The Finger of Fate: A Romance

The order was obeyed. The prisoner offered no resistance to it. There were other soldiers outside the door; and, as any attempt to escape would have been idle, Henry Harding had to submit to this additional degradation. He did not leave the room before exchanging a look with Lucetta that consoled him for the insult, and another with Captain Count Guardiola, that disturbed his countship’s equanimity for the remainder of the evening.

Chapter Forty Six

Alone with Lucetta Torreani

Next morning Captain Guardiola was in a somewhat different frame of mind. On examination of the prisoner, he could find no proof of the latter being a spy; on the contrary, there was ample evidence of his story being true. A score of the townsmen could identify him as having been in the hands of the banditti. Indeed, this was not doubted by any one; and the fact of his being an Inglese was in his favour. Why should an Englishman be meddling in the political affairs of the country?

The commandant saw that to detain him might end in trouble to himself. He was too intelligent not to understand the power of the English Government, even in the affairs of Italy; and, looking forward to future events, thought it safe upon the whole to release the artist; which he at length did, under pretence of doing an act of grace to the sindico, who had renewed his intercession on the young Englishman’s behalf.

Henry Harding was once more free. Not a little to the disgust of Guardiola, he became the sindico’s guest. But there was no help for it, unless by an act of authority too arbitrary to be passed over without investigation; and the Captain Count was compelled to swallow his chagrin with the best grace he could.

By chance there was a spare suit of clothes, left by Luigi on his setting out for England. They were of the cacciatore cut, too fantastic for the streets of London; for this reason they had been left behind. They were just the sort for the mountains of the Romagna, and of a size to suit the young Englishman, fitting him as if he had been measured for them by the Italian tailor who made them.

The Signor Torreani insisted upon his receiving them. He could not well refuse, considering the state of dilapidation to which his own had been reduced, and the necessity of making a decent appearance as guest of the donor. An hour after his release from the guard-house he was seen in velvet jacket, buttoned breeches, and gaiters of cacciatore cut, with a plumed Calabrian hat upon his head – bearing resemblance in almost everything, except physiognomy, to a brigand!

The costume became him. Lucetta smiled at seeing him in his new dress. She was pleased with his appearance. He reminded her of brother Luigi. And then he was called upon for the story of his adventures among the bandits – from the date of his capture to that of his second arrival in the town. Of course only such details were given as were fitted for the ear of a young lady. The mode of his escape from the cell was particularly inquired into, and related. Some expressions in the destroyed letter of Tommaso, and which Henry Harding intended soon to communicate to the sindico himself, were kept back – along with that other intelligence which had been his chief motive for making escape.

His auditors – there were both father and daughter present at this interview – were strangely interested when he spoke of the mysterious interference on his behalf. Who could have helped him to the knife? Who could have written the letter of instructions? He did not say anything to assist them in their conjectures, nor even mention the name of Tommaso. All that was for the ears of the sindico himself, and at another time.

He merely described the cutting his passage through the floor above his cell – his dropping from the dormer window – the alarm caused to the sentinels, and its instant subsidence. He told them, too, how he had succeeded in passing the first vidette, stationed at the top of the gorge, by crawling on his hands and knees; how he had got so close to the other as to perceive that passing him in the same way would be impossible; how, knife in hand, he had stood for a time half determined to take the man’s life; how he had recoiled from the shedding of blood; how, concealing himself in some bushes, he had remained wakeful till daylight; had seen the second sentry pass up the hill; and then, unseen himself, had continued his retreat. As good luck would have it, a filmy haze was hanging over the valley, under the curtain of which he had escaped. Otherwise he would have been seen, either by the vidette above, or the night-sentinel on his return to the rendezvous. He could not tell whether he had been pursued – of course he had been, though not immediately. It was not likely he was missed till an advanced hour in the morning, and then he was far on his way. Fortunately, he remembered the road by which the brigands had taken him, and kept along with eager celerity, inspired not only by the peril of his own situation, but that of those to whom he was now describing his escape. He had finally reached the skirts of the town a little after nightfall, once more to be made a prisoner. And, once more released, he was in a fair way of again getting into chains, somewhat less irksome to endure. This, however, did not form part of his confession.

The conversation now turned upon Luigi; but this was in a dialogue between the young Englishman and Lucetta – the sindico having gone out on business of the town.

Need we say that Lucetta Torreani was very fond of her only brother? How was Luigi in health? How did he like Inglaterra? Was he making much progress in his profession? These, with a score of like questions, were rapidly asked and answered; and then a detailed description had to be given of that episode which had introduced the two young men to one another, with something of their after association. And then there was a sly inquiry as to what Luigi thought of the English ladies, with their blonde complexions and bright golden hair, so different from the daughters of Italia. And there was a hint about a young lady in Rome, a sort of semi-cousin of the Torreanis to whom Luigi ought to be true. Would it be right for a young man to marry away out of his own country? And did the signore believe that there was any sin in marriages between people of his own faith – he had confessed himself a Protestant – and those of Holy Church?

