" he ground his teeth madly.  "Curses
hurl him to that perdition into which he has
hurried me!  At this moment he feels in the
body some of those agonies I endure in the
spirit.  O, Dianora!—thou whose very shadow
I worshipped,—I who loved the very ground
you trod upon!"  The inexplicable ruffian
sobbed heavily; yet his blood-shot eyes were
never moistened by a tear.  "O, Dianora!"
he continued, in a voice which, though husky,
yet expressed the most intense pathos.  "Who
was the fiend that nerved me to destroy thee—and
so barbarously?  Who, but this accursed
Englishman!  Believe me, Signor, I had not
the least intention of slaying her last night:
O no! none—none!"  He wrung his hands
wildly.  "What could be further from my
thoughts?  Disguised as her lover—as this
Oliver—I intended to have carried her off;
but her endearing accents, addressed as to
him, fell like scorching fire upon my heart.
I could restrain my demoniac feelings no
longer.  O, horror!  Yet I have done nothing
that I would not commit again, rather than
behold her in the arms of—of—Maladetto!—his
name is poison to my lips!"

"Madman, come down from the wall."

"Would you learn the fate of your friend?"
he asked, exultingly.

"Had I a mountain of gold to give you—"

"Gold?—fool!—what is gold to me?
Listen.  Waylaid by my companions last
night, the dog you call your comrade was
dashed from his horse by their clubs.  He
fought bravely, and with his sabre laid open
my head: my own blood blinded me.  Ha! a
moment, and my hand was on his throat—my
acciaro at his breast—yet I spared him."

"Heaven will reward you"——

"Ha—ha!  A sudden death suited not my
purpose or my hate.  Slow, consuming,
diabolical mental tortures were what I wanted:
and what think you we did?"  I was breathless;
I could not ask, but Giosué continued:

"Bound with cords, he was borne to a
ruined vault among the lonely mountains
yonder; there amid stinging adders, hissing
vipers, bloated toads, and voracious polecats,
we flung him down, tied hand and foot,
stunned and bleeding.  Then closing the
aperture, we piled up earth and stones and
rocks against it.  There let him perish! unseen,
unknown, unheard.  May never an
ave be said over his bones, and may a curse
blight, haunt, and blast, to all futurity, the
spot where they lie."  He paused for a
moment, and then continued more slowly and
energetically.

"To laugh to scorn the terror of death was
the glory of the Greek and the Roman; and
I will show thee, Signor Inglese, that Giosué
of Montecino can despise it, as nobly as his
classic fathers may have done in the days of
old."  He raised aloft a long bright poniard,
which he suddenly drew forth from his sleeve.

"Madman!—desperado!" I exclaimed;
"hold, for the sake of mercy!  A word—a
word—I will give you a thousand ducats!
life! all! anything! but say where you have
imprisoned my friend?—for Heaven's sake say!"

"Never!" said he, with a triumphant
scowl—-"never: let him perish with myself.
Love for Dianora led me to destroy her; and
love for her still, teaches me that to survive
would be the foulest and basest cowardice!"

He struck the stiletto to his heart, and fell
dead at my feet.

I was horror-stricken: not by the suicide
of the assassin, but by the revelation he had
had just made.  Of its truth I could not
entertain a doubt, The situation of the
unfortunate Lascelles, pinioned, wounded, and
entombed alive, to endure all the protracted
agonies of death by starvation, rushed vividly
upon my mind, and overwhelmed me with
rage and mortification.  I explained to my
soldiers the terrible confession of the fierce
Giosué, and their emotions were not much
short of my own.  We endured tantalization
in its bitterest sense.  What would I not have
given that the convulsed corpse of the vindictive
Montecino were yet endued with life.  But,
alas! the ruffian had perished in his villainy
with the important secret undisclosed, and the
horrible fate of my friend could not be averted.

And Giosué, wretch as he was, I pitied him.
His had been the burning love, and his the
deadly hatred of his country:

   |  "The cold in clime, or cold in blood,
   |    Their love it scarce deserves a name;
   |  But *his* was like the lava's flood,
   |    That boils in Etna's breast of flame."
   |

Slowly and dejectedly we quitted the
monastery, as the sun was setting behind the
hills of Sicily; and marching in silence
towards Scylla, we reached a third time the
place where Oliver's glove and gorget had
been found.  There we made an involuntary
halt, and gazed around us with the keenest
scrutiny, in the hope of discovering some
clue to the place of his immurement.  My
brave party seemed very unwilling to
return to Scylla without making another effort
to rescue the victim of Montecino.  Innumerable
were the ideas suggested and plans
proposed; but none of them seemed worthy of
attention, save one of Sergeant Gask's.

"The rascal mentioned a ruined vault
among the hills," said he: "now what think
you, Captain Dundas, of searching the ruins
on the mountain yonder?  And, by my faith,
sir! the foot-marks and traces of blood lead
off in that direction.  See! the lower branches
of the shrubs are broken, the withered leaves
of the last year are trodden down, and bloody
tracks are on the grass."

"The sergeant is right, sir," muttered the
soldiers, pleased with his acuteness.

"Move on, then—forward to the old castle;
any active occupation is preferable to this
horrid state of idle suspense."

A quarter of an hour's rapid marching
brought us to the castelletto, a little tower in
a state of great dilapidation, covered with
masses of bronze-like ivy, and the beautiful
wild flowers of fruitful Italy.  A large owl
flew from one of the shattered openings, and
with a shrill scream soared on its heavy wings
through the evening sky.  The woods and
hills around us were growing dark; the
place was still as the grave: the ivy leaves
rustling tremulously on the rugged masonry
of the ruin, and a rivulet tinkling through a
fissure of a neighbouring rock, were the only
sounds we heard.  Solemn pines towered
around it on every hand, and the aspect of the
landscape was peculiarly desolate and gloomy.
A musket was fired as a signal, and with a
thousand reverberations the wooded hills gave
back the echo.  With heads bent to the
ground, we listened intently; but there was no
response, and we looked blankly in each other's
faces.

"This cannot be the place," said I in a tone
of sadness, about to move unwillingly away.

"Stay, sir—look here, Captain Dundas,"
cried Gask; "here is blood on the grass,
and, sure as I live, stones freshly heaped up
there!"

"Right—by Jove!  Gask, you are an acute
fellow.  Pile your firelocks, lads, and clear
away this heap of rubbish."

Flushed with hope, the soldiers attacked the
pile of stones indicated by the sergeant: there
were bushes, earth, and fragments of ruined
masonry, all evidently but recently piled up
against the base of the tower.  Rapidly they
rolled down the heavy blocks, and toiled so
strenuously that in three minutes the whole
heap was cleared away, and a little arched
aperture disclosed.  An exclamation of joy
and hope burst from the whole party: we had
found the place.  Gask and the little bugler
descended into the vault—a dark, damp, and
hideous hole under the ruins.  A faint moan
drew them cautiously to a corner, and there
they found the object of all our search and
anxiety—Oliver Lascelles, benumbed by cold,
and his limbs swollen almost to bursting by
the tight cordage which confined them.  He
was speechless and half-stifled by the noxious
vapours of the dungeon: had we been half an
hour later he must have expired.  When
we drew him forth, he was so pale, haggard,
and death-like, that his aspect shocked me;
but the pure fresh breeze of the balmy
evening revived him, and he recovered rapidly.
He could not address us at first; but his looks
of thankfulness, joy, and recognition were
most expressive.  The soldiers were merry
and happy, every face beamed with gladness;
even Gask's usually grave and melancholy
visage was brightened by a smile.

We had little time for explanation; we
were in a dangerous vicinity, from which it
was necessary to retire without a moment's
delay.  Oliver was quite enfeebled; but,
supported on the sergeant's arm and mine, he
contrived to walk, though slowly, and we set
out immediately for the castle of Scylla.

Gask afterwards told me, that in the vault
"he had touched something that made his
flesh creep."  It was a small and delicate
female hand.  I never mentioned the circumstance
to Oliver; who was long in recovering
from the effects of his perilous love adventure.
But I had no doubt the dead hand was poor
Dianora's: the *forfeited hand*, which in cruel
mockery that incarnate demon Giosué had
thrown beside her lover.

In the bustle of succeeding and more
important events the interest we took in
Lascelles' affair gradually subsided.  But it was
long ere he forgot the fate of Dianora, and the
horrible death which, by a lucky combination
of incidents, he had so narrowly escaped;
and longer still ere he recovered his wonted
buoyancy of spirit and lightness of heart.





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.. _`UNEXPECTED PERILS`:

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   CHAPTER XVII.


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   UNEXPECTED PERILS.

.. vspace:: 2

The near approach of the enemy made it
apparent that the town of Scylla would soon be
destroyed by the shot and shell their artillery
would pour upon it; and that the Free Corps,
who occupied its half-ruined streets, would be
sacrificed without being of service to the
garrison in the castle; I, therefore, telegraphed
to the *Electra*, to send off a boat, as I wished
to consult with her commander about the
transmission of those troops to Messina.

A strong breeze had been blowing from
the south-west all day, and the sea ran with
such fury through the Straits that no boat
could come off until after sunset, when there
was a lull.  Immediately, on being informed
that a boat had arrived at the sea staircase,
I buckled on my sabre, threw my cloak
round me, and hurried off, intending to return
before the ever-anxious Bianca had discovered
my absence.  How vain were my anticipations!

The long *fetch* of the sea running from
Syracuse rolled the breakers with great fury
on the castle rock, and the boat was tossed
about like a cork among the foaming surf
that seethed and hissed around us.  As the
oars dipped in the water and she shot away,
I seated myself in the stern-sheets, beside the
little middy who held the tiller-ropes.  The
frigate lay nearly a mile to the southward, and
there was such a tremendous current against
us that the six oarsmen, though straining
every nerve and sinew, found it impossible
to make head against it.

"I wish we may make the frigate to-night,
sir," said the midshipman, looking anxiously
at the clouds: "there's a squall coming from
the south-south-east, and these Straits are
an awkward place to be caught by one.  What
do you think, Tom Taut?"

"Think, sir? why that we'll have a dirty
night," replied the sailor whom he addressed:
a grim, brown, and brawny tar.  "When I
sailed in the *Polly Femus*, 74, we had just
such a night as this off Scylla, and I won't be
in a hurry forgetting it!"

It was now past sunset, in the month of
February, and the darkness of the louring
sky increased rapidly.  Through the thin
mist floating over the surface of the water,
the frigate loomed large; but when the rising
wind cleared it away, we found the distance
increasing between us: the strong current
was carrying us, at the rate of five knots an
hour, towards the terrible rock we had just
left; which rose from the water like a black
gigantic tower, and seemed ever to be close
by, frowning its terrors upon us.  Dense
banks of vapour soon shrouded the land and
hid the frigate: it grew so dark that we knew
not which way to steer.  The seamen still
continued to pull fruitlessly; for we made so
much sternway that I expected to find the
frail craft momently stranded on the rocky
beach.

"We shall never reach the frigate to-night,
unless she fills and makes a stretch towards
us," said the middy.  "This current will not
change till daylight, and the Lord knows
when the wind will chop about.  It has
been blowing from Syracuse ever since the
poor little *Delight* was driven on the rocks
yonder."

"You cannot fetch Scylla, I suppose."

"Lord, no, sir! we must give it a wide
berth: the breakers will be running against it
in mountains just now.  We must put up the
helm and run with the wind and tide, to avoid
swamping; and if we escape being sucked
into Charybdis on the westward, or beached
under the cliffs of Palmi to the northward, we
may consider ourselves lucky dogs."

"But we may be thrown upon a part of the
coast occupied by the enemy."

"Better that than go to old Davy, sir,"
said the grey-haired bow-oarsman, "as I
nearly did when the *Polly Femus*, 74, came
through these same Straits of Messina."

"When?" said I.  "Lately?"

"Lord love you, no, sir—why 't was in the
year one."

"One?"

"That is 1801.  We were standing for
Malta with a stiff breeze from the nor'-east.
The *Polly Femus* was close hauled on the
starboard tack——"

"D—n the *Polyphemus*," cried the midshipman,
testily, as he put the helm up; "take in
your loose gaff, Tom: if we are not picked
up by the *Amphion*, your tune will be changed
before morning.  Hoste keeps a good look out!"

"He was made a sailor of in the *Polly*—whew! beg
pardon, sir," said the old fellow,
who could not resist making another allusion
to his old ship.

"Faith!  Captain Dundas," said the middy,
"it is so dark that I have not the slightest
notion of our whereabouts."

"Yonder's a spark away to windward, sir,"
said old Tom.  "The *Electra*, cannot be less
than somewhere about two miles off—a few
fathoms more or less."

At that moment the frigate fired a gun;
the red flash gleamed through the gloom, and
after a lapse the report was borne past us on
the night wind.  A blue light was next burned;
it shone like a distant star above the black and
tumbling sea, then expired: and so did all our
hopes of reaching the ship—the sound of her
gun having informed us that we had been
swept by the current far to the north of the
Lanterna of Messina, which was rapidly being
lost amid the murky vapour.

"Keep a good look out there forward,"
cried the middy: "if we miss the *Amphion*,
we may all go to the bottom, or be under
weigh for a French prison by this time to-morrow."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the sailor through
his hand, while, bending forward, he strove
to pierce the gloom a-head.

