The Finger of Fate: A Romance

The shadows of night descended over the town. There were no street lamps, and the graceful shape in the balcony, gradually blending with the gloom, became lost to Henry Harding’s eyes. The bandits had entered the inn, where they were joined by the more bizarre of the village belles. Soon came forth the sound of stringed instruments, the violin and the mandolin, mingled with the treading and shuffling of feet. Occasionally loud talking could be heard, along with the clinking of cups; then came cursing and quarrels, one of which terminated in a street-fight and the shedding of blood.

All this the young Englishman heard or saw from the place where he had been left bound – outside the open window of the inn. He was not there alone. Two bandits stood sentry over him, watching him with a vigilance in strange contrast with the negligence before displayed. The captive took note of this change in the behaviour of the brigands towards him. Still more when the chief, staggering past at a late hour, addressed some words to the two men who had him in charge. He could hear what was said. It was in the form of an injunction, terminating in a threat to the effect, that if he, the prisoner, should not be forthcoming the next day, they, the sentries, might expect punishment of the severest kind – in short, they would be shot. So hiccuped out their intoxicated chief, as he went reeling away in company of one of the flaunting belles who had taken part in the bandits’ ball.

That it was no empty threat made under the influence of drink became evident to the captive, in the increased vigilance with which he was tended. As soon as their chief was out of sight, the two sentries made a fresh examination of his fastenings, re-tightened the cords wherever they had become loose, and added others for greater security. Skilled in this peculiar craft by long practice, their prisoner was left but little chance of releasing himself, had he been ever so much inclined towards making the attempt.

And now he was, if he had not been before, not only inclined, but eagerly desirous, of making his escape. The stringent orders of the chief, with the elaborate precautions taken by the two sentries, had naturally awakened within him a degree of apprehension. Such pains would scarce have been taken for the sake of merely keeping him all night and letting him free in the morning. Moreover, the messenger who had been sent to the city had already returned. He had seen the man go into the inn while the dance was in progress, and no doubt he had delivered his fourscore scudi to the chief. It could not be this that was waited for to obtain his delivery.

There was to be another chapter added to his imprisonment – perhaps some cruel torture in store for him. He could easily imagine this after the incident that had occurred while he was being bound. The knock-down blow given to Doggy Dick would be looked upon as an insult to the whole band, and little as that English renegade might be esteemed by his Italian comrades, he would still have sufficient influence to instigate them to hostility against their captive. This was the cause to which Henry Harding ascribed the altered treatment he was receiving, and he now regretted having given it.

Could he have guessed the true reason he might have spared himself all self-recrimination. The prolonged imprisonment before him – and such in reality there was – had for motive a scheme far deeper than the hostility of Doggy Dick – either on account of the conflict that had occurred between them, or that of older and earlier date. It was a scheme likely for a long time not only to keep the captive from being restored to liberty, but that might deprive him of his life.

Though apprehensive of receiving some severe castigation at the hands of the brigands, he still did not believe himself to be in any great danger; and he was hindered from sleeping less by the prospect of punishment, than the pain caused by the cords too tightly drawn around his limbs. Despite this, despite his hard couch, which was the stone pavement of the street, he at length fell asleep; and slept on till the crowing of the village cocks, aided by a kick from one of the brigand sentries, aroused him once more to a consciousness of his uncomfortable situation.

Chapter Nineteen

On the March

At daybreak the brigands were upon the march. The town where they had spent the night was not one of their safe places. They might halt there for a day, or a night, and refresh or amuse themselves; but a prolonged stay in it might subject them to a surprise by the Papal troops, when these chanced to be on the alert. This was only upon occasions when some unusual outrage committed by the bandits called the troops forth to make a feint at chastising them.

Something of the kind was just then reported upon the tapis. He who had gone to rifle the chest of the poor artist had brought back word of it. Hence their quick decampment.

When the villagers made their appearance upon the street, they could congratulate one another on a happy riddance of their ruffian guests; though there were some among them to whom this would be no satisfaction – the keepers of the wine-shops for example. To them robbers’ gold was as good as any other.

The band proceeded through the hills, evidently making homeward. They were already laden with booty, captured before they had fallen in with the artist. It was, in fact, the report of this foray that was tempting the troops to pursue them.

They had no prisoners – only plunder, in the shape of plate, jewellery, trinkets, and other light personal effects. The villa di campagna of some old Roman noble had been the scene of their late raid, and they were carrying the spoils to their den.