These and other topics – perhaps few so pleasant – were talked of; the young Italian girl asking questions, and giving answers, with that naïveté so charming to the listener.

It so charmed Henry Harding, that, before he had passed a single day in her company, he could look back on Buckinghamshire and Belle Mainwaring without a shadow of regret. He was in a fair way of forgetting both.

That same night the escaped prisoner completed the revelation he had to make to the sindico alone; first telling him what he had learnt about the designs of Corvino upon his daughter, as also how he had learnt it; then of the letter he had himself written to Luigi, urging the latter to hasten home.

The sindico, though pained, was not much surprised by the first part of this strange communication. As is known, he had already received warning. It was the letter to his son, written under such circumstances, that filled him alike with surprise and gratitude. With warm words, he thanked the young Englishman for his generous and thoughtful interference.

During the explanation, a point that had hitherto puzzled the escaped captive found a presumptive solution. He had all along wondered who could have been his mysterious protector. Who had furnished the knife, with the chapter of instructions that accompanied it? At the mention of the name of Tommaso, the sindico started, as if having guessed the hidden hand that had interfered in their favour. On a further description of the man, he felt sure of it. An old retainer of the Torreanis, who had held service in the Pontifical army; had fallen into evil ways; had been thrown into a Roman dungeon from which he had escaped; and no doubt had afterwards found an asylum among the mountain bands. This was the probable explanation of Tommaso’s conduct – a long-remembered gratitude for services the sindico had rendered him.

The latter now acknowledged the danger in which his daughter was placed, and the necessity of steps being taken to avert it. He had already determined on removing from the place, and taking his penates along with him. In truth, he had that very day concluded the sale of his estate; and was now free to go in quest of a new home – to whatever part of the world where it might be found.

Meanwhile, there was no immediate danger; the Papal soldiers intended staying some time in the town. The sindico could retain his situation of chief magistrate, and await the arrival of his son, who, if the post kept true to time, might be expected in a day or two.

To hear that Luigi was coming home was news to his sister. How had her father heard it? There had been no letter from London – no message from Rome. It was a mystery to Lucetta; and for reasons was permitted to remain so. But why need she care to unravel it, so long as he was coming home? And so soon too! And the time would not seem long, since his friend was there, and she could talk to him about Luigi. It had become pleasant to converse about her dear brother, with her dear brother’s friend; and once again were the same questions asked, as to how Luigi looked, and lived, and prospered at his painting; and whether he was given to admiring the English girls; and would it be wrong for him, a Catholic, to marry one, or would it be wrong the other way? and so were the artless interrogatories repeated.

These were pleasant conversations, but it was not pleasant to have them interrupted, as they usually were, by Captain Guardiola. Why should the officer force himself into their company – as he daily, hourly did? Why did he not take his soldiers – as he ought to have done – and go after the brigands? He could easily have found their hiding-place among the hills. Their late captive, still burning with indignation at the treatment he had endured – frantic when he looked at his left hand – would have gladly guided him to the spot. He proposed doing this. His proposal was not only received with coldness, but repelled with an insolence that kept the blood warm and bad between Guardiola and himself. From that time there was no communication between them – even when brought together in attendance upon Lucetta.

Both were with her, upon the ridge that rose directly over the town. There was a cave upon the summit of the hill, that had once been the abode of an anchorite. It was one of the curiosities of the neighbourhood; and the young lady, at her father’s suggestion, had invited her father’s English guest to go up with her and see it. The invitation was not extended to the other guest – the Captain Count. For all that he invited himself, under pretence of lending his protection to the signorina. His escort, though not asked for, could not well be refused; and the three proceeded to climb the hill.

Guardiola was beside himself with jealousy. In his heart he was cursing the young Englishman; and could he have found an excuse for pushing him over a cliff, or running him through with the sword that hung by his side, he would have done either on the instant.

Chapter Forty Seven

Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing

The excursionists had reached the summit, and looked into the cave. Lucetta related the legend of the hermit: how he had sojourned there for several years – never descending to the town, but trusting to the shepherds, and others who strayed over the mountains, to furnish him with his frugal fare; how he had at last mysteriously disappeared from the place, no one knowing where he had gone. But there was a story of his having been carried off by the brigands; and another that he was a brigand himself, having kept this post for purposes of observation.

“What did the shepherds say?” asked the Captain Count, by way of showing his superior intelligence. “They should have known something of the fellow’s daily avocations; since, as you say, they provided him with his daily food. But, perhaps, his doings, like those of many others, were in the dark.”

“Suppose you ask them, Signor Captain,” said Lucetta, with a languid smile at the somewhat cloudy insinuation. “There they are, coming up the mountain.”