"Give way, men—cheerily now."

The rowers stretched back over the thwarts
till their oars bent like willow wands, and as
the strong current was with us now, we flew
through the foaming water with the speed of a
race-horse.

"The *Amphion* should be somewhere hereabouts,"
said the midshipman, as the oarsmen
suspended their labours after a quarter of an
hour's pulling: we anxiously scanned the
gloomy watery waste, but could discern no
trace of her.  Vapour and obscurity involved
us on every side, and our minds became a
prey to apprehensions, while our blood chilled
with the cold atmosphere, and a three hours'
seat in an open boat at such a season.  The
tower of the Lantern had vanished; a single
star only was visible, and the inky waves often
hid it, as the boat plunged down into the dark
trough of the midnight sea.

Suddenly the broad moon showed her
silvery disc above the level horizon; her size
seemed immense, and as the thin gauzy clouds
rolled away from her shining face, we saw the
black waves rising and falling in strong
outline between.  Her aspect was gloomy and
louring.

"When the moon sets, the current will
begin to run northward," said the experienced
little mid; "and we shall have a capital
chance of being sucked into the Calofaro, or
stranded on Punta Secca.  Would to God, we
saw the frigate!"

As he spoke, a large vessel passed across the
bright face of that magnificent moon, which
shed a long line of silver light across the
troubled water, brightening the summits of the
waves as they rose successively from the dark
bosom of the sea.  The effect was beautiful,
as the vessel passed on the rolling surge,
and heaving gracefully, slid away into obscurity.

"A large frigate on the starboard tack,"
said the midshipman, as she disappeared:
"she is five miles off."

"That's the *Amphion*, your honour," said
Tom Taut; "I know her as well as the old
*Polly Femus*."

"Are you sure?" I asked with anxiety.

"Sure?" replied Tom, energetically spitting
his quid to leeward; "I know her in a
moment, by the rake of her spars.  Her mizen
top-sail aback—her courses shivering: I
know her better than any ship on the station,
except the darling old *Polly*.  Bill Hoste is
creeping along shore, after some of these
gun-boats the *Delight* let slip so easily."

"If I judge rightly, we must be somewhere
off Palmi."

"Hark!" said the midshipman, and the roar
of billows rolling on the shore confirmed my
supposition.

"Breakers ahead!" cried the man at the
bow, and we beheld a long white frothy line,
glimmering through the gloom; and above it
towered the dark outline of a lofty coast.  The
current shot us among the surf; which boiled
around us as white as if we were amid the
terrors of Charybdis.  A little cove, where the
waves rolled gently up the sandy slope,
invited us to enter; the boat ran in, and we
were immediately in the smooth water of a
little harbour, where the dark wild woods
overhung the rocks at its entrance, and all around
it on every side.  Here we hoped to remain
unseen, till daylight revealed our
"whereabouts," as the middy had it.

For a time we kept the oars in the rowlocks,
ready to retire on a moment's notice; but
finding that not a sound, save the dashing sea,
woke the echoes of that lonely place, I
volunteered to land and make a reconnoissance;
desiring the midshipman to pull southward, along
the shore, in case of any alarm, that I might
be picked up at some other point.  Belting
my sabre tighter, I threw aside my cloak, and
sprang ashore.  On walking a little way
forward, through the wood, I found the country
open, and saw lights at a distance; which I
conjectured to be those of Palmi or Seminara,
where Regnier had concentrated a strong body
of troops.

Struggling forward among a wilderness of
prostrate columns and shattered walls
overgrown with creeping plants and foliage
(probably the ruins of ancient *Taurianum*), I often
stopped and bent to the ground to listen; but
heard only the creaking trees, the gurgle of
a lonely rill seeking its devious path to the
sea, or the rustle of withered leaves, swept over
the waste by the rising wind.  But the roll
of a distant drum and the flash of a cannon
about two miles off, arrested my steps and
made me think of returning: I conjectured it
to be the morning gun from the French fort at
Palmi.  Daylight soon began to brighten the
summits of the Apennines, and the waves, as
they rolled on each far off promontory and
cape.  Having nearly a mile to walk, I began
hurriedly to retrace my steps; for the dawn stole
rapidly on.  As I walked on, the deep boom of a
cannonade and the sharp patter of small arms
made my heart leap with excitement and
anxiety, and spurred me in my flight.  Breaking
through the wood, I rushed breathlessly to
the shore; but alas! the boat was gone: I
saw it pulled seaward, with a speed which
the strong flow of the morning current accelerated.
In close chase, giving stroke for stroke,
while the crew plied their muskets and twenty-four
pounder, followed one of those unlucky
gun-boats captured by the French: it had
been anchored in the same cove, and had
discovered our little shallop the moment day
broke.

The pursued and the pursuers soon disappeared
behind a promontory, and I found
myself alone, far behind the enemy's lines, and
almost without a chance of escape.  Cursing
the zeal which had led me on such a fruitless
reconnoissance, I retired into a beech wood, as
the safest place; and lay down in a thicket to
reflect on my position, and form a plan for
extrication from it.





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.. _`CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY.—THE TWO GENERALS`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY—THE TWO GENERALS.

.. vspace:: 2

I was only twelve miles distant from Scylla;
but as every approach to it was closely blocked
up by Regnier, whose troops covered the whole
province from sea to sea, every attempt to reach
it would be attended by innumerable dangers
and difficulties: yet, confiding in the loyalty of
the Calabrese, and the influence my name had
among them, I did not despair of regaining the
fortress, by seeking its vicinity through the most
retired paths.

Except my sword, spurs, and Hessian boots,
I had nothing military about me; as I wore a
Calabrian doublet of grey cloth, and a
nondescript forage-cap.  As I walked forward, the
trees became more scattered, and the openness
of the ground made the utmost circumspection
necessary.  A sudden cry of "Halte! arrêtez!"
made me pause; and, within a few paces,
I beheld a French vidette—a lancer in his long;
scarlet cloak, which flowed from his shoulders
over the crupper of his horse, and, like his
heavy plume and tricoloured banderole, was
dank with dew.

"Ah, sacre coquin!" he cried, lowering his
lance, and charging me at full speed.  "I see
you are an Englishman."  I sprang behind a
tree, and as he passed me in full career, by a
blow of my sabre I hewed the steel head
from his lance.  At that moment an officer
rode up, and, placing a pistol at my head,
commanded me to yield.  Resistance was vain,
and I surrendered my sabre in the most
indescribable sorrow and chagrin; for thoughts of
Bianca, of a long separation and imprisonment,
of all my blighted hopes of happiness, honour,
and promotion, and of the important trust
reposed in me, rushed in a flood upon my
mind: almost stupified, I was led away by
my captor.

A few minutes' walk brought us to the
bivouac of a cavalry brigade, which was in all
the bustle of preparation for the march; while
six trumpeters, blowing "boot and saddle,"
made the furthest dingles of the forest ring.
The horses were all picqueted under trees, or
within breast-ropes; and the officer informed
me that the brigade was that of General
Compere, before whom he led me.

Rolled up in a cloak, the general was
seated at the foot of a tree; behind him stood
his mounted orderly, holding his charger by
the bridle.  His aide-de-camp and a number
of officers lounged round him, smoking cigars,
drinking wine from a little barrel, and joking
with great hilarity ere they marched.  The
ashes of the watch-fires smouldered near; the
mist was curling between the branches of the
leafless trees, and the rising sun glittered on
the bright lance-heads, the gay caps, and
accoutrements of the dashing lancers; who were
rapidly unpicqueting their chargers, and
forming close column of squadrons on the skirts of
the wood.

"Monsieur le vicomte is welcome as flowers
in spring," said the general; "but who is
this?—Ah!" he exclaimed, suddenly recognising
me, and raising politely his cocked-hat.
"I did not expect to have this pleasure.  You
are the brave officer I met at Maida?"

I bowed.

"And again behind our lines at Cassano—disguised
as a monk?" he added, with a keen glance.

"Thrown upon that coast by shipwreck, I
gladly adopted any disguise until I could
escape."

"Our whole army heard of you, and
understood you had been employed as a spy by
the Count of Maida; consequently Massena
was enraged at your escape.  Ah! the old
Tambour—he is a rough dog!  However, monsieur,
*I* do not believe that one who could fight
so gallantly at Maida, would stoop to act a
dishonourable part."

"Yet, will monsieur be so good as explain,"
said another officer, "how we find him here;
without the lines drawn round Scylla, to the
garrison of which he says he belongs—and
why in the garb of a Calabrian?"

Indignant at the suspicious nature of these
queries, and unused to the humiliating situation
of a prisoner, I replied briefly and haughtily;
relating how I had missed the boat—a
story which none of them seemed to believe.
A whisper ran round, and the offensive term
"*espion*" brought the blood rushing to my
cheek.

"Monsieur le general," said I, with a
sternness of manner which secured their respect,
"will, I trust—in memory of that day at Maida—be
so generous as to send me, on parole, to
Messina, where I may treat about an exchange;
by doing so, he will confer a lasting obligation,
which the fortune of war may soon put it in my
power to repay."

"I deeply regret that to General Regnier I
must refer you—he alone can grant your
request.  As we move instantly on Scylla, you
must be transmitted to head-quarters without
delay, and under escort.  Appearances are
much against you; but I trust matters will
be cleared up.  Chataillion," said he to his
aide, "help the gentleman to wine and a
cigar, while I write a rough outline of this
affair to monsieur le general."

Commanding my feelings and features, I
drank a glass or two of wine, while the general,
taking pen and ink from his sabretache, wrote
a hasty note to Regnier.

"Chataillion," said he, while folding it,
"order a corporal and a file of lances."

The vicomte went up to the first regiment of
the brigade, and returned with the escort.

"In the charge of these soldiers, you must
be sent to Seminara, where I trust your parole
will be accepted in consequence of this note:
though monsieur le general and monseigneur
le marechal are far from being well disposed
towards you; especially for the last affair with
the voltigeurs of the 23rd.  Ah!  Regnier's son
Philip was shot at Bagnara—poor boy!  Adieu!
May we meet under more agreeable circumstances;"
and giving the letter to the corporal,
Compere sprang into his saddle, and left me.
His aide-de-camp, the Vicomte de Chataillion,
seeing how deeply I was cast down, expressed
regret at having been my capturer.  "But
monsieur will perceive," said he, with a most
insinuating smile, "that I was only doing my
duty.  You cannot travel on foot with a
mounted escort—it would be dishonourable;
and as I have a spare horse, you are welcome
to it: on reaching Seminara, or even the
frontiers, you can return it with the
corporal.—Adieu!"  And we parted.

The frontier! distraction!  I could scarcely
thank the young Frenchman: but memory yet
recalls his gallant presence and commanding
features—one of the true old noblesse.  How
different he was from Pepe, Regnier, Massena,
and many others; whom the madness and
crimes of the Revolution had raised to place and
power, from the dregs of the French people.

With a little ostentation, the lancers loaded
their pistols before me, and in five minutes I
was *en route* for Seminara, with a file on each
side and the corporal riding behind.  I often
looked back: Compere's brigade were riding in
sections towards the hills, with all their lance
heads and bright accoutrements glittering in
the sun; while the fanfare of the trumpets, the
clash of the cymbals, and the roll of the
kettle-drums, rang in the woods of Palmi.  They were
moving towards Scylla, and my heart swelled
when I thought of my helplessness and of poor
Bianca; the hope of Regnier accepting my
parole alone sustained me: but that hope was
doomed to be cruelly disappointed.

By the way we passed many ghastly objects,
which announced the commencement of that
savage war of extermination which General
Manhes afterwards prosecuted in the Calabrias.
Many armed peasantry had been shot like
beasts of prey, wherever the French fell in with
them; and their bodies hung on the trees we
passed under, while their grisly heads were
stuck on poles by the roadside.  Some were in
iron cages, and, reduced to bare skulls, grinned
through the rusty ribs like spectres through
barred helmets; while the birds of prey, screaming
and flapping their wings over them, increased
the gloomy effect such objects must necessarily
have upon one's spirits.

The morning was balmy and beautiful, the
sun hot and bright, the sky cloudless and of
the palest azure; light fleecy vapour floated
along the distant horizon, where the sea lay
gleaming in green and azure: but never had I
a more unpleasant ride than that from Compere's
bivouac.  I often looked round me, in the
desperate hope that a sudden attack of robbers or
loyal paesani would set me free; though warned
by the corporal that on the least appearance of
an attempt at rescue he would shoot me dead.
But Regnier had effectually cleared and scoured
the country, and we passed no living being, save
an old Basilian pilgrim, travelling barefooted,
perhaps on his way to the Eternal City; and
once, in the distance, a solitary bandit on the
look-out, perched on the summit of a rock like
a lonely heron.  The bells of the mountain
goats, the hum of the bee or the flap of the
wild bird's wing, and the dull tramp of our
horses on the grassy way, alone broke the
silence.  My escort were solemn and taciturn
Poles, who never addressed a word either to me
or to each other; so my gloomy cogitations were
uninterrupted till we entered Seminara, when
the scene changed.

