The Finger of Fate: A Romance

He could perceive a clump of trees standing a short distance off, and others straggling up the sides of the mountain. If he could succeed in getting under this cover, without disturbing the men who kept guard over his cell, he would stand a good chance of escape, at least so far as the first line of sentries was concerned. As to those keeping the pass, that would be an enterprise altogether distinct. To get clear of his prison was the thing now to be thought of; and he proceeded to take his measures. How to creep through the dormer window and let himself down outside were naturally the first questions that suggested themselves.

The night was dark, though with a sky grey and starry. It was the sombre gloom that in all its obscurity shrouded the extinguished crater. He could not see the ground beneath; but, knowing how high he had climbed into the garret, the descent could not be a very deep one, unless indeed the house stood on the edge of some scarped elevation. The thought of this caused him to hesitate; and, once more craning his neck over the sill, he endeavoured to penetrate the obscurity below. But he could not see the ground, and as it would not do to remain any longer, he turned face inwards, and, backing through the window, let his legs drop down the wall. A wooden bar placed tranversely across the sill, seemed to offer the proper holding place for his hands. He grasped it to balance his body for the fall; but the treacherous support gave way, and he fell in such fashion as to throw him with violence on his shoulder.

He was stunned, and lay still – in what appeared to be the bottom of a drain or trench. Fortunate for him his having done so. The crack of the breaking bar had been heard by the sentries, who came running round to discover the cause.

“I’m sure I heard something,” said one of the two.

“Bah! nothing of the kind. You must have been mistaken.”

“I could swear to it – a noise like a blow with a stick, or the fall of a bundle of fagots.”

“Oh, that was it! there’s the cause then, over your head; that window-shutter flapping in the wind.”

“Ah! like enough it was. To the devil with the rickety old thing! What good does it do there, I wonder?”

And the satisfied alarmist, following his less suspicions comrade, returned to the front. By the time they regained their respective posts, the prisoner had crept out of the dark ditch, and was skulking cautiously towards the cover – which he succeeded in reaching without further interrupting the tranquillity of their watch.

Chapter Forty Four

Again in Prison

About two weeks had elapsed since the Papal soldiers first quartered themselves in the village of Val di Orno.

The sun had sunk quietly down into the blue bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the villagers were most of them indoors. They were not desirous to encounter their military guests upon the streets by night, lest in the darkness the latter should mistake them for the enemy, and make free with any little pocket cash they might have, acquired during the tradings of the day.

The captain of the protecting force was at the time seated in the best sitting-room of the sindico’s house, making himself as agreeable as he could to the sindico’s daughter – the father himself being present.

The conversation, that had been carried on upon various themes, at length reverted to the brigands – as may be supposed, a stock topic in the village of Val di Orno. On this occasion it was special, relating to the captive Inglese; of whom, as a matter of course, Captain Count Guardiola had heard – having been officially furnished with the particulars of the affair on his first arrival in the town.

“Povero!” half soliloquised Lucetta; “I wonder what has happened to him. Do you think, papa, they have set him free?”

“I fear not, figlia mia. They will only do so when the riscatta reaches them.”

“Ah, me! How much do you think they will require?”

“You speak, signorina,” interposed the Captain Count, “as if you had a mind to send the ransom yourself.”

“Willingly – if I were able. That would I.”

“You seem greatly interested in the Inglese. Uno povero pittore!”

The last words were uttered in a tone of sneering contempt.

“Uno povero pittore!” repeated the girl, her eyes kindling with indignation. “Know, Signor Count Guardiola, that my brother is uno povero pittore; and proud of it too, as so am I, his sister.”

“A thousand pardons, signorina; I did not know that your brother was an artist. I only meant that this poor devil of an Inglese after all may be no artist, but a spy of that monster Mazzini! The thing isn’t at all improbable. Our last news tell us, that the arch-impostor has arrived in Genoa, whither he has come almost direct from England. This fellow may be one of his pilot fish, sent in advance to spy out the land. Perhaps he’s been rather fortunate in having fallen into the hands of the brigands. Should he come into my clutches, and I find any trace of the spy about him, I won’t wait for any riscatta before consigning his neck to a halter.”

