The Finger of Fate: A Romance

“Ah! Signor Tommaso! I had forgotten that you were out. I thought you had gone in along with the others.”

“What others?” inquired Tommaso, with interest he endeavoured to conceal under a pretence of ill-humour.

“What others?” echoed the unreflecting sentinel; “why, Corvino himself, to be sure, and the party of pastores that went abroad with him. You were at the rendezvous when they left?”

“Ah, true,” carelessly remarked Tommaso. “But I thought they had got back before night. How long since they passed up?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Well, have they made anything by their sheep-driving?”

“A lamb. A young ewe, I take it, from what I could see of her wool. Dio Santo! there must have been sharp horns in the flock from which they have separated her. Our capo has had a thrust from some old ram. I could see blood upon his shirt.”

“Wounded, you think. Where?”

“In the right, arm. He was nursing it in a sling. There must have been a fight, I suppose. Did you hear nothing of it outside?”

“How could I? I’ve been too busy, and in a different direction.”

“I hope you’ve not been so busy as to hinder you from filling your flask, Signor Tommaso.”

“Por Bacco, no!” answered the latter, evidently more pleased than offended by the reminder. “I always find time for that. You want a pull, I suppose?”

“You’re right there, compagno; it’s a bit chilly upon post to-night, and a gill of rosolio would give me an infinite amount of comfort.”

“You shall have it. I can’t accommodate you with a cup. Can I trust the bottle in your hands?”

“Che demonio! yes. You don’t suppose, signor, I am going to rob you? A single pull will content me.”

“Here, then,” said Tommaso, handing over the leather bottle. “I’ll give you a good chance. You can swig away while I am counting twenty. Will that suffice?”

“Mille grazzie! yes. You are very generous, Signor Tommaso.”

The man, laying aside his carbine, caught hold of the proffered flask, from which Tommaso had already removed the stopper. Then, with the exclamation, “Oh me felice!” he took the neck between his lips. Turning his countenance skywards, he commenced imbibing the delicious liquor in long, copious draughts.

Tommaso had watched for this opportunity; and, suddenly stepping forward, he seized hold of the flask with his right hand, while with his left he grasped the brigand by the back of the neck. Then kicking his feet from under him, he flung the fellow back downwards on the grass, at the same time falling on top of him.

The vedette, thus taken aback, was hindered from resisting through sheer astonishment. He at first supposed it to be a joke, and that Tommaso was too generous of his liquor. Then he became doubtful about the designs of such rough handling; and then angry. He would have called out, but the bottle filling the whole cavity of his mouth, and the rosolio running down his throat, put a stopper to his speech. A few choking sounds escaped him; but, before he could free himself to give a good shout, or utter the oaths he would have done, four other assailants – already summoned by a low whistle from Tommaso – came quickly upon the ground. These, flinging themselves upon the prostrate body of the vedette, soon put an end to his struggles. It ended in their inserting a piece of stick between his teeth, and pinioning his arms to his sides; so that he was not only gagged and speechless, but powerless to stir from the spot.

A large body of men – for whom Tommaso had gone back some distance along the scorza– now came filing past; and, led by the ci-devant brigand, climbed quickly but silently up the gorge – their demeanour showing them bent upon an enterprise requiring the utmost caution.

Chapter Fifty Three

Courtship with a Captive

By this time, Corvino, his captive, and four followers had passed up the ravine, crossed the ridge, and descended into the crater.

On nearing the cluster of houses, they had been again challenged; this time by the regular sentinel of the rendezvous – of which there were two, one on each side. There was not much fear of these being found asleep. They had been lately taught a lesson well calculated to keep them on the alert, having seen two of their comrades summarily shot for neglect of watch-duty. They were the two who had suffered the English captive to escape. These had been tried, condemned, and executed, all within an hour’s time, after Henry Harding had been missed. Such is the code of the banditti – its stringency being their best safeguard against surprise and capture. A member of the band, placed over a prisoner, answers for the keeping of him with his own life. No wonder the escapes of riscattati are so rare – scarcely ever occurring.

No dog’s bark hailed the chief’s return; only the wolf-howl of the sentinel, three times repeated. Nobody came forth to welcome him. One of his followers opened the door of the capo’s house, entered, and struck a light, which he left burning in the chamber. The man then came out, and the four sham shepherds scattered off to their respective pagliattas.

Corvino was alone with his captive.

“Now, signorina,” he said, pointing to the house; “behold your future home! I regret I have not a grander mansion to receive you in; but such as it is, you are its mistress. Allow me to conduct you to your chamber.”

With an air of assumed courtesy, he offered his arm, which the captive made no movement to take.