The town was crowded with soldiers, and all
the populace had fled: cavalry, infantry, artillery,
sappeurs, voltigeurs, and military artizans,
thronged on every hand; shirts and belts were
drying at every window, and the air was
thickened by pipe clay and tobacco-smoke,
while the sound of drums, bugles, and trumpets
mingled with shouts and laughter, rang through
the whole place—noise and uproar reigning on
all sides.  The great Greek abbey and cathedral
were littered with straw for cavalry
horses; the principal street was blocked up by
waggons, caissons, tumbrils, pontoons, mortars,
and the whole of that immense battering train
concentrated for the especial behoof of my brave
little band at Scylla: whither it would be
conveyed the moment the roads were completed.

A strong guard of grenadiers stationed before
the best house in the town, announced it to be
the quarters of the general.  They belonged to
the 62nd of the French line.  In front of the
mansion stood thirty pieces of beautiful brass
cannon: the same which the French threw into
the sea on abandoning Scylla, when, in the
year following, the British beleaguered it under
Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, 27th regiment.  I
was ushered by the corporal into the general's
presence, and found him just finishing breakfast:
he had pushed away his last cup of
chocolate, placed his foot on the braciere, and was
composing himself to resume reading the *Moniteur*,
while his servant, a grenadier in blue uniform,
with rough iron-grey moustaches cleared
the table.  On the wall hung a bombastic
bulletin of Napoleon, dated 27th December, 1806:—

"The Neapolitan dynasty has ceased to
reign! its existence is incompatible with the
repose of Europe and the honour of our crown.
Soldiers, march! and *if* they will await your
attack, drive into the sea those feeble battalions
*of the tyrants of the ocean*—lose no time in
making all Italy subject to my arms!"

Probably the *Moniteur* contained some
unpleasant account of our brilliant success in
other parts of the world; for the temper of the
general was soured, and he regarded me with
a most vinegar-like aspect, when the corporal
ushered me in.  I bowed coldly; he answered
only by a stern glance, spread his hands
behind his coat tails, and leaned against the mantel-piece.

"Ouf! a prisoner of war," said he, and
scanning me at intervals, while reading the
letter of Compere.

"Your name and rank?"

"Dundas, captain of the 62nd regiment of
the line, and commandant of the castle of
Scylla, for his Majesty Ferdinand IV."

"Ouf! the very man we wanted!  You were
caught on the shore near Palmi?"

"Yes, when left there by the boat of the
*Electra* frigate, and merely meaning to make a
reconnoissance, (until daybreak enabled us to
put to sea) I penetrated"—

"A deuced lame story!  Bah! you were
merely making a reconnoissance at Canne too,
I suppose?  Ha! ha! well, we will cure you of
that propensity for the future."

"I request to be liberated on my parole."

"A spy on parole!  Ouf!"

"Scoundrel!" I exclaimed, losing all temper,
"I am a gentleman—a British officer."

"Sacre coquin! men of honour do not prowl
in the rear of an enemy's chain de quartiers in
disguise: where is your uniform?"

I gave him a scornful glance in reply.

"Ouf!" said he, "you came to see our
arrangements for capturing your crow's nest at
Scylla.  Behold, then, our pontoons, our
battering train, our brigades of infantry and
sappers: I trust you will report to monseigneur
the Prince of Essling, that they are all ready
for instant service."

"Monsieur, I demand my parole."

"If Massena grants a parole he may, but
not so Regnier: you must be sent to the marshal;
and I believe he is most likely to give you
a yard or two of stout cord, and a leap from the
nearest tree."

"Such conduct would not surprise me in the
least!" I answered, bitterly; "the savage
military government, which dragged the Duc
d'Enghien from a neutral territory, and after a
mockery of judicial form shot him by torchlight
at midnight; and which so barbarously
tortured to death a British officer, in the
Temple, at Paris, must be capable of any
inhumanity.  After the ten thousand nameless
atrocities by which France, since the days of
the Revolution, has disgraced herself among
the nations of Europe; no new violation of
military honour, of humanity, or the laws of
civilized nations, can be a subject of wonder."

"Ah, faquin!  I could order you to be
hanged in ten minutes."

"A day may yet come when this ruffianly
treatment shall be repaid."

"Ouf! monsieur mouchard, Massena will
look to that.  At Castello di Bivona, you will
be embarked on board La Vigilante courier
gunboat, commanded by Antonio Balotte.  He is a
rough Lucchese, that same Antonio, who will
string you to the yard-arm if you prove troublesome.
Ouf! if the emperor was of my opinion,
his soldiers would not take any prisoners."  He
grinned savagely, and summoned his orderly.

"Order a corporal and file of soldiers.  To
them," he continued, addressing the Lancer,
"you will hand over the prisoner with this brief
despatch for Marshal Massena at Cosenza;
it states who he is, and the suspicions against
him."

Massena!  O, how little I had to hope for, if
once in the clutches of that savage and apostate
Italian: particularly when blackened by all that
Regnier's malicious nature might dictate.  In half
an hour I was on the march for Castello di Bivona,
escorted by a corporal and file of the 101st,
with fixed bayonets.  As a deeper degradation,
Regnier had ordered me to be hand-cuffed.
Heavens! my blood boils yet at the recollection
of that!  I would have resisted; but a
musket levelled at my head silenced all
remonstrance, and I bottled up my wrath while
Corporal Crapaud locked the fetters on me.
We marched off, my exasperation increasing as
we proceeded; for the escort seemed determined
to consider me in the character of a spy,
and consequently treated me with insult and
neglect: in vain I told them I was a British
officer, and deserved other treatment.

"True, monsieur," replied the corporal, who
was a dapper little Gaul, four feet six inches
high, "but I am obeying only the orders of the
general; and a British officer, or any other
officer, who is caught among an enemy's
cantonments in disguise, must be considered as a
spy, and expect degradation as such.
Monsieur will excuse us—we have orders not to
converse with prisoners; and the general—ah! ventre
bleu!—he is a man of iron!"

This coolness, or affectation of contempt or
superiority, only increased my annoyance.
Although the soldiers conversed with all the
loquacity and sung with all the gaiety of
Frenchmen, they addressed me no more during
the march of more than twenty-five miles.  This
lasted seven hours, exclusive of halts at Gioja,
Rossarno, and several half-deserted villages and
shepherds' huts; where they extorted whatever
they wanted, at point of the bayonet, and
made good their quarters whenever they chose;
browbeating the men and caressing the women
(if pretty).  I often expected a brawl, and
perhaps a release; but all hope died away, when,
about sunset, we entered Castello di Bivona:
my spirit fell in proportion as the plains and
snow-capped Apennines grew dark, when the
red sun dipped into the Tyrhene sea.

There were no French troops in the town;
but anchored close to the shore lay the French
gun-boat *La Vigilante*, mounting a six and a
fourteen pounder, and having thirty-six men—quite
sufficient to hold in terror the inhabitants
of the little town, who had not forgotten the
visit paid them by Regnier's rear-guard.  My
heart sickened when, from an eminence, I
beheld *La Vigilante*, which was to bear me
further from liberty and hope; and the most
acute anguish took possession of me, when
confined for the night and left to my own
sad meditations.  I understood that I was to
be transmitted to the Upper Province with some
other prisoners, who were to arrive from
Monteleone in the morning, and be conveyed across
the gulf of St. Eufemio by the gun-boat.

I found myself confined for the night in the
upper apartment of a gloomy tower, formed of
immense blocks of stone, squared and built by
the hands of the Locrians.  The chamber was
vaulted, damp, and destitute of furniture; but a
bundle of straw was thrown in for my couch
by Corporal Crapaud: he, with the escort,
occupied a chamber below, where they caroused
and played with dominoes.  A turf battery of
four 24-pounders, facing the seaward, showed
that the French had converted this remnant
of the ancient Hipponium into a temporary
fort: a trench and palisade surrounded it.

A single aperture a foot square, four feet
from the floor, and crossed by an iron bar,
admitted the night breeze and the rays of the
moon; showing the dark mountains, the blue
sky, and the sparkling stars.

Left to solitude, my own thoughts soon became
insupportable.  "At this time yesternight
I was with Bianca!"  To be separated from
her for an uncertain time—perhaps for ever, if
Regnier's threats were fulfilled by the relentless
Massena; to be taken from my important
command at a time so critical—when the last
stronghold of the British in Calabria was
threatened by a desperate siege, on the issue of
which the eyes of all Italy and Sicily were
turned; the imminent danger and degrading
suspicions under which I lay, manacled and
imprisoned like a common felon; threatened on
the one hand with captivity, on the other
with death; and, worst of all, the image of
Bianca, overwhelmed with sorrow and horror
by the obscurity which enveloped my fate: all
combined, tortured me to madness.  I was in a
state bordering on distraction.  Stone walls,
iron bars, and steel bayonets: alas! these are
formidable barriers to liberty.

Midnight tolled from a distant bell, then all
became still: so still that I heard my heart
beating.  Deeming me secure, my escort were
probably sleeping over their cups and dominoes.
I was encouraged to attempt escaping, and
endeavoured to rally my thoughts.  Though
half worn out by our long march over detestable
roads—a journey rendered more toilsome
by the constrained position of my fettered
hands—I became fresh and strong, and
gathered courage from the idea.  Yonder lay the
*Vigilante*, with her latteen sail hanging; loose:
and the sight of her was an additional spur to
exertion: once on board of her, every hope was
cut off for ever.

The detested fetters, two oval iron rings
secured by a padlock and bar, were first to
be disposed of: but how?  The manner in which
they secured the wrists crippled my strength:
the iron bar was a foot long, and though defying
my utmost strength to break or bend it, yet
ultimately it proved the means of setting me
free.  The padlock was strong and new: but a
happy thought struck me; I forced it between
the wide and time-worn joints of the wall until
it was wedged fast as in a vice, then, clasping
my hands together, I wrenched round the bar,
using it as a lever on the lock which passed
through it; and in an instant the bolt, the
wards, the plates which confined them, and all
the iron-work of the once formidable little
engine, fell at my feet.

"God be thanked! oh, triumph!" burst in
a whisper from my lips: my heart expanded,
and I could have laughed aloud, while stretching
my stiffened hands.  But there was no
time to be lost: the fall of the broken padlock
might have alarmed the escort, and I prepared
for instant flight.  Thrusting some of the iron
pieces under the door bolts, to prevent it being
readily opened, I turned to the window, and
found, with joy, that there was space enough
between the cross-bar and the wall for egress:
but the ground was fifteen feet below.  With
great pain and exertion I pressed through, and,
half suffocated, nearly stuck midway between
the rusty bar and stone rybate.  At that
moment of misery and hope, the corporal thundered
at the door; I burst through, fell heavily
to the ground, and for a moment was stunned by
the fall: but the danger of delay, and the risk of
being instantly shot if retaken, compelled me to
be off double-quick.  I rushed up the banquette
of the gun-battery, cleared the parapet at a
bound, and scrambled over the stockade like a
squirrel.

"Villan, hola! halte!" cried Crapaud, firing
his musket: the ball whistled through my hair,
and next moment I was flying like a deer with
the hounds in full chase.  I was closely
pursued: but, after three narrow escapes from the
bullets of my escort, I baffled them, and gained
in safety the cork wood of Bivona.





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.. _`THE ALBERGO.—THE BANDIT'S REVENGE`:

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   CHAPTER XIX.


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   THE ALBERGO.—THE BANDIT'S REVENGE.

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Seeking a thick and gloomy dingle, I flung
myself under its shadow to rest; breathless with
my recent exertion, the long day's march, and
the excitement of the last hour.  My plan was
soon decided: to approach Scylla, from which I
was then nearly thirty miles distant, was my
principal object; but many dangerous obstacles
were to be encountered and overcome, before I
stood in the hall of Ruffo Sciglio.  The snow
melting among the Apennines had swollen the
Metramo and other rivers which I had to pass;
the towns, villages, and all the level country
swarmed with French troops and Buonapartist
sbirri or gendarmes, all closing up towards the
point of attack; while the woods and mountains
were infested by banditti, the most ferocious and
lawless in Europe.  To lie concealed in thickets
by day and to travel by night, was the plan I
proposed adopting; and anxious to find myself
as far as possible from the place of my imprisonment,
after a brief rest I set forward on my
dubious and difficult journey; thinking more of
the joy of embracing Bianca, than the triumph
of meeting Regnier in the breach.

Many of the mountains being yet capped with
snow rendered the air cold and chilly; my head
was without covering, and I was destitute of
every means of defence against either robbers
or wolves: the last were numerous in these
wilds, and I often heard their cries rising up
from the depths of the moonlit forest, through
which I toiled southward.  So wearying, difficult
and uncertain was the path, that I had only
proceeded seven or eight miles when day broke,
and found me in an open and desert place near
Nicotera.  The appearance of a body of the
enemy marching down the hills was sufficient
to scare me, and seeking shelter in an orange
wood, I lay concealed in it for hours; not daring
to venture forth, although I felt the effects of an
appetite sharpened by the keen mountain air.
I had heard much of the manna said to be found
in the morning on the leaves of the mulberry
and other trees in Calabria; but not a drop was
to be seen, although I searched anxiously
enough.  The day seemed interminably long,
and joyfully I hailed eve closing as the sun
sank once more behind Sicily, and the long
shadows of Nicotera fell across the plain.