The indignation which was rising still higher in the breast of Lucetta Torreani, became more perceptible in the pallor of her cheeks and the quick flashing of her eyes. She was hindered from declaring it in speech. Before she could reply, a voice was heard outside the door, accompanied by a knock, as of some one seeking admission. This was granted; less by the host of the house than his military guest, who had by this this grown to regard himself as its master.

The door was opened, and a sergeant stepped into the room, saluting as he did so. He was the orderly of the troop.

“What is it?” inquired the officer.

“A prisoner,” replied the man, making a second obeisance.

“One of the bandits?”

“No, signor captain; on the contrary, a man who pretends to have been their prisoner, and who says he has just escaped from them.”

“What sort of man?”

“A young fellow in the dress of a citiadino – un Inglese, I take him to be; though he speaks our tongue as well as myself.”

The sindico rose from his chair. Lucetta had already started from hers, with a joyous exclamation, at the word Inglese. The escaped captive could be no other than he of whom they had been lately speaking, and of whom also she had been long thinking.

“Signor Torreani,” said the captain, turning towards his host with an air which showed that he too was gratified by the announcement, “I do not wish to disturb you in the performance of my duty. I shall go down-stairs to examine this prisoner my men have taken.”

“It is not necessary,” said the sindico; “you are welcome to bring him up here.”

“Oh, do!” added Lucetta. “Let him come in here. If you wish, I shall retire.”

“Certainly not, signorina; that is, if you are not afraid to look upon one who has been a prisoner among banditti. If I mistake not, this is the povero pittore in whom you have expressed yourself so much interested. Shall I order him to be brought in here?”

It was evident that Guardiola wished it; so did Lucetta, from a different motive. The former intended to display his power in the presence of a prisoner, degraded by double captivity; the latter was inspired with an instinct for the stranger’s protection, and a secret partiality which she herself scarce understood.

It ended by the sergeant conducting his prisoner into the room, who proved to be Henry Harding.

The young Englishman seemed little surprised at the company to which he was introduced. But having just escaped from the keeping of brigands, he could ill comprehend why he should again be taken prisoner. That it was so, he had already been made aware by some rough treatment received at the hands of his new captors, who gave no heed either to his story or protestations.

He saw that he was now in the presence of their commander. No doubt the interview would end in his being released.

At a glance he had recognised the other occupants of the apartment. The sindico he had seen when passing through as the captive of the brigands. He well remembered him; but still better his daughter.

And she remembered the captive. His bare head, for he was hatless, the brown locks tossed over his temples, the tattered surtout and trousers, his small feet almost shoeless – all this délabrement of dress and person did not conceal from the eyes of Lucetta Torreani the handsome face and manly form she had once before looked upon, and with an interest that had made a lasting impression upon her memory. Even in his rags he looked noble as ever. The very scantiness of his garments displayed the fine symmetry of his figure; while his face, flushed with defiant indignation, gave him the look of a young lion chafing at the toils once more cast around him. He was not tied, but he was not at liberty.

At the same time he might have had reason to suppose himself in the presence of friends. He knew that the gentleman in civilian costume was the father of his friend Luigi; that the young lady was Luigi’s sister – that “little Lucetta,” of the increase in whose stature the letter had conjecturally spoken. And truly was she well grown, stately, statuesque – a fully-developed woman.

Of course neither father nor daughter could know him. They had but seen him as a stranger – a captive to banditti.

In presence of such company it was not the time to declare himself; though in a glance exchanged with Lucetta as he entered the room, he felt gratified to think that the sympathy once silently shown for him had not passed away.

Chapter Forty Five

Consequential Swagger

Quickly and surreptitiously as was that glance exchanged between them – Henry Harding and the sindico’s daughter – it did not escape the notice of Captain Guardiola. Warned by the conversation that had passed, he was watching for it. It gave him the cue for a swaggering exercise of his authority.

“Where have you taken this ragged fellow?” asked he of the sergeant, nodding superciliously towards the prisoner.