The Finger of Fate: A Romance

“We found him skulking into the town.”

“Skulking!” cried the young Englishman, turning upon the man a look that caused him to quail. “And if I am a ragged fellow,” he continued, directing his speech to the officer, “it is not to your credit – much less that you should taunt me for it. If you and your valiant followers were to perform your duty a little more efficiently, there would have been less chance of my getting my clothes torn.”

“Zitti! zitti!” hissed out the officer. “We don’t want such talk from you, fellow. Reserve your speech till you are questioned.”

“It is my place to ask the first question. Why am I here a prisoner?”

“That remains to be seen. Have you a passport?”

“A rational interrogatory to put to a man who has just escaped out of the clutches of brigands!”

“How are we to know that, signore?”

“Well,” said the young man, “I assert it. And,” he continued, looking quizzically towards his own person, “I think my appearance should corroborate the assertion. But, if not, I shall make my appeal to the signorina here; whom, if I mistake not, I have had the honour of seeing before. She, perhaps, may remember me, since for some hours I had the misfortune to furnish her with a melancholy spectacle while stretched upon the pavement underneath her balcony.”

“I do remember you! – I do, signore! Yes, papa, it is the same.”

“And I also saw him, Captain Guardiola. He was carried through here by the bandits. He is the English artist of whom we have been just speaking.”

“That may be,” rejoined Guardiola, with an incredulous smile. “Englishman, artist, and prisoner to the banditti – all these in one. But the gentleman may still have another character, not yet declared.”

“What other?” demanded the gentleman in question. “Una spia.”

“Spy!” echoed the prisoner. “For whom – and what purpose?”

“Ah! that is just the question!” sarcastically rejoined Guardiola. “It is for me to discover it. If you’ll be frank, and declare yourself, you may perhaps get better treatment; besides, it may shorten the term of your imprisonment.”

“My imprisonment! By what right, sir, do you talk to me of imprisonment? I am an Englishman; and you, I take it, are an officer in the Pope’s army – not a captain of banditti. Make me a prisoner, and it shall cost you dear.”

“Cost what it may, signore, you are my prisoner; and shall remain so till I can ascertain in what character you have been travelling through these parts. Your story is suspicious. You have passed yourself off for an artist.”

“I have not passed myself off for one, though I am so – in an humble sense. What has that to do with the affair?”

“Much. Why should you, ‘un povero pittore’” – this was said sneeringly – “be straying out here in the mountains? If you are an English artist, as you say, you must have come to Italy to paint ruins and sculptures, not rocks and trees. What then is your errand up here? Answer me that, signore!”

The young artist hesitated. Should he make a clean breast of it, and declare his errand? Had the time come? Why should he not? He was in a dilemma, out of which he might escape more easily than he had done from the brigands’ den. Why should he prolong the continuance of his second captivity? – for it was clear that the officer intended continuing it. A word would release him – so, at least, he presumed. There seemed no reason why it should not be spoken. After a moment’s reflection, he determined on speaking it.

“Signor Captain,” said he, “if in the execution of your duty you must necessarily know why I am here, you shall be welcome to the information. Perhaps my answer may give surprise to the Signor Francesco Torreani, and also to the Signorina Lucetta!”

“What! Signor Inglese!” exclaimed the sindico’s daughter, “you know our names then?”

“I do, signorina.”

“From whom have you heard them?” inquired the father.

“From your son.”

“My son! He is in London.”

“Just so; and it was there I first heard of the Signor Francesco Torreani and his daughter, the Signorina Lucetta.”

“You astonish us. You know Luigi then?”

“As well as one man may know another who for twelve months has been his daily companion; who has shared his apartment and his studio, who – ”

“Saved his purse – perhaps his life,” interrupted the sindico, approaching the Englishman, and warmly grasping his hand. “If I mistake not, you are the young gentleman who rescued my son from thieves, London bandits. It is you of whom Luigi has often written to us. Am I right in my conjecture, signore?”

“Oh yes!” exclaimed Lucetta, also coming nearer, and contemplating the stranger with renewed interest. “I’m sure it is, papa. He is so like the description brother Luigi has given of him.”

“Thanks, signorina,” answered the young artist, with a smile. “I hope you except my habiliments. As for my identity, Signor Torreani, I might have been better able to establish that, but for my kind friend Corvino; who, not satisfied with taking the little cash I had, has also stripped me of the letter of introduction I brought from your son. I intended to have presented it in person, but have been hindered by the circumstances of which you are already aware.”

“But why did you not make yourself known to me while you were here?”

“I did not then know you, signore. I was even ignorant of the name of the town into which my captors had carried me. I had not then the slightest idea that its chief magistrate was the father of Luigi Torreani – much less that the fair young lady I saw standing in a balcony was the sister of my dearest friend.”

At the conclusion of this complimentary speech, Lucetta’s cheek showed a slight tinge of red – as if from some souvenir of that balcony scene.

“What a pity,” said the sindico, “I did not know this before! I might have done something to get you off.”

“Thanks, Signor Torreani. But it would have cost you dearly – at least 30,000 scudi.”

“Thirty thousand scudi!” exclaimed the company.

“You put a high price upon yourself, signor pittore?” sneeringly insinuated the officer.

“It is the exact sum fixed by Corvino.”

“He must have mistaken you for some milord. I suppose he has discovered his error, and let you off scot free?”

“Yes; and finger free too,” rejoined the escaped captive in a jovial tone – as he said so presenting his left hand to the gaze of the company.

Lucetta screamed; while her father leant forward, and examined the mutilated hand with a compassionate air.

“Yes,” he said; “this is indeed a proof that I could have done little for you. But tell us, signore! How did you escape from those cruel wretches?”

“Time enough for that to-morrow,” interposed Guardiola, who seemed stung with the sympathy the stranger was receiving. “Sergeant!” he continued, turning to the soldier, “this interview has lasted long enough, and to little profit. You can take your prisoner back to the guard-house. I shall examine him more minutely in the morning.”

“Prisoner still?” was the surprised interrogatory of the sindico and his daughter.

“I warn you against what you are doing,” said the Englishman, addressing himself to the officer. “You will find that even your master, the Pope, will not be able to screen you from punishment for this outrage on a British subject.”

“And your master, Giuseppe Mazzini, will not be able to protect you for acting as a revolutionary spy, Signore Inglese.”

“Mazzini! Revolutionary spy! What do you mean?”

“I think, Captain Guardiola,” interposed the sindico, “you are altogether mistaken about this young man. He is no spy; but an honest English galantuomo– the friend of my son, Luigi. I shall be answerable for him.”

“I must do my duty, Signor Torreani. Sergeant! do yours. Take your prisoner back to the guard, and see that you bring him before me in the morning.”