Armed with a stout club, torn from a tree, I
once more set forward, favoured by the dusk
and refreshed by my long halt, though hungry
as a hawk.

At the hut of a poor charcoal-burner I
received some refreshments and ascertained the
right (or rather safest) path; the honest peasant,
on partly learning the circumstances of my
escape, shouldered his rifle, stuck a poniard
in his girdle, and accompanied me as far as
Gioja; where, after shewing me from the heights
the French watch-fires at Seminara, he left me.
I was pleased when he did so, for then only I
became convinced that his intentions were
honest.  While travelling with him unarmed I
was somewhat suspicious of his kindness: but I
did him wrong; he was a hardy and loyal
Calabrian, and my fears were groundless.  Regretting
having brought him so far from his hut, I gave
him three crowns, nearly all the money in my
possession: at first he refused it; but the
temptation was too great for the poor peasant,
whose only attire was a jacket of rough skin, a
pair of tattered breeches, the net which
confined his ample masses of hair, and the buff belt
sustaining his dagger and powder-horn.
Muttering something about his little ones at home,
he took the reward, with many bows and
protestations, and we parted.

Rejoicing in my progress, I struck into a
path up the hills towards Oppido.  The utmost
circumspection was now necessary: every avenue
to Scylla being closely guarded by Regnier's
picquets and chain of advanced sentries.  About
midnight I lost my way among the woods and
defiles.  I was drenched by falling into a
swampy rice plantation, and severely cut and
bruised by the rocks and roots of trees: the
night being so dark that I could scarcely see my
hand outstretched before me.  A sudden storm
of rain and wind, which swept down from the
hills, completed my discomfiture; and I hailed
with joy a light which twinkled at the bottom
of a deep and savage dell: seeming, from the
eminence on which I stood, like a lantern at the
bottom of a pit.

It proved to be an albergo, or lonely mountain
inn; but of the most wretched description.
Exhausted and weather-beaten as I was, the
many unpleasant stories I had heard of those
suspicious places, and the close connection of
their owners with the banditti occurred to me;
but this did not discourage me from knocking
at the door.  Close to it stood a lumbering
old-fashioned Sicilian carriage; which announced
a visitor of some importance; and the moment
I knocked, a violent altercation ensued as to
whether or not the door should be opened.

"Signor Albergatore," cried a squeaking
voice, "open the door at your peril!  Open it—and
I shall lay the whole affair before his excellency,
the president of the Grand Civil Court."

The innkeeper uttered a tremendous oath and
opened the door.  A blazing fire of billets and
sticks roared up the opening which served for a
chimney, and filled the whole albergo with a
ruddy light.  The host, a most forbidding-looking
dog, with only one eye, a lip and nose
slashed by what appeared to have been a
sword-cut, and which revealed all his upper teeth,
growled a sullen welcome: evidently nowise
pleased with my splashed and miserable
appearance.  But I was resolved to make good my
billet, and drawing close to the fire took a
survey of the company: it consisted of an
important little personage, whose face seemed
the production of a cross between the rat and
weasel; a jovial young fellow, whose jaunty
hat and feather, green velvet jacket and breeches
of striped cotton, rosy and impudent face,
together with his little mandolin, declared him
to be a wandering improvisatore; and an old
monk of St. Christiana (the neighbouring town)
who lay fast asleep in a corner, with his hands
crossed on his ample paunch: his shaven scalp
shining like a polished ball in the light of
the fire, which made his white hair and beard
glisten like silver as they flowed over his coarse
brown cassock.

The little personage before mentioned was
Ser Villani, the great notary of St. Eufemio;
a more apt plunderer of King Ferdinand's
subjects than any robber in Calabria: he was a
thorough-paced lawyer, and consequently a
knave.  Armed with a pass, which for a
certain consideration he had obtained from
General Regnier, he was on his way from Gierazzo,
where he had been collecting information
relative to an interminable process.  The
Grand Civil Court of Palermo was putting
every judicial instrument in operation to
plunder the rich Prince of St. Agata, at the suit
of a neighbouring abbey of monks, whose
relicario he was bound to keep in repair: he
having neglected to enclose the parings of
the nails of San Gennaro in a gilt box, these
inestimable reliques were lost, and his altezza
was deprived of his cross of the saint's order,
and became liable to swinging damages.  All his
notes on this most interesting case, Ser Villani
carried in a legal green bag, which he grasped
with legal tenacity; and he looked at me from
time to time with glances of such distrust and
dislike, that I concluded it contained more
than mere paper.

Three well-armed and wild-looking peasants
were sleeping in a corner, and the host wore a
long knife in his girdle.  Forbidding as he
was in aspect, his wife and daughter were
still more so: their clothes exhibited a strange
mixture of finery and misery—massive silver
pendants and gold rings, chains, rags, and
faded brocades; while their feet were shoeless.
My suspicions increased, and I found I had
got into a lion's den.

"Signor Albergatore," said I, "do you fear
banditti, that you were so long in undoing the
door?"

"'T was the Signor Scrivano who raised so
many objections," he replied, sulkily.

"Had Master Villani known I was a cavalier
of Malta escaping from the French, he
might have been a little more hospitable," I
replied; to deceive them as to my real character:
for I dreaded being given up to Regnier,
perhaps for the sake of a reward.  "Who
occupy the mountains hereabout?"

"Scarolla and Baptistello Varro," replied
the host.  "But they never visit so poor an
albergo as this."

"I hope not," faltered the notary, who
turned ghastly pale at the name of Varro; and
muttering to himself, he glanced uneasily at us
all, with eyes that glittered like those of a
monkey.  "Ah, when will that loitering
scoundrel of a postilion return with a smith
to repair the calesso?  Hound! he contrived
very opportunely that the wheel should come
off close by the albergo: but let him beware;
his neck shall pay the forfeit, if worse comes
of this."

A quiet laugh spread over the host's face,
like sunshine over a field.

"Ser," said the improvisatore, "your postilion
is probably only away to the next hill;
and when he returns, a score of riflemen will
be at his back."

The little notary quaked; and although the
cunning minstrel merely spoke in jest, his
suppositions were indeed too correct.  The
secret understanding which existed between
the brigands, postilions, and innkeepers of
south Italy, was notorious: it has formed the
machinery of innumerable tales of fiction.  But
since the campaign of Manhes and the close of
the war, Italy has been quite regenerated.

The improvisatore received a furious glance
from the host, that confirmed my suspicions:
but to retire now was almost impossible.

After a miserable supper had been washed
down by a caraffa of tart country wine, we
drew closer to the smoky fire, and composed
ourselves round it for the night.  The wife
and daughter of the host retired to a kind
of loft above; resigning the only bed in the
house,—viz., a bag of leaves and a blanket or
two, to the priest.  The notary nodded over
his green bag, and, though he started at every
sound, pretended to be fast asleep.

Notwithstanding my fatigue, thoughts stole
over me and kept me awake; and more than
once I saw the dark glassy eye of the host
observing me intently, from the gloomy corner
where he lay on the tiled floor.  In short, not
to keep the reader any longer behind the
curtain, we were in one of those infamous dens
which were the resort of the brigands: to whom
the keepers conveyed information of all
travellers who passed the night with them;
stating whether they were armed or escorted by
soldiers or sbirri.  The suspicious improvisatore
again whispered to me that he had no
doubt the notary's postilion was only away to
summon his comrades, the banditti.  Reflecting
that I was unarmed, I felt the utmost anxiety;
but retiring might only anticipate matters: the
fellows asleep in the corner were well armed,
and I saw the hilts of their knives and pistol
butts shining in the light of the fire.

"I am glad we have a cavalier of Malta
here to-night," whispered the lad with the
guitar.  "You may save us all from Baptistello
if he pays us a visit—all, one excepted: but,
signor, you have very much the air of an Englishman."

"I served with the English fleet when it
assisted the knights at the siege of Valetta.
But I hope the rogues will not carry me off in
expectation of a ransom."

"Madonna forbid!  But Heaven help poor
Villani, if he fall into the clutches of Baptistello!"

"Why so?"

"Signor, it is quite a story!" said he,
drawing closer and lowering his voice.  "Baptistello
was a soldier of the Cardinal Ruffo, and
served in his army when it defeated the French
in the battle of Naples, on the happy 5th of
June.  His father, Baptiste, was a famous
bravo and capo-bandito, who infested the
mountains above St. Agata, and was the terror
of the province from Scylla to La Bianca.
He boasted that he had slain a hundred men;
and it is said that in order to rival the
frightful Mammone, he once quaffed human
blood.  He was deemed bullet-proof: a charm
worn round his left wrist made him
invulnerable; and he escaped so often and so
narrowly that he soon thought so himself.
His presence inspired terror, and no man dared
to travel within twenty miles of his district
without a numerous escort.  The Prince of
St. Agata, lord of that territory, alone treated
his name with contempt, and daily drove his
carriage through the wildest haunt of Baptiste,
without attendants.

"One day they met: it was in a lonely
valley near the Alece.

"'Stand!' cried the gigantic robber, kneeling
behind a rock, over which he levelled his
rifle.  The reins fell from the hands of the
driver.

"'Villain! fire, if you dare!' cried the
prince.

"The robber fired, and his bullet passed
through the hat of the prince; who, levelling
a double-barrelled pistol, shot four balls through
the heart of his assailant.  Before the arrival
of the banditti, who with shouts were rushing
down from the mountains, the Prince was
driving at full gallop through the valley, with
the body of Varro lashed to the hind axle-bar
and trailing along the dusty road.  Thus he
entered Reggio in triumph, like Achilles
dragging Hector round the walls of Troy.  The
body was gibbeted, and the head placed in an
iron cage and sent over to Messina; when it
was stuck on the summit of the Zizi palace,
where it yet remains, bleached by the dew by
night and the sun by day: I saw it three days ago.

"One night soon after this, a ragged little
urchin presented himself in an apartment of
the palace, just before the prince retired to
rest.

"'Who are you, Messerino?' he asked.

"'Baptistello, the son of old Baptiste Varro.'

"'Ah! and what do you want?' said the
prince, looking round him for a whip or cane.

"'My father's head.'

"'Away, you little villain, ere you are tossed
over the window!  I would not give it for a
thousand scudi.'

"'For two thousand, serenissimo?'

"'Yes, rogue, for so many I might.'

"'On your word of honour?'

"'An impudent little dog!  Yes.  Away!—when
*you* fetch me such a sum, per Baccho! you
shall have your father's head: but not till
then.'

"'Enough, excellency: I will redeem it,
and keep my word.  San Gennaro judge
between us, and curse the wretch who fails!'

"'A bold little rogue, and deserves the old
villain's head for nothing,' muttered the prince.
'Two thousand scudi!  Ah, poor boy! where
will he ever get such a sum?'

"The prince soon forgot all about it; but
Baptistello, inspired by that intense filial
veneration for which our Calabrian youth are so
famous, worked incessantly to raise the two
thousand scudi—a mighty sum for him: but he
did not despair.  He dug in the vineyards and
rice-fields by day, in the iron mines of Stilo by
night, and begged in cities when he had
nothing else to do; and slowly the required
sum began to accumulate.  When old enough
to level the rifle, by his mother's advice he
took to his father's haunts, and turned bandit.
Then the gold increased rapidly; and, regularly
as he acquired it, he transmitted the ill-gotten
ransom to Ser Villani, of St. Eufemio: leaving
the gold in the hollow of a certain tree, where
the notary found it and left a full receipt for
each amount.

"When the two thousand pieces were numbered,
Baptistello presented himself before Villani
in the disguise of a Basilian, requesting him
to pay Prince St. Agata the money and redeem
the bare-bleached skull, which grins so horribly
from the battlements of the Palazzo Zizi.
They met at the porch of the great church,
where the notary had just been hearing mass.
He denied ever having received a quattrino of
the money: not a single piece had he ever
seen—'No, by the miraculous blood of Gennaro!'

"'Behold your signed receipts, Master Scrivano.'

"'Via! they are forgeries.  Away, or I will
summon the officers of justice.'

"'My two thousand scudi!—my hard-won
money, earned at peril of my soul!  Return it,
thou most infamous of robbers!' cried the
infuriated Varro, grasping the notary's throat
and unsheathing his poniard.

"'Help, in the name of the Grand Court!'
shrieked Villani.  Baptistello was arrested,
imprisoned in the fearful *Damusi*, and kept
there for months; he was then scourged with
rods, and thrust forth, naked and bleeding, to
perish in the streets; while the money, earned
with so much toil and danger, went to enrich
the dishonest notary.  Baptistello is on the
mountains above us; and if Villani falls into
his hands this night, Signor Cavaliere, thou
mayest imagine the sequel."

The improvisatore ceased, and I saw the
keen twinkling eyes of the notary watching me:
he must have heard the whole story, while
affecting to sleep; and, trembling violently, he
clutched his legal green bag.  Suddenly some
one tapped at the casement; and I saw a large,
fierce and grim face peering in.

"Ha!" cried the notary, springing up; "'t is
the calessiero returned at last.  Thou loitering
villain!  I will teach you how to respect a
member of the Grand Civil court of Sicily."