That this was in some secluded part of the country was evident from the road taken to reach it. Now it was a rough causeway traversing a ridge; anon a mere scorzo, or cattle-track, zigzagging through the hills, or following the bed of a rivulet.

Long before reaching the end of their journey, the captive was fatigued and footsore. His shoes, none of the strongest, had yielded to the abrasion of the sharp stones; while the long tramp of the preceding day, with a half sleepless night on the street pavement, to say nothing of the beating the brutes had given him, had but ill prepared him for such an irksome march. His hands, too, were tied behind his back; and this, spoiling his balance, made progress still more difficult and disagreeable. The terrible depression of his spirits also detracted from his strength.

He had good reason for being dispirited. The rigorous watch, kept upon him all along the route, told him that he was not going to be easily let off. Already the brigands had broken faith with him; for he knew that the courier had come back, and of course brought back the scudi along with him.

Once only had he an opportunity of talking to the chief, just before starting away from the village. He reminded him of his promise.

“You have released me,” cried the ruffian, with a savage oath.

“In what way?” innocently asked the young Englishman.

“Hola! how simple you are, Signor Inglese! You forget the blow you gave to one of my band.”

“The renegade deserved it.”

“I shall be judge of that. By our laws your life is forfeit. With us it is blow for blow.”

“In that case I should be absolved. Your fellows gave me twenty for one – good measure, as I can tell by my aching ribs.”

“Bah!” contemptuously rejoined the bandit, “be satisfied that it is no worse with you. Thank the Virgin you’re still alive; or perhaps you may come nearer the mark by thanking that scar upon your little finger.”

The look with which these last words were accompanied spoke of some secret meaning. The captive could not tell what it was; but it gave him food for reflection that lasted him for some time after. Taken in connection with the close watch kept upon him, he could forbode no good from it. On the contrary, there was evil in the innuendo, though of what sort it was beyond his intelligence to discover.

On the second day from their leaving the town, the march continued on through a mountainous country, most of it covered with forest. The track was rougher and more difficult to travel – at times ascending slopes almost precipitous, at others winding through clefts of rock so narrow as only to admit the passage of one at a time.

Both brigands and captive suffered from thirst; which they were at length enabled to quench with the snow found upon the colder exposure of the ridges.

Just before sunset a halt was made, and one of the bandits was sent forward as a scout. A mountain summit, shaped like a truncated cone, was seen a short distance in front, and towards this the path appeared tending.

About twenty minutes after the scout had disappeared from view, the howl of a wolf came back from the direction in which he had gone, while another similar cry was heard still farther off. Following this, there was the bleating of a goat; on hearing which the brigands once more resumed their march.

Bounding an angle of rock, the face of the conical hill was seen from base to top, scarred by a deep ravine that led to its summit. Up this lay the path, until the highest point was reached; then a strange picture lay spread before the eye of the captive. He was looking down into a cup-like hollow, nearly circular in shape, with sloping sides, covered with a thin growth of timber, in places packed into groves. At the bottom there was a pond of water, and not far from its edge, through the trees, some patches of grey wall, with smoke rising above, declared the presence of human habitation. It was the rendezvous of the bandits, which they reached just before the going down of the sun.

Their home, then, was no cave, no mere lair, but something that more resembled a hamlet or village. Two or three of the houses were substantial structures of stone; the rest were simple pagliatti, or straw huts, such as are common in the remote mountain districts of the Italian peninsula. A forest of beech trees overshadowed the group, while the ridges around were covered with a thick growth of ilex and pine. A deep, dark tarn glistened in the centre, looking like some long-extinct crater, that acted as a reservoir for the rain and melted snow from the surrounding slope.

The stone houses could never have been built by the bandits. The straw cabins may have been erected to afford them additional accommodation; but the more substantial dwellings told of times long gone by, before the enervating influence of a despotic government had brought decay upon the territory of Italia. Some miner, perhaps, who extracted ore from the neighbouring mountains, had found here a convenient smelting-place in proximity to the tarn.

Around, the land sloped up into a circular ridge – a sort of amphitheatre, with apparently two passes leading outward – one to the north, the other to the south. By both of these passes was a peak that rose bald and herbless above the fringe of the forest, and on each of these, close to the extreme summit, could be seen the figure of a man, visible only from the valley below. They were the bandits’ pickets upon their post. Now and then, as they changed attitude, their accoutrements and carbine-barrels could be seen glancing in the golden sunset.