“E cosi!” he exclaimed, taking hold of her wrist, and drawing her up the stone steps. “Don’t be so shy, lady. Step inside! You’ll not find it so uncomfortable. There’s a chamber specially fitted up for you with a sofa. You must be fatigued after your long march over the mountains. Be seated, while I find something sweet to refresh you. Can you drink rosolio? Stay, here’s better: a bottle of sparkling Capri.”

As he was talking, with his back turned to the door, a third individual entered the apartment – a woman of considerable beauty, but with that bold, fierce look that tells a sad tale. She had walked into the room without noise, stealthily and catlike; and, still remaining silent, she stood just inside the door – her glance fixed upon Lucetta Torreani, her eyes scintillating, as though at each moment they emitted sparks of fire. It was the woman who had betrayed Popetta, with the ambitious aim of being her successor. At the sight of this new arrival, her hopes seemed extinguished, and the look of concentrated rage with which she regarded the young girl was fearful to behold. It caused the latter to utter a cry of alarm.

“Chi senti?” asked the brigand, turning suddenly around, and for the first time perceiving the intruder. “Ah! you it is! Che tu sia maladetta! Why are you here? Off to your own apartment! Off, I say! Largo! Largo! This instant, or you shall feel the weight of my arm!”

The woman, awed by the threatening gesture, backed slowly out of the room; but as she passed into the shadow of the corridor, the fierce flashing of her eyes, accompanied by some words, low muttered, might have told Corvino that there was danger in what he was doing. He was too much engrossed with his evil design to think of it.

“Only one of my domestics, signorina,” he said, turning once more towards his captive. “She should have been to bed hours ago. ’Tis for that I have scolded her. Don’t let our little home-troubles make you unhappy. Drink this – it will refresh you.”

“I have no need of it,” replied the girl, scarce knowing what to say, at the same time pushing aside the proffered cup.

“But you have, signorina. Come, my fair girl – drink! Then for some supper. You must be hungry, as well as fatigued.”

“I cannot drink. I am not hungry. I cannot eat.”

“What would you then? To bed? There’s a couch in the next room. I am sorry I have no maids to help undress you. She whom you have just seen is not used to that kind of duty. You would prefer at once going to rest? Is that it, signorina?”

There was no reply. The young girl sat on the sofa with her head drooping down, till the chin touched her snow-white bosom. This was partially exposed – the buttons having been torn from her bodice as she was dragged along in the company of her captors.

There had been tears upon her cheek; but they were now dried, their traces only remaining. She could not again weep. She had reached that crisis of agony no longer to be relieved by tears.

“Come!” said the brigand, affecting an air of sympathy, like some cunning serpent in the act of fascinating its victim. “Cheer up, signorina! I acknowledge the rude fashion by which I have made you my guest; but who could resist the temptation of having so beauteous a damsel under his roof? Ah, Lucetta! though you knew it not, I have long been your admirer; long been enslaved by your charms – that are celebrated far beyond the mountains of the Romagna. I’ve myself heard speak of them in the salons of the Holy City. Ah! fair lady! being your captive, can you blame me for making you mine?”

“What would you, signor? Why have you brought me here?”

“What would I, signorina? What but have you love me as I love you? Why have I brought you here? Only to make you my wife!”

“Madonna mia!” murmured the girl, scarce listening to what he had said. “O Madonna santissima! What have I done to deserve this?”

“To deserve what?” asked the bandit, suddenly changing his tone. “To deserve becoming the wife of Corvino! You speak proudly, signorina. ’Tis true I am no grand sindico like your father; nor yet a povero pittore like the cur from whose company I have snatched you. But I am master of the mountains – and of the plains too! Who dares dispute my will? You will find it law, my lady – ay, to the very gates of Rome.”

After this outburst, the brigand paced for some seconds over the floor – his step proud, strong, exultant.

“I love you, Lucetta Torreani,” he continued after a time. “I love you with a passion that does not deserve such cold repulse. You may not like the idea of becoming a bandit’s wife; but remember, you become also a bandit’s queen. There is not a plume in all the mountain land that won’t bend to you – nor a hat that shall not be taken off in your presence. Throw aside your shyness, then, my pretty damsel! Don’t have any fear of losing caste by becoming wife to the chieftain Corvino!”

“Your wife! Never!”

“Call it by another name, then – if you prefer stickling about terms. We don’t have much formality in our mountain marriages, though we can get a priest when we want one. If you prefer the ceremony in a simpler way, I, for my part, shall have no objections to doing without the intervention of the curato. About that you shall have your choice.”

“Death, then, shall it be! I shall choose that.”