He opened the door, and—horror!—instead
of the humble and apologizing postilion, there
stood the tall athletic form of Baptistello Varro,
clad in his glittering bandit costume.  Had the
notary encountered thus the great head of his
profession, face to face, he could not have been
more overwhelmed with dismay: he seemed
absolutely to shrink in size before the stern
gaze of the formidable robber; whose entrance
scarcely less alarmed the old priest, the poor
improvisatore, and myself.  But, remembering
my former adventures with Varro, I was not
without hope of escape.  The albergo was
crowded with his savage followers, and we
were all dragged roughly forth as prisoners.
The notary's hired calesso was undergoing a
thorough search: the lining was all torn out,
and every pannel and cushion were pierced
and slashed; while the contents of his trunks
and mails were scattered in every direction,
and flying on the breeze.  In his green bag
were found a thousand ducats.

"Villain!" exclaimed Baptistello, as he
threw the gold pieces on the sward, "there is
more than we would deem sufficient to ransom
ten such earth-worms as thee: yet this is but
a half of the sum I deposited in the hollow
tree at St. Eufemio.  I am a robber—true:
but I gain my desperate living bravely in
the wilderness, by perilling my life hourly;
while *thou*, too, art a thief, but of the most
despicable and cowardly description—a legalized
plunderer of widows and orphans—a vampire
who preys on the very vitals of the community—a
smooth-faced masterpiece of villany: in
short, wretch, thou art a notary.  Remember
the ransom of my father's head—the dungeons—the
chains and the scourge.  Ha! remember,
too, that thou art alone with me on the wild
mountains of Calabria: so, kneel to the God
above us; for the last sands of thy life are
ebbing fast."  And he dashed him to the earth.

"O, signor—O, excellency—mercy!" craved
the notary, grovelling in the dust; but the fierce
robber only grinned, showing his pearl-white
teeth; as leaning on his rifle he surveyed him
with an air of triumphant malice and supreme
contempt.  "Mercy!  I implore you, by the
blood of Gennaro the blessed!  Mercy, as you
hope for it at your dying day!  I will repay the
money.  I will no longer be a notary, but an
honest man."

"Wretch! such mercy will be given as tigers
give," cried the ferocious Baptistello, spurning
the poor man with his foot, and holding aloft
his crucifix.  "By this holy symbol of our
salvation, I have sworn that thy head shall pay the
forfeit for my father's!"  The brigand kissed it.
Though all hope died away in the heart of
the notary, he still poured forth a jargon of
alternate prayers, threats, and entreaties: his
agony was terrible; for at that moment forty
of the "sharpest practice" were about to be
accounted for.

"God!  I dare not address myself to thee.  O,
holy father pray for me in this great peril!" he
cried to the old monk of St. Christiana.
"Supplicate him for a sinner that has forgotten how
to pray for himself."

"Buono!" said Baptistello; "let the priest
pray while the notary swings."

Lancelotti approached and surveyed me with
an insolent leer: he held a rope—the reins of
the lawyer's mules; in a moment it was looped
round the notary's neck, and the other end
thrown over the arm of a beech-tree.  The
monk, kneeling on the sod, prayed with fervour:
increased probably by anxiety for himself.
The struggles of the poor wretch were horrible
to behold: overcome with the terror of death, he
fought like a wild beast; scratching, biting, and
howling: but in the strong grasp of his powerful
destroyers his efforts were like those of an
infant.  In a minute he swung from the branch
of the beech, while, with a stern smile of grim
satisfaction, the robber watched the plunges of his
victim writhing in the death agony: the sharp
withered features growing ghastly, as the pale
light of the dawning day fell on their distorted
lines.  But enough.

"Signor Canonico," said Varro, "you may
go; the mountains are before you—we meddle
not with monks."  The priest retired instantly,
without bestowing a thought on his companions
in trouble.  "And who are you, signor, with
the mandolin?" continued Baptistello.

"An improvisatore, from Sicily last, excellency,"
replied the lad, doffing his hat with all
humility; "I have come to rouse my countrymen,
by the song and guitar, to battle against
the legions of Massena, as they did of old
against the Saracen and Goth.  I am but a poor
lad, and have no ransom to offer save a song of
the glorious Marco Sciarra; not a paola can I
give your excellencies: my sole inheritance is this
guitar, which my father gave me with his dying
hand (for he, too, was an improvisatore), when
he fell in battle under the banner of Cardinal
Ruffo."

"Where, boy?"

"On the plains of Apulia—I was a little
child then," said the lad, shedding tears.  "See,
the mandolin is stained with his blood."

"Benissimo!" exclaimed the band, who
crowded round us.

"Thou, too, art free; for we war not with the
poor.  Away! follow the monk, and the virgin
speed thee."  But the minstrel bestowed an
anxious glance on me, and drew near; scorning
to imitate the selfish priest, who had now
disappeared from the path which wound over the
brightening mountains.

"Your name, signor?" asked Varro, surveying
me with a glance of surprise, and seeming
puzzled what to think of me.

"Dundas, captain in the British service, and
commandant of Scylla," I replied, with haughty
brevity.

"The friend of Castelermo, and who so
bravely avenged his death on the renegade
Navarro—is it not so?"

"The same, Signor Capo: for two days past
I have undergone great misery, and last night
made a most miraculous escape from the troops
of General Regnier."

"Who has offered a hundred gold Napoleons
for you dead or alive: a sum quite sufficient to
excite the avarice and cupidity of a Calabrian
outlaw."

My spirit sank—I made no reply, but cursed
the French general in my heart.

"Courage, signor," said Baptistello, laying
his hand familiarly on my shoulder; "think
not so hardly of us: we all love the British
soldiers, and would not yield you to Regnier for
all the gold in France.  We have not forgotten
Maida—eh, comrades?"

"Viva il Re d'Inghilterra!" answered the
band with one voice.  (It was the cry of
the loyalists as often as "Viva Ferdinando IV.")

"You hear the sentiments of my followers,"
said Varro; "truly, signor, as the Husband of
the Signora d'Alfieri, your name is dear to the
whole Calabrians; and I believe the wildest
rogue in these provinces would not touch a hair
of your head.  Corpo di Baccho! you must
breakfast with us among the mountains: we
trust to your honour for not revealing our
fastness to our disadvantage—to our own hands
for avenging it, if you do.  Enough, signor:
we know each other."

I was in the hands of men with whom it
would have been rash to trifle; and, accepting
the rough invitation, I accompanied them across
the hills.  The sun rose above the highest
peak of Bova, and poured its fiery lustre into
the dark green valleys; gilding the convent
vanes and little spires of St. Christiana and
Oppido, and exhaling the mist from the black
glittering rocks, the sable pines, and verdant
slopes of the Apennines.





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.. _`THE BANDIT'S CAVERN.—RECAPTURE`:

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   CHAPTER XX.


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   THE BANDIT'S CAVERN.—RECAPTURE AND DELIVERANCE.

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Through a long deep gorge, winding between
basaltic cliffs, the production of volcanic fire, or
formed by some great convulsion which had rent
the massive hills, we scrambled along for nearly
half a mile; at the end rose a wall of rock, on
ascending which, by means of a ladder, I found
myself in the den of the banditti.  The ladder
being drawn up when the last man ascended,
all communication with the chasm below was
thus cut off.

A fire burned brightly in a recess of the
cavern, revealing its ghastly rocks and hollow
depths, the long stalactites, the crystals, and
various sparkling stones which glimmered in
the flames as they shot upward through the
cranny that served for a chimney.  Several
females, grouped round it, were engaged in
chatting, quarrelling, and cooking; and their
picturesque costumes, olive complexions, and
graceful figures, were brought forward in strong
warm light by the flickering flames: some had
still the sad remains of beauty, and their
Greco-Italian features still wore the soft
Madonna-like expression of the southern provinces:
though, alas! their innocence had fled; others
were sullen, forbidding, or melancholy, and all
were laden with tawdry finery and massive
jewels.

The aspect of the cavern; one part glaring
with lurid light, the other half involved in
gloom, where its mysterious recesses pierced
into the bowels of the mountain; the women,
with their full bosoms, large black eyes,
and sandalled feet, their glossy hair braided
into tails, or flowing in dishevelled ringlets;
the bearded banditti, some in their well-known
costume, others in a garb of rough skins,
showing their bare legs and arms—their rifles,
knives, pistols, and horns, sparkling when
they moved; formed a striking scene.  Looking
outward, also, a view of the distant sea,
the smoke of Stromboli piercing the infinity of
space above it, the spire of Fiumara, the
vine-clad ruins of a Grecian temple, and the long
bright river that wound between the hills
towards it, formed a subject for the pencil, such
as would have raised the enthusiasm of Salvator
Rosa; who, in pursuit of the savagely romantic,
sojourned for a time among the wilds, the
beauties, the terrors, and the banditti of Calabria.

Chocolate, kid's flesh stewed, eggs, milk,
dried grapes, and wine, composed the repast:
when it was finished, the poor improvisatore,
though not quite at ease, found himself
compelled to sing; and chose for his theme MARCO
SCIARRA, the glory of the Abruzzesi, whose
fame and memory the honest man and the
bandit alike extol.  He sang in ottiva rima and
tinkled an accompaniment with his guitar, while
every ear listened intently.

The scene opened in the wilds of Abruzzi;
Marco was at the head of his thousand
followers, and in all the plenitude of his
power and terror—that chivalric brigandism
which gained him the title of Re della
Campagna; then we were told how, kneeling by
the wayside, he kissed the hand of Tasso, and
did homage to the muse; how successfully he
warred with Clement VII. and the Count of
Conversano, and then fought the battles of the
Venetians against their Tuscan enemies: of
his bravery, his loves, his compassion, and
countless escapes, we all heard in succession,
down to that hour when, in the marches of
Ancona, he met Battimello, his former friend;
who while embracing him, in the true spirit
of Italian treachery, struck a dagger in his
heart, and sold his head to a papal commissary.

Every eye flashed as the minstrel concluded;
a groan of rage, mingled with a burst of
applause, shook the vaulted cavern: for the
theme was one well calculated to interest his
hearers deeply; and one very pretty young
woman threw her arms around the improvisatore,
and kissed him on both cheeks.  While
all were thus well pleased, we took our
departure; and were very glad when the cavern
and its inmates were some miles behind us.
On bidding adieu to Baptistello, I promised to
have his father's head sent from Messina, if
I lived to reach that city in safety.  He kissed
my hand, and a dark smile lit up the features
of Lancelloti: I was too soon to learn the
ideas passing in the mind of that abominable
traitor.

There is, generally, a romance about the
Italian outlaw, which raises his character far
above that of the mere pickpocket or
house-breaker.  The danger encountered in the
course of his desperate profession, and the
wild scenery around him, were all calculated to
inspire him with a tinge of heroism: were, I
say; for the real Italian brigand may now,
happily, be classed with the things which are
past.  Without being guilty of any premeditated
crime, many were forced upon that terrible
career by the French invasion, or by too
freely using their knives in those outbursts of
anger and revenge to which the hot blood of
the southern climes is so prone: but to some
good feelings lingering in those hearts which
danger and despair had not completely hardened,
I owed my safety in these various encounters
with the wild bravos of Calabria.

But the most dangerous was yet to come.
The reward offered by Regnier for my recapture
had excited the avarice of Lancelloti;
who was then tracking me over the hills,
intent on my destruction.  On parting with
the improvisatore, close by where the poor
notary yet hung with the wild birds screaming
round him, I continued my way, as warily as
possible, to avoid the enemy; for a continual
pop—pop—popping in the distance, and the
appearance of white smoke curling on the
mountain sides and from the leafless though
budding forests, announced that the French
advanced parties were skirmishing with the
brigands and armed paesani, and kept me
continually on the alert.  Dread of the effect of
Regnier's reward, compelled me to avoid every
man I met; so my route soon became equally
toilsome and devious.  Yet though exhausted
by travelling and loss of sleep, I was animated
by a view of Scylla's distant towers and
terraces, which rose above the woodlands
gleaming in the rays of the joyous sun, and
continued to press forward; until completely
overcome with fatigue, I threw myself on the
green sward, under the cool shade of a pine
thicket, and fell into a deep sleep.

This happy slumber, (which after a long
march under the scorching heat of noon, the
cool shade rendered so refreshing) had lasted,
perhaps, an hour, when I was roughly roused
by the smart application of a rifle butt to the
side of my head.  Starting up, I found myself
in the grasp of Lancelloti, and two others
of Varro's band: alas! weary and unarmed,
what resistance could I offer?  They were
strong, fresh, and armed to the teeth: solitude
was around us, and no aid near; every hope of
escape vanished.

"Via, Signor Inglese!" said one; "did you
mean to sleep there all day?"

"Beard of Mahomet!" said Lancelloti, with
a scowl; "you had better make use of your
legs."

"Your purpose, scoundrels?"

"To deliver you to the French commandant
at Fiumara," replied the ci-devant priest and
pirate.  "Madonna! a hundred pieces of gold
are not to be despised.  Look you, signor, I
swear by the light of Heaven, to blow your
brains out on the first attempt to escape!—so
fill the foreyard—maladetto!  Remember I am
Osman Carora—ha, ha!"

"Wretch! would you murder me in cold
blood, and thus add to the guilt accumulated
on your unhappy head?"