The young Englishman noted all this as he stood in the open piazza of the robber quarters. It recalled the song of the famed Fra Diavolo, and a night at Her Majesty’s Theatre – his box shared by Belle Mainwaring.

He was not long allowed to indulge in such reminiscences – at least in the open air. Acting under orders from the chief, two of his captors conducted him into a dark chamber in one of the stone houses; and, giving him a push that almost sent him face forward upon the floor, closed the door behind him.

There was the harsh grating of a bolt, and then all was silence. For the first time in his life, Henry Harding felt the sensation of being inside a prison!

Chapter Twenty

Writing to Dictation

These was at least relief in being left alone. The captive artist felt it so much, that his gaolers had scarcely drawn the key from out the lock, when he stretched himself along the floor and fell fast asleep. Some fern-leaves strewn over the stones served him for a couch, though he was too tired to care much for this.

He did not wake until sunlight, shooting in through the window, fell slanting upon his face. Then he rose to his feet, and took a survey of his chamber. A glance convinced him that he was inside the cell of a prison; for whatever may have been the original design of the room, its adaptability to this purpose was at once apparent. The window was high above the level of the floor, and so narrow that a cat could barely have passed through it. Besides, there was a strong bar set vertically into the sill, that rendered egress absolutely impossible. The door was alike forbidding; and ten minutes’ contemplation of the place told the prisoner there was no chance of escape – save in the corruptibility of his gaolers.

To Henry Harding there was no hope of this, and he did not even think of it. He saw no alternative but to wait the development of events.

He was hungry, and would have eaten anything. He listened, in hopes of hearing a footstep – the tread of a brigand bringing him his breakfast. He could hear a step; but it was that of the sentry outside his door. It came and went, and came and went again, but no sound of drawing bolt, or key turning in the lock. An hour was passed in this hungry uncertainty, and then the tread of the sentry became commingled with other footsteps. A short parley outside, the key was inserted, the bolt clicked back, and the door stood open.

“Good mornin’, Muster Hardin’. I hope ye ha’ passed a pleasant night o’t. Compliments o’ Captin, an’ wants ye to come an’ see him.”

Without further speech Doggy Dick seized the prisoner by the collar. Then, with a spiteful shake, such as might have been given by an irate policeman, dragged him out out of the cell, and on toward the quarters of the bandit chief. As a matter of course, these were in the best house of the place; but the young artist was not prepared to witness such splendour inside. Not only was the furniture well made, but there were articles of luxe in abundance – plate, pictures, looking-glasses, clocks, girandoles, épergnes, and the like, not very artistically arranged, but plenteous everywhere. It was a somewhat grotesque admixture of the ancient and modern, such as may be seen in a curiosity-shop, or the chambers of a London money-lender.

In the apartment to which the prisoner was introduced, there were two individuals seated amidst the glittering confusion. One was the brigand chief, whose name he now knew for the first time to be “Corvino.” He knew it from hearing him so addressed by the other occupant of the chamber, who was a woman, and who in her turn was called by the chief “Cara Popetta” – the “Cara” being merely a prefix of endearment.

Corvino, the chief, has been already delineated. Popetta, as being his spouse, also deserves a word. She was a large woman, nearly as tall as Corvino himself, and quite as picturesquely attired. Her dress was glittering with beads and bugles; and with her dark, almost chestnut-coloured skin and crow-black hair, she would have passed muster among the belles of an Indian encampment. She had once been beautiful, and her teeth were still so, when displayed in a smile; otherwise, they resembled the incisors of a tigress preparing to spring upon her prey. The beauty that had once shone in her countenance might still to some extent have remained – for Cara Popetta was scarce turned thirty – but for a scar of cadaverous hue, that traversed the left cheek. This turned what was once a fair face into one disfigured, even to ugliness. And if her eyes spoke truth, many a cicatrice had equally deformed her soul, for as she sat eyeing the prisoner on his entrance, there was that in her aspect that might have caused him to quail.

Just then he had no opportunity for scanning her very minutely. On the instant of his stepping inside the room he was accosted by the chief, and commanded in a hard tone to take a seat by the table.

“I need not ask you if you can write, signor artista,” said the bandit, pointing to the “materials” upon the table. “Such a skilled hand as you with the pencil cannot fail to be an adopt with the pen. Take hold of one of these, and set down what I indite – translating it, as I know you can, into your native tongue. Here is a sheet of paper that will serve for the purpose.”

As he said this, the brigand stretched forth his hand, and pointed to some letter-paper already spread out upon the table.