The young lady pointed to a ravine scarring the hill on the side opposite to that on which lay the town. Along its bed five men were seen driving before them a flock of sheep, as if bringing them up to browse on the mountain. They were already within a hundred yards of the summit upon which stood the spectators.

The men were all dressed in coarse frezadas hanging down to their thighs, with the usual straw hat upon their heads, and sandals upon their feet. They carried long sticks, which they occasionally used in conducting their charge up the ravine. One of them wore the capuce, hooded over his head, a thing that seemed strange under the hot noonday sun.

The officer had promised to respond to the challenge of the signorina as soon as the shepherds should be near enough for conversation. They were coming direct towards the spot where the pleasure party awaited their approach.

“How very odd,” said the young Englishman, addressing himself to the sister of Luigi, “are some of the customs of your country – at least they seem so to me. Your countrymen appear to lack economy in the distribution of labour. For example, with us, in England, one man will easily manage a flock of five hundred sheep, having only a dog to assist him; while here you see five men driving less than a fifth of the number, and not very skilfully, as it appears to me.”

“Oh!” rejoined Lucetta, in defence of the native industry, “our shepherds usually have a much larger flock. No doubt these have more, and have left them on the mountains opposite – perhaps because there would not be enough pasture – ”

The explanation was interrupted by the approach of the sheep, whose tinkling bells drowned the discourse. Soon after the shepherds strode up, leaving their charge to go scattering over the summit. Instead of waiting for the Captain Count to begin the conversation, one of the pastores took the initiative, bluntly opening with the salutation – “Buono giorno, signori. Molto buono giorno, signora bella.” (Good day, gentlemen. A fair good day, beautiful lady.)

The speech was complimentary; but the manner seemed to have a different meaning. There was something in the tone of voice that jarred on the ears of the young Englishman.

“Free speakers, these Italian pastores,” was the reflection he was making to himself, when the spokesman continued —

“We’ve been seeking one of our sheep,” said he, “and have been hitherto unable to find it. We fancy it has strayed to this mountain. Have you seen anything of it?”

“No, my good friends,” answered the officer smilingly, and in a tone intended to conciliate the inquirers, whose rude style of address could no longer be mistaken.

“Are you sure, signore? Are you quite sure of what you say?”

“Oh, quite sure. If we had seen the animal we should be most happy – ”

“Your sheep is not here,” interrupted the young Englishman, who could no longer stand the pastore’s impertinence. “You know it is not. Why do you repeat your questions?”

“You lie!” cried one of the shepherds, who had not yet spoken – he who wore the red hood. “It is here. You, Signor Inglese, are the stray we are in search of. Thank our gracious Virgin, we’ve found you in such goodly company. We shall take back to our flock three sheep instead of one; and one of them such a beautiful young ewe – just the sort for our charming mountain pastures!”

Before the man had done speaking, Henry Harding recognised him. The voice was sufficient; but the capuce, now thrown back upon his shoulders, revealed the sinister countenance of Corvino!

“Corvino!” was the exclamation that passed mechanically from the lips of his late captive; and before its echo could reverberate from the adjoining cave, he was seized by two of the disguised bandits – the other two flinging themselves on the officer, while the chief himself laid hold of Lucetta.

With a desperate effort the young Englishman wrenched his arms free. But he had no weapon; and of what use would be his fists against the two assailants, who had now drawn their daggers, and were again advancing upon him? The young lady was still struggling in the embrace of the brigand chief – her cries loud enough to be heard all over the town. Meanwhile Guardiola was making no resistance, not even to the drawing of his sword, which was still dangling uselessly by his side.

With a quick eye Henry Harding perceived it; and, dashing between the two brigands who were closing upon him, he caught the weapon by the guard. Plucking it out of its sheath, he turned like a tiger upon his special opponents. The cowards shrank back; as they did so drawing their pistols, and firing at random. Neither of their shots took effect; and, in another instant, the swordsman was by the side of Corvino.

With a cry the brigand chief let go his struggling prize, and turned to receive the attack – flinging off his frezada and drawing a revolver – for this weapon had found its way into the hands of the Italian banditti. As good luck would have it, the first cap missed fire; and, before he could draw trigger upon a second, the sword of Guardiola, wielded by a more skilful hand than that of its owner, had rendered the brigand’s arm idle, and the revolver dropped to the ground.

Alas! it was to no purpose. Before Henry Harding could follow up the thrust with one more deadly, he was assailed from behind by four fresh adversaries: for the two in charge of Guardiola had let him loose, and the Captain Count was now running down the mountain slope as fast as his scared legs could carry him.

With the young Englishman it was now one against five, or rather one to four; for the brigand chief, on seeing his four satellites engaged with a single adversary, threw his left arm around Lucetta, and, raising her aloft, hurried off towards the ravine, up which, as a shepherd, he had ascended.