"Cospetto! it is indeed mighty," said he,
gloomily; "yea, enough to darken the stone of
Caaba, which was once white as milk, but now,
blackened by the sins of men, is like a piece of
charcoal in those walls where Abraham built
it.  When a devout Turk, I—via! on—or a
brace of balls will whistle through the head
you may wish should reach Fiumara on your
shoulders—ha, ha!"

To resist was to die; so, relying on the
humanity of the French officer commanding
the outposts, I accompanied them, in
indescribable agony of mind.  The fading rays of
the setting sun, as it sank behind the hills, were
reddening the massive towers and crenelated
battlements, the terraced streets and shining
casements of Scylla.  It vanished behind the
green ridges; the standard descended from the
keep, and my heart sank as we neared Fiumara.
My escort kept close by me, with their rifles
loaded.  A river, the name of which I do not
remember, winds from these hills towards
Fiumara; and we moved along its northern
bank.  Its deep, smooth current lay on the
left side of the narrow path, and precipitous
rocks, like a wall, rose up on the right; so that
I was without the slightest hope of effecting an
escape.  I spoke of the greater reward they
would receive on conducting me to Scylla:
but they laughed my words to scorn.  The
French out-picquets were now in sight; and
far down the valley we saw their chain of
advanced sentinels, motionless on their posts,
standing with ordered arms, watching the still
current of the glassy river, as it swept onwards
to the sea: its bright surface reflected the
steep rocks, the green woods, and a ruined
bridge, so vividly, that the eye could not
distinguish where land and water met.  The last
flush of day, as it died away over the
Apennines, cast a yellow blaze on its windings;
which at intervals were dotted by the fitful
watch-fires of the out-lying piquets.

A party of armed men had been seen by
Lancelloti pursuing the turnings of the path we
trod: they came towards us: their conical hats
and long rifles announced them Calabrians, and
a consultation was held by my capturers whether
to advance or retire; as it was quite impossible
to leave the path on either hand.

"Go to the front, Gaetano, and reconnoitre,"
said Lancelloti; "they may be some of the Free
Corps."  My heart leaped at the idea.

"Cospetto! and if they are?"

"We shoot him through the head, plunge
into the river, and swim for it!" said the other ruffian.

"Blockhead!" exclaimed Lancelloti; "they
are but four, and the first lucky fire may make
us more than equal.  To *you*," addressing me
with cruel ferocity, "I swear, by all the devils,
you shall be shot the instant we are attacked—shot,
I say, and flung into the river, that no
one else may win those bright Napoleons which
I hoped should clink in my own pouch."

At that moment, Gaetano came running back
to say, that, although armed like the Free
Calabri with white cross-belts and heavy muskets,
they wore no uniform or scarlet cockade.

"They must be free cavalieri of our own
order, then," exclaimed Lancelloti.  "Some of
Scarolla's band, perhaps."

"They have been plundering of late, as far
as Capo Pillari."

"Forward, then!"

Life and liberty were hanging by a hair:
my heart beat tumultuously, and mechanically
I moved forward, cursing the unsoldier-like
malice of the French leader, who had placed
me in such a position, by exciting the avarice
of such wretches.  After losing sight of the
advancing party for a time, we suddenly met
them, front to front, at an abrupt angle where
the road turned round a point of rock.

"Advance first, Signor Inglese," said
Lancelloti; "and, should you attempt to escape,
remember!" and, tapping the butt of his rifle,
he grinned savagely as I stepped forward,
expecting every instant to be shot through the
head.  My brain was whirling—I was giddy
with rage and despair.  The path diminished
to a narrow shelf of rock, about a foot broad:
on one side it descended sheer to the dark
waters of the deep and placid river; on the
other frowned the wall of basalt; and I was
compelled to grasp the tufts of weeds and grass
on its surface, as I passed the perilous turn.

Scarcely had I cleared the angle, when I
was confronted by—whom!—Giacomo, Luca
*labbruta*, and two other soldiers of Santugo, in
disguise.  Their shout of joy was answered by
a volley from three rifles behind me; and the
report rang like thunder among the cliffs.

I heard the balls whistle past; a shriek and a
plunge followed, as one of the Free Corps fell,
wounded, into the stream: his comrades rushed
on, to avenge him, and I drew aside behind an
angle of the rocks, to avoid the cross fire of both
parties.  Enraged to behold the husband of their
famous "Signora Capitanessa" in such a plight,
Giacomo and his comrades pressed furiously
forward with fixed bayonets.  To this formidable
weapon, the foe could only oppose the clubbed
rifle, and a desperate conflict ensued: but on
such ground it could not be of long duration.
Blubber-lipped Luca shot Lancelloti through the
breast: he rolled down the steep rocks into the
sluggish stream, above which his ferocious face
rose once or twice amid the crimson eddies of
his blood; then sank to rise no more.
Immediately after, his companions were bayoneted,
and flung over the precipice after him.

Full of triumph at his victory and discovery,
honest Giacomo skipped about on the very edge
of the cliff, dancing the tarantella like a madman.

"Thrice blessed be our holy Lady of Oppido,
who led us this way to-night.  O, happiness!
O, joy to the capitanessa!" he exclaimed.
"Ah, signor! you know not what she has
endured.  The whole garrison has been turned
upside down: the Signora Bianca is distracted;
the visconte, the Conte di Palmi, and Signor
Olivero Lascelles have been incessantly beating
the woods in search of you, so far as they dared
venture.  And Giacomo—O, triumph!—is the
finder!  It is an era in my life: Annina
herself dare not be coy after this!"

Giacomo's Italian enthusiasm displayed itself
in a thousand antics; and it was not until we
saw a party of the French tirailleurs (whom the
firing had alarmed) advancing up the opposite
bank to reconnoitre, that we prepared to retire.
It was now night: favoured by the moon, we
forded the river at a convenient place, and
taking our way through the woods between
Fiumara and Scylla, we eluded the vigilance
of the French picquets.  In an hour I found
myself safe within the walls, gates, and
gun-batteries of my garrison; where my sudden
return caused a burst of universal joy.

Breaking away from Luigi, my brother-officers
and soldiers, who crowded clamorously
round me, I hurried to the apartments of
Bianca.  All was silent when I entered, and
the flickering rays of a night-lamp revealed to
me the confusion my absence had created.
Bianca's music, her guitar, her daily work, the
embroidery, her books and drawings, lay all
forgotten, and huddled in a corner, poor
papagallo croaked desolately in his cage: for he,
too, had been deserted, and his seed-box was
empty.  A row of vases, which Bianca used to
tend everyday, had been forgotten; and the
flowers had drooped and withered.  The whole
sleeping-chamber wore an air of disorder and
neglect; her bed appeared not to have been
slept in since I had left; for my scarlet sash
lay on it, just where I had thrown it the night
I left Scylla.

Above all, I was shocked with the appearance
of the poor girl: reclining on a sofa, she
lay sleeping on the bosom of Annina; who also
was buried in a heavy slumber: both were
evidently wearied with watching and sorrow.
Bianca was pale as death: her beautiful hair
streamed in disorder over her white neck and
polished shoulder; and shining tears were
oozing from her long dark lashes.  She was
weeping in her sleep, and the palor of her angelic
beauty was rendered yet stronger by comparison
with the olive brow and rosy cheeks of the
waiting-maid.

I was deeply moved on beholding her thus:
but I never felt so supremely happy as at the
moment, when, gently putting my arm round
her, I awoke her to joy, and dispelled those
visions of sorrow which floated through her
dreams.





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.. _`JOYS OF A MILITARY HONEYMOON`:

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   CHAPTER XXI.


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   JOYS OF A MILITARY HONEYMOON.

.. vspace:: 2

Early next morning I was roused by the
sharp blast of a French trumpet, stirring all the
echoes of Scylla.  I was dressing hastily, when
Lascelles, who commanded the barrier-guard,
entered, saying that a flag of truce and a
trumpet, sent by General Regnier, required a
conference with the commandant.

"Curse Regnier," said I, testily, while
dragging on my boots; "I will not hold any
communication with him, after the scandalous
manner in which he has treated me."

"But you may receive the officer, and hear
that which he is ordered to communicate: at
least answer this letter, of which he is the
bearer."

By the grey twilight of a February morning
I opened the Frenchman's despatch and read:

"SUMMONS

Of unconditional capitulation, and the articles
thereof, agreed to between the commandant of
Scylla, and Monsieur le General de Division,
Regnier, Grand Officer of the Legion of
Honour, Knight-Commander of the Iron Crown
of Lombardy, Grand Cross of the Lion of
Bavaria, Knight of St. Louis of France, Chef
de Bataillon of the Grenadiers of the Imperial
Guard," &c. &c. &c.

"Bah!" cried Oliver, with a laugh; "throw
it over the window."

"Give Monsieur le General, Knight of St. Louis,
and all that, my compliments, and say,
I will return these articles with the first cannon
ball fired on his trenches."

"The enemy are close at hand this morning,
and appear to have made great progress during
the night."

"Desire the officer commanding the artillery
to have all the heavy guns loaded with
tin-case-shot, in addition to iron balls; and to
have the primings well looked to."

"But the Frenchman—he is still waiting at
the barriers—shall I show him up?"

"You may—I have a particular message to
his general."

"He is a punchy, ungentlemanly kind of
man, and appears to keep a sharp eye about
him, evidently observing all our defences."

"Lodge the trumpeter in the main-guard,
and bind up the eyes of the officer: they
served me so once; I will meet him in the old
hall."

That I might not be deficient in courtesy, I
directed wine, decanters, &c., to be conveyed
to the vaulted hall, where princely banners and
Italian trophies had given place to racks of
arms, iron-bound chests, and military stores.
Oliver led in the officer, with his eyes covered
by a handkerchief, which gave him rather a
droll aspect.  He was a short thick-set man,
with wiry, grey moustachios, and wore the
uniform of the ill-fated voltigeurs of the 23rd
regiment.

"Monsieur, you will no doubt pardon this
necessary muffling," said I, advancing; "but
as you wished to see me—ha!"—at that
moment Oliver withdrew the bandage, when
lo! imagine my astonishment on seeing the features
of General Regnier!  I knew him in an
instant; although, instead of the blue coat and
gold oak-leaves, the stars and medals of the
general of the empire, he wore the plain light
green and silver braid of the 23rd.  His
wonder was not less on recognising me.

"Ouf! you have outflanked me—quite!"
said he, bowing with a ludicrous air of
confusion and assurance.

"Shame! shame, general!" I replied, with
an air of scorn: "who is now the spy and
deserves to be hanged or shot?"

"Not I," said he, with *sang froid*; "I am
the bearer of a flag of truce."

"In your *own* name?  Good!"

"No; in that of Joseph I., King of Naples,
and the Marshal Prince of Essling."

"A paltry pretence, under which you came
hither to reconnoitre our works, our cannon,
and means of resistance.  Away, sir!  Back to
your position, and remember that one
consideration alone prevents me from
horse-whipping you as you deserve, for the manner
in which you treated me at Seminara."

"Horsewhip—mille baionettes!" replied he,
with eyes flashing fire; "I must have reparation
for that: monsieur, be so good as to recall those
words?"

"Sir, remember your threats and the fetters."

"Ouf!" he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.
"I am in the lion's den.  You must meet me,
monsieur."

"Yes, in the breach—sword in hand—be
gone, sir!"

"I go: but hear me.  Remember the fate of
the Italian commandant of Crotona.  I swear,
by God and the glory of France, that like him
you shall die, and hang from these ramparts
when the place surrenders.  Our heavy gun-batteries
will open at noon; you have but two
hundred rank and file: for every one of these
I can bring one piece of cannon and a hundred
soldiers—ouf! we shall eat you up.  Before the
sun sets to-night my triumph shall be complete,
and Calabria once more the emperor's."

And thus we parted with the bitterest personal
animosity.  He retired with the bewildered
Lascelles; who led him, blindfold, to the outer
barrier, and, with his trumpeter, there dismissed
him.

"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, when he hurried
back to me, "what a triumph it would have
been to have sent the old fox over to Messina!
Only think of Sherbrooke's flaming general
order and address of thanks on the occasion.
What on earth tempted you to let him go?"

"Flags of truce must be respected: but I had
a hard struggle between etiquette and
inclination.  Desire the gunners of the guard to
telegraph to the *Electra* and gun-boats to keep
close in shore; and send my orderly to the
Visconte di Santugo, saying I will visit him
shortly."

The continual skirmishing of the peasantry
and banditti with the French had greatly
retarded the operations of the latter: but on the
10th of February—the infantry brigade of
Milette's corps having descended from the Milia
heights and come within range of our cannon—it
became imperative to order off to Sicily the
whole of the armed paesani who occupied the
town of Scylla; as the bombarding operations
of the besieging army would only subject them
to destruction.  While our batteries kept in
check the soldiers of Milette, I superintended
the embarkation of these brave fellows and the
remnant of Santugo's Free Corps; who were all
received on board the Sicilian gun-boats at the
sea staircase.  The visconte remained with me;
but his volunteers, who afterwards distinguished
themselves so much in our service, were
quartered in Messina.  Poor Giacomo was afterwards
slain in the brilliant attack made by General
Macfarlane on the coast of Naples, in the July
following.  The Cavaliere Paolo for his bravery
on the same day, at the capture of the Castello
d'Ischia, received the thanks of Ferdinand IV. and
Sir J. Stuart, at the head of the army.  He
was afterwards created Conte Casteluccio, and
shared his coronet with the fair widow of
Castagno.  He is now senior commandant of
the Yager Guards in the Neapolitan army.

I transmitted with the gun-boats the whole of
the sick and wounded, and everything of value.
I sent away my groom with my gallant grey;
which was indeed far too good a nag to be
captured and ridden by Frenchmen.

It was in vain that I intreated Bianca to go in
safety with the boats, and described to her all
the horrors of a siege: the noise of our guns
playing on Milette's advancing column only
confirmed the fond girl's determination to
remain with us; and she seemed happy when
the last gun-boat, laden to the water's edge with
her countrymen, moved slowly away from the
shore, and the only chance by which she could
leave me was cut off for ever.

A safe place was fitted up for her by the
soldiers in a bomb-proof chamber, where the
thick walls and arches of solid masonry shut out
the storm of war, which was soon to shake the
towers of Scylla to their deepest foundations.
The barriers of palisade were secured, the
bridges drawn up, the standard hoisted, the
guns double shotted with balls, canister, and
grape, the breastworks and ramparts lined, the
locks and flints examined; and thus we awaited
the enemy on the forenoon of the 10th: the
roll of their brass drums rang among the
hills, as the successive columns descended from
the heights of Milia, taking the most circuitous
routes to avoid the fire of our cannon, which
played upon their line of march at every
opportunity afforded by the inequality of the ground.





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.. _`THE SIEGE OF SCYLLA`:

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   CHAPTER XXII.


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   THE SIEGE OF SCYLLA.

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My mind was a prey to the utmost anxiety,
when I beheld the overwhelming masses which
Regnier was pouring forward on the last
solitary hold of Ferdinand, cut off by the stormy
Strait of Messina from all Sicilian succour.  A
strong brigade of cavalry, the 23rd Light
Infantry, the 1st, 62nd, and 101st Regiments of
the French line, together with a powerful
battering train, formed his force; but as each
corps consisted of three battalions, he mustered
more than 6,000 foot alone.  The "handful"
of the British 62nd, amounting now to only
200 file, were to encounter them: but proud
of my corps, and feeling all the glorious ardour
of my profession glowing within me—relying on
the indomitable English spirit of my soldiers,
and the great natural strength of the position
we occupied—I did not despair of at least
protracting a siege; which, when the great disparity
of numbers is remembered, must be deemed as
glorious a deed of arms as our military annals
exhibit.

On the morning of the 11th February, five
24-pounders, five 18-pounders, four mortars,
and innumerable field-pieces, opened a
tremendous cannonade on the keep and upper works
of Scylla, to demolish our cover and bury us
with our guns under the ruins.  This battering
continued daily, without a moment's cessation,
until the 14th; when, covered by it, the French
sappeurs and artillerists formed two other
breaching batteries, at two hundred yards
distance from our bastions: notwithstanding the
appalling slaughter made among them by our
shells bursting, and grape-shot and musketry
showering around, with deadly effect.  Though
the whole of Regnier's infantry remained under
cover during these operations, the execution
done on those who worked at the breaching
batteries must have been fearful: they were so
close and so numerous.  My own brave little
band was becoming thin from the fire from the
heights: every cannon-shot which struck the
stone walls was rendered, in effect, as
dangerous as a shell, by the heavy splinters it cast
on every side; and I foresaw that the castle
of Ruffo—mouldering with the lapse of years,
and shaken by the storms and earthquakes of
centuries—would soon sink before the
overwhelming tempest of iron balls which Regnier
hurled against it from every point: his gunners
stopping only until their cannon became cool
enough to renew the attack.  We had expected
great assistance from our flotilla of gun-boats;
which, by keeping close in shore, might have
cannonaded the enemy's position, and shelled
their approaches; but a storm of wind and
rain, which continued without cessation or lull
from the time the attack began until it was
ended, rendered an approach to Scylla
impossible: the sea was dashing against it in
mountains of misty foam, and on its walls of rock
would have cast a line-of-battle ship like a
cork.

The roar of the musketry and the perpetual
booming of the adverse battery guns, produced
a tremendous effect; awakening all the echoes
of the fathomless caves of Scylla in the
splintered cliffs and Mont Jaci; and after
being tossed from peak to peak of the
Milia Hills, with ten thousand reverberations
all varying, the reports died away in
the distant sky—only to be succeeded by
others.  The dense volumes of smoke that rose
from the French batteries, were forced
upwards and downwards by the stormy wind,
and rolled away over land and sea, twisted
into a thousand fantastic shapes; mingling on
one side with the mist of the valleys, on the
other with the foam of the ocean.  The
continual rolling of the French brass drums, the
clamour of their artillerymen, and the wild
hallooing of their infantry, added to the roar
of the conflict above and that of the surge
below, increased the effect of a scene which
had as many beauties as terrors.

The night of the 14th was unusually dark
and stormy; and on visiting Bianca in her
dreary vault (which, by being below the
basement of the keep, was the only safe place
in the castle) she told me, with a pale cheek
and faltering tongue, that often, of late, she
had been disturbed by sounds rising from the
earth below her.  I endeavoured to laugh away
her fears: but, on listening, I heard distinctly
the peculiar noise of hammers and shovels;
which convinced me that the French sappers
were at work somewhere, and that the hollows
of the rock had enabled them to penetrate far
under the foundations of the castle.  On
examination, we found that for three nights they
had been lodging a mine, during the noise and
gloom of the storm, and had excavated two
chambers; one under our principal bastion,
the other under the keep, connecting them by
a saucisson led through a gallery cut in the
solid rock: the effect of such an explosion
would have ended the siege at once, and blown
to atoms the vault appropriated to Bianca and
her servant.  My mind shrank, with horror,
from contemplating the frightful death she had
so narrowly escaped.  Next night the train
would, undoubtedly, have been fired; and the
inner chamber was pierced within three feet of
her bed!  * * * * * *

Desiring Lascelles to prepare a counter-mine
in case of our failure, I slipped out by the
barriers, accompanied by Santugo and twelve
volunteers.  Favoured by the darkness of the
night, the howling of the stormy wind, and
dashing of the "angry surge," we stole safely
to the scene of operations, and with charged
bayonets fell upon a brigade of sappeurs—as
the French style a party of eight private-artificers,
under the command of a non-commissioned
officer.  They were all as merry as crickets,
talking and laughing whilst working in their
shirt sleeves.

They defended themselves bravely with their
swords; but, as we possessed the mouth of the
excavation, all retreat was cut off.  The
corporal, a strong athletic fellow, beat down
Santugo's guard with a shovel, and striking him
to the earth with the same homely weapon,
broke through us, plunged down the rocks and
escaped; but the whole of his party were
bayoneted, and after utterly ruining and
destroying the mine, we retreated within our gates
without losing a man, or firing a shot.  The
exasperation of the proud Santugo at the rough
knock down he received from the corporal is
quite indescribable.

Next day the enemy pushed forward still
closer to the walls: led by my old acquaintance
De Bourmont, the 101st regiment had the
temerity to advance round an angle of the rocks
to the water's edge, for the purpose of destroying
the sea staircase—our last, our only means of
retreat.  A cry burst from my soldiers: we
brought every musket to bear upon that point,
and depressed our cannon by wedges and
hand-spikes: section after section of the enemy
were swept into the sea, and they were
therefore compelled to abandon the attempt; leaving
half their number piled up on the rocky shore,
killed or wounded, or drowned by falling from
the narrow path, where many of the dead and
dying were drenched and swept away every
instant by the sea.

As the mist rolled up from the mountains, we
saw the shattered remains of the regiment—a
dark mass in grey great-coats, with the tops of
their glazed caps and bayonet-blades glancing
in the sun—retiring, double quick, beyond the
eminence, which, to a certain extent, sheltered
Regnier's infantry from our missiles: but their
retreat was galled by them, and a line of
prostrate bodies marked their route.

"Dundas, you shall see how I will unhorse
that fellow," said the officer commanding our
artillery, as he coolly adjusted the quoin under
the breach of a long nine.  He meant old
Bourmont, who, like a brave fellow as he was,
retreated in rear of his column, and was jogging
along on his charger, whose drooping head,
mulish ears, curved face, and shambling action,
shewed the thorough French horse.  Before I
could speak, the match fell on the vent, the gun
was fired, and the aim was true—fatally so.

"A splendid shot, and a jewel of a gun,"
exclaimed my friend, exulting in his gunnery, as
both horse and rider tumbled prone to the
earth.  "Will you try a shot, Dundas?"

"Thank you, no: you have killed the only
man, amid all those ranks, I would have
spared."

"By Jove! he is not settled yet," said
Lascelles, with an air of disappointment, as the
colonel disengaged himself from his fallen horse,
and, heavily encumbered by his jack-boots,
scrambled over the hill with as much expedition
as his short legs and rotund form would permit.
Both Oliver and the artillerist were chagrined
at his escape; and yet, in their quiet moods,
both were men who would not have killed a fly.

At that moment, so critical to Bourmont, I
heard a splitting roar—the rock shook beneath
us, and we knew not which way to look.
Shaken and rent by the salvos of heavy shot
which for four successive days had showered
from the French batteries, an immense mass of
wall, the curtain of our strongest bastion, rolled
thundering to the earth; burying the poor
artillery officer, Gascoigne, Sergeant Gask, a
number of soldiers, and all our best cannon, under a
mighty mountain of crumbled masonry.  I was
dismayed and grieved by this terrible
catastrophe, which the French hailed with shouts
of rapture and triumph: they redoubled their
battering, with such effect on the shattered
walls, that every time a ball struck, other masses
gave way, burying soldiers and cannon beneath
them.  By sunset every gun was entombed
under the prostrate walls, and we had only
musketry to trust to, in case of an assault;
which I had no doubt would be attempted that
very night, as the breach was quite practicable,
and the continual cannonade prevented us from
repairing it by fascines or any other contrivance.

Some were now despairing, and all more or
less dispirited: many an anxious glance was
cast to Sicily, and to the sea which raged
between us, as the lowering yellow sun sank
behind the Neptunian hills, and the waves grew
black and frothy.





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.. _`THE FALL OF SCYLLA.—CONCLUSION`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FALL OF SCYLLA—CONCLUSION.

.. vspace:: 2

Night descended upon Scylla, upon the dark
Apennines and the tempestuous sea; and my
mind became filled with anxiety: our means of
defence were greatly diminished, our shelter
ruined.  The stormy state of the weather cut
off, equally, all hope of succour or escape, and
I anticipated with dread a surrender to General
Regnier, my personal enemy: by his orders
Santugo had little mercy to expect from
Napoleon: and I knew not to what indignities
Bianca, as an Italian lady, might be subjected,
if taken prisoner.  Though crippled in means
of resistance and reduced in number, my few
brave fellows would have defended the ruined
breach till the last of them perished; but
I saw that, ultimately, Scylla must become the
prize of the enemy, and only trusted that, during
a lull of the storm, we might effect a retreat to
Messina by the flotilla of Sicilian gun-boats.

How changed now was the aspect of the
venerable Scylla, since that morning when the
French batteries first opened on it!  The
massive Norman battlements and its beautiful hall
had crumbled into rubbish, or sunk in ponderous
masses beneath the heavy salvos: every
window and loophole were beaten into hideous
gaps, and yawning rents split the strong towers
from rampart to foundation.  The well was
choked up by the falling stones; and want of
water increased the miseries of sixty wounded
men: whom, ultimately, we had to abandon to
the care of the enemy.  Every cannon was
buried under the mighty piles of ruin beyond
recovery—all, save one thirteen-inch mortar,
which I ordered to be dragged to the summit
of the breach; where it afterwards did good
service.

Many of the miserable wounded were destroyed
under the falling walls, or buried, more or
less, at a time when we could not spare a hand
to extricate them: their cries were piteous, and
their agonies frightful.  The dead lay heaped
up behind breastwork and banquette, and from
the castle gutters the red blood was dropping
on the sea-beaten rocks below; where the sea
mews and cormorants flapped their wings and
screamed over the sweltering corpses of the
101st.  The artillerymen were almost annihilated,
and their platforms were drenched in gore.

Though exhausted by the toil they had endured,
the brave little band of survivors manned
the breach, and remained under arms during
the whole of a most tempestuous night, with
that quiet cheerfulness, mingled with stern
determination, which are the principal
characteristics of our unmatched soldiery in times of
peril.  Towards midnight, Santugo (whom,
with Lascelles, I had left in charge of the
breach) aroused me from a nap I was snatching,
rolled up in my cloak and ensconced under
the lee side of a parapet.

"Signor, we have had an alert," said he; "a
movement is taking place amongst the enemy:
they will be in the breach in five minutes."

I hurried to the mighty rent in our fortifications,
and saw the long and perilous route
which an escalade had to ascend—a steep and
uncertain pathway, jagged with rocks and
covered with a thousand cart-loads of loose
stones, mortar, and rubbish: it looked like a
waterfall as it vanished down the rocks into the
gloom and obscurity below.  The sky was
intensely dark, and though the wind howled and
the sea hissed and roared on the bluff headlands,
the night seemed calm and still after the
battle-din of the past day.

A white mass, like a rolling cloud, was
moving softly towards the breach, and Santugo
was puzzled to account for the strange uniform;
but I knew in a moment that it was an attack
*en chemise*, and that the stormers were clad
each in a white shirt: a garb sometimes adopted
by the French when engaged in a night assault.
Here our vigilance got the better of them.

The chemise is a short shirt, either with or
without sleeves, worn over the accoutrements,
reaching only to the flap of the cartridge-box;
and is a very useful and necessary precaution,
to prevent the stormers from mistaking each
other in the darkness, horror, and confusion of
a night assault.

Our drum (we had only one now) beat, and a
volley of musketry was poured upon the breach
from every point that commanded it.  The
flashes glared forth over the ruined parapets
above and the loopholes of the case-mates
below, while our artillerymen, now that they
had no longer cannon to work, stood by the
howitzer to sweep the breach, and showered
rockets, hand-grenades, and red and blue
lights on the advancing column.  The bursting
of the former retarded and confused them,
while the lurid or ghastly glare of the latter
shewed us how to direct our fire: many fireballs
alighted on the rocks, and blazed furiously,
shedding over everything floods of alternate
crimson and blue light, which had a
magnificent yet horrible effect.

"Vive la gloire!  Avancez! avancez, mes
enfants!" cried the officer who led a wing of
the French 62nd, and a wild cheer burst from
his soldiers.  It was the brave young Vicomte
de Chataillion who headed "the Lost Children,"
and I saw with regret that he must fail.

"Forward the howitzer, to sweep the breach!"
cried I to the artillerymen, who were every second
falling down, killed or wounded, into the gap,
before the fire of the French.  "Forward—depress
the muzzle, and stand clear of the
recoil!"

Loaded with a bag containing a thousand
musket-balls, the howitzer was run forward to
the breach, over which its yawning muzzle was
depressed and pointed.

"Fire!" cried the corporal.  A little flame
shot upward from the vent, a broad and vivid
blaze flashed from the muzzle, and the report
shook the ground beneath our feet.  The effect
of such an unusual and concentrated discharge
of musket-shot on the advancing mass was
awful and tremendous.  By the light of the
blazing fire-balls, we saw the sudden carnage
in all its sanguinary horror: the dashing
Chataillion, and more than two hundred rank and
file, were swept away—literally *blown to pieces*—by
the storm of leaden balls; and the remainder
of his party retired on the main body in
undisguised confusion and dismay.

"Well done, soldiers!" I exclaimed, with
stern triumph, and feeling a wild glow of
excitement only to be felt in such a place and
at such a time.  "Ready the handspikes—back
with the mortar—load again, and cram
her to the muzzle with grape and tin-case shot,
to sweep their column again!"

Again the brave French came headlong on,
led now by jovial old De Bourmont; who, with
the tricolor in one hand and his cocked hat in
the other, scrambled up the loose stony breach
in his clumsy jack-boots with an agility
astonishing in one of his years and size.  The
gold cross of the Legion, the silver badges of
Lodi, Arcola, of Marengo, and other scenes of
honourable service—his bald head and silver
hair—shone amid the glaring fire-balls and
flashing musketry, as the desperate stormers
swept on.

"Vive l'empereur!  Avancez!  Avancez!" cried he.

"Tué! tué!" yelled the forlorn band; and
the whole of Regnier's division sent up the *cri
des armes* from the hills to heaven.  On came
the infuriated assailants—on—on—rushing up
the frightful path; but the deadly fire we rained
upon them, and the fast falling corpses (every
bullet killing double) soon kept them thoroughly
in check.

Regardless of danger, I stood on the summit
of the breach, that my soldiers might not want
example: I felt the wind of the flying balls
as they whistled past me; one carried away
my right epaulette, a second broke the hilt of
my sabre, and I lost a spur by a third.

"Soldiers, courage!" cried Santugo, who
kept close by my side, and brandished his
sabre with hot impatience; "courage, and
they must again fly before you!  Viva Ferdi—O,
Madonna mia!" he suddenly ejaculated, in
a gasping voice, as a ball struck him, and he
sank at my feet.  The soldiers at the howitzer
dragged him back from the enemy's fire; and
as they did so, a musket bullet dropped from
his left shoulder: he caught it, all dripping
as it was with his blood, and giving it to the
corporal, exclaimed, like the soldier of Julian
Estrado: "With *this* will I avenge myself!
Signor Bombardiere, be so good as to load me
a musket, and ram this bullet well home."

It was done in a twinkling; and while from
sheer agony his frame quivered and his teeth
were clenched like a vice, he levelled the piece
over the wheel of the howitzer and shot poor
De Bourmont; who fell dead and rolled to
the bottom of the rocks.  The concussion threw
Santugo backwards: but he was again dragged
out of the press by the gunners, and taken to
a sheltered place, where Macnesia attended to
his wound.

The instant Colonel Bourmont fell, another
officer snatched the tricolor from the hand of
the corpse as it rolled past, and supplied his
place; and once more the storming party rushed
up the steep ascent: regardless as before of
falling men and rolling stones, of the shot
showered on them from every point, and the
hedge of keen bayonets bristling at the summit
of the breach above them.

"Long live Joseph, King of Naples!  Tué!
Tué!  Vive la France!"  They were again
within a few yards of us, when the stern order,
"Forward with the howitzer!" rang above the
din.  The artillery put their hands and
shoulders to the wheels, and urged it to the breach;
which was again swept by an irresistible storm
of bullets.  Once more the carnage was beyond
conception horrible; and with a yell of rage
and dismay, the stormers retreated precipitately
beyond the eminence which sheltered their
infantry.

On their flying, the incessant discharge of
fire-arms, which had rung for so many hours,
died away for a time; and the rising sun
revealed to us the carnage of the last night's
conflict.  The breach, the rocks, and approaches
without the court, parapets and defences within,
were covered with blood, and strewed with
mangled bodies: but the ascent of the forlorn
hope was terrible—no pencil could depict—no
pen can describe it!  The Frenchmen lay in
piles of twenty and thirty; while scattered in
every direction were seen the fragments of
those who had perished by the discharges of
the howitzer.

Taking advantage of the temporary cessation
of hostilities, I ordered the breach to be repaired
by piles of stones and rubbish, to form a
breastwork; while another fatigue party cleared away
some of the ruins which buried our cannon and
platforms.  The soldiers raised a faint cheer—one
gun was extricated.  Alas! a trunnion was
knocked off by the falling stones, and our
labour had been in vain—it was useless.  On
seeing how we were employed, the French
drums once more beat the *pas de charge*, and
the attack was renewed with greater fury, and
on two distant points at once.  The 1st, 62nd,
and 101st again advanced to the breach, while
a brigade of their second battalions, under
General Milette, with ten or twelve field-pieces,
assailed us on a point almost opposite;
and the breaching battery, the field-brigade
and mortars on the height, poured shot and
shell upon us with remorseless determination.
During the whole night and morning, the
elemental war had continued with such
unabated fury, that our gun-boats had been unable
to leave the Sicilian coast; and I became
convinced—but with sorrow and chagrin—that a
capitulation was *inevitable*.  I was about to
order the gallant union to be hauled down,
and the white flag of mercy hoisted: but before
doing so, I conveyed a notice by telegraph to
General Sherbrooke, in Sicily, acquainting him
with my situation and intention.

"*Fight on—you will be rescued!*" was
the answer we received.  Almost immediately
after the storm lulled a little, and we saw
the stately *Electra* standing, with her sails
crowded, towards Scylla; while the flotilla,
from the Faro, spread their broad latteens to
the stormy wind.  Animated by the prospect,
and filled with desperate courage, once more
we manned the deadly breach.  Before, we
fought for honour and in the fulfilment of our
duty; now, it was for life and liberty: and
most effectually we kept the foe in check,
until the gun-boats reached the sea staircase;
where Captain Trollope, of the *Electra*, with
the men-of-war launches, arrived to superintend
the embarkation.

Aware of our intended escape, the enraged
enemy did all in their power to frustrate
it: the batteries, the brigades of field-pieces,
and the battalions of infantry, poured their
utmost fire upon the steep and narrow
staircase (which was hewn out of the solid rock), on
the ruined breach, the blood-stained ramparts,
the corpse-heaped ditches, and the heaving
boats: their drums rolled and their shouts rent
the air, while their frantic gunners worked
their cannon like madmen.

Now, indeed, came the moment of my greatest
dread and anxiety; to which all the rest had
been child's play.  Bianca—the poor drooping
girl, now half dead with terror and exhaustion—had
to be brought forth, with her attendant,
and conveyed to the boats: to the boats, good
God!  And at that terrible time, when the
concentrated fire of such a number of cannon,
mortars, and musketry was poured upon Scylla;
and especially on that steep and slippery stair
which she had to descend.  The 1st Legere,
nearly a thousand strong, swept it with their
fire.  My heart became quite unmanned—I
trembled: but it was for her alone.

"Oliver!" I cried to Lascelles; "see
Bianca—see Mrs. Dundas to the boats: it is a
duty with which I can hardly trust myself—I
have the breach to defend.  Look sharp, man! yet
in God's name, I implore you to be wary!"

He wrung my hand, sheathed his sword and
withdrew.  A minute afterwards, he emerged
from the ruined arch of a bomb-proof; Bianca
leaned on his arm, and a party of soldiers
threw themselves in a dense circle around her
for her protection.

"Claude, Claude!" she cried, in a despairing
voice: but the faithful band hurried her
down to the boats.

"Sound—close to the centre!" cried I to
the bugle-boy; "call off the men from every point!"

As he obeyed me, tears fell fast from his
eyes: his father, a soldier, lay dead in the
breach close by.  The bugle-blast was caught,
in various cadence, by the wind; and could be
barely heard above the noise of the conflict:
the assembly, and the retreat, poured in rapid
succession on the ear; and the last shrill note
of the warning to retire *double-quick* had
scarcely been given, ere the bugle flew from his
grasp, and struck by a shot, the poor boy rolled
at my feet, bleeding and beating the earth.
Sixty men, the last remnant of my comrades,
assembled from every point.  Lloyd spiked the
mortar, and the whole rushed helter-skelter
down the steep staircase and sprang into the
boats; which were pushed off as soon as they
were filled.

I was the last to leave the fort, and as I
turned to go,

"O, Captain Dundas, don't leave me, sir!"
cried an imploring voice: it was the little
bugler of the 62nd.  A score of wounded men
were crying the same thing: it was impossible
to attend to them all: but snatching up the
boy, I bore him off, and leaped into the launch
of the *Electra*; in the stern sheets of which sat
Bianca, rolled up in my regimental cloak, to
protect her from the chill morning air and
damp sea atmosphere.  She sobbed convulsively
with terror and joy.  Santugo was in one
of the gun-boats; Macnesia sat beside him—Lloyd,
Lascelles, and the soldiers, were crowded
into other craft, and the whole gave a
reckless cheer of defiance.

"Shove off!" cried the captain of the
*Electra*, through his speaking trumpet; "give way
lads—cheerily now!" and the oars dipped in
the water, as the sails were trimmed, and the
sterns were turned to Scylla.

The whole embarkation had been effected
with matchless rapidity and order; notwithstanding
that the cannon-shot, the bursting
shells, the grenades, and musketry, lashed and
tore the water into foam around us: the sea
all the while, roaring and rolling in mighty
mountains of froth against the cliffs; where
it boiled as if in impotent wrath—recoiling
from the slippery and frowning bluff, to run
its waves in quick succession into the vast and
gloomy Dragara: which has often been
compared to the mouth of some wondrous monster
essaying to engulf all ocean.  One seaman
was killed, and ten dangerously wounded: but
these casualties were deemed trifling, under so
heavy a fire; and when the sea was heaving and
breaking beneath us, threatening every instant
to swamp the boats, to dash them against each
other, or on these inhospitable rocks, which
nearly proved so fatal to the "sacred argo" of
old.

With three hearty cheers we moved off.
Scarcely had we done so, when the tricolor
waved over Scylla, and the tall red plumes and
glancing bayonets of the 101st appeared among
the ruined walls; while a party of the 23rd
rushed shouting down the staircase, with such
impetuosity that many fell headlong into the
seething sea.

We had done our duty.  Though by force of
numbers they had beaten us out of the last
stronghold of Ferdinand IV. and the British
in Calabria, they had gained only a pile of
shapeless ruin; and at the dear price of many
a gallant fellow.  We were now on the open
ocean—three minutes before, we were manning
the frightful breach!

The storm died away, and the bright Ausonian
sun arose in his glory: the shores of Sicily,
studded with towns and castles, the green
woods, the sparkling sandy beach, the bright
Neptunian hills, and the red tower of the
Lantern, were all radiant with light.  The shore
we had left, and the blood-stained Scylla,
diminished in the distance, as our sailors bent to
their flashing oars, and the bellying canvass
swelled on the morning wind, which blew from
the pine-clad Apennines.

"Courage, Bianca!" I exclaimed, and threw
my arm around her; "we are beyond range
even of cannon, now."

"Anima mia," she whispered, as she laid her
head on my shoulder, "you are safe and I am
happy!"

And thus ended MY CAMPAIGN IN THE
CALABRIAS.

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   Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey

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