The outlaw, or, The female bandit
page: 1[View Page 1]THE OUTLAW;
OR, THE FEMALE BANDIT.
A Story of the Robbers of the Apennines.
BY LIEUT MURRAY.
CHAPTER I.
THE ROBBERS OF THE APENNINES.
ABOUT a couple of leagues from the town of Frescati, in the Duchy of Parma. Italy, the sun lay warm and bright upon a large open plat, on the mountain side, enlivening with its rays a wild and vivid scene. The spot, forming an area of three or four acres, presented a view which would have delighted an artist's eye. Here and there, lounging over the green sward, were a score or two of brigands, dressed in all the rude and vivid colors that seem to form the delight of European mountaineers. Armed to the very teeth, the men presented a most formidable and striking group, while close at hand were stacked a pile of the short, clumsy carbines of a century since.
The gaudy colors of their dresses, the jaunty knots and bows of scarlet ribbons about their legs, arms and shoulders, the page: 2-3[View Page 2-3] green slouched hats, each with a long fancy-colored feather, the bright, glittering steel weapons in their belts, all combined to render the group dazzlingly picturesque. It was the afternoon of an autumnal day and a dreamy spirit seemed to brood over the careless outlaws. Some slept upon their arms, nearly all were smoking the much loved tobacco; and before the entrance of a cave, half-natural half-artificial, there stood steadily leaning upon his carbine, one who was evidently placed there on guard while the plumed hat of another sentinel might have been seen at the entrance of the grounds pacing back and forth, giving evidence of quiet discipline and care.
Here on the extreme left of the scene, a merry group are playing cards, and some broad pieces of gold are replay changing hands with the progress of the games but more in the foreground of the picture sat two persons who would naturally attract the eye of an observer. The one from a certain air and style about him—not to speak of his dress, which bore also distinctive marks—was evidently a leader of the band: while the other with whom he is conversing was but too plainly a visitor, one but lately stopped in some neighboring pass. The open valise and scattered contents told this story at once.
The prisoner was a young man of four or five and twenty, tall, finely formed, evincing great strength and manly beauty in his proportions, with a face strikingly handsome. His manner was easy and commanding, and the way in which he adapted himself to the unpleasant contingency he had experienced, to be one of genial temperament, and seen not a little of life in all of its various moods. From his dress and bearing he evidently belonged to the better class of society, and the spurs upon his heels showed him to have been traveling in the saddle. He chatted freely with his captor, while the two smoked each a choice cigar from the traveler's own package.
"You were a little too ready with those weapons of yours," said the outlaw to his prisoner. "One of our poor fellows you sent to his long account, and two more are little better off, with broken heads, and pistol balls in their bodies. We do not often pay so dearly for so modest a reward as you are likely to afford."
"Merely instinct, my good friend," said the traveler coolly. "Your people attacked me, and I defended myself until overcome by numbers."
"Ay, but the band are bitter enough at the loss we have sustained at your hands, and demand your life in payment."
"A poor been for them. What would they gain by my death? poor satisfaction indeed. Do you blame me for an act of self-defence?"
"Not I," said the outlaw, who was ready to acknowledge true courage always, wherever it was found.
"Then I suppose you will release me, as you are the leader here, if I judge correctly?" continued the prisoner.
"I am leader, that is, under our mistress," was the reply.
"Mistress?"
"Ay."
"And pray, do you mean to say that a woman is your leader?"
"Yes."
"That is strange!"
"Not at all," replied the outlaw.
"Does she lead you on your expeditions?" asked the prisoner, with undisguised curiosity.
"No, but nevertheless, she governs us; her will is our law."
"And how many men do you number?"
"This immediate band numbers only half a hundred; but all the mountaineers of Parma, are in our league, and she is mistress of all. We are now so well organized and disciplined, that we scarcely fear the government at all, and the regular troops rarely modest us."
"What is your mistress's name?"
"Inizilla."
"A musical name."
"It sounds sweet to us."
"Whence comes she? The daughter, or wife of some former leader?" he asked
"Neither. We know her only as our good angel. She keeps her own counsel, but no general in Europe can plan and direct better than she. We have never known her yet to be mistaken in her calculations. She has miraculous power."
"This is very strange. I shall look with great interest for her coming, no less on account of herself, than for my own release."
"No doubt she will liberate you, she always does that; but she also leaves the plunder to be divided among ourselves. She never claims even the smallest share of booty, and yet she never wants for gold, which at times, she scatters among us freely."
The prisoner mused within himself while left alone. He was puzzled at what he had heard, and a most irresistible desire to meet the female bandit came over him. Don Heranzo was a Spanish cavalier, of gentle birth and ample means, of just the age to enjoy a romantic adventure, and the circumstance which had thrown him into this peculiar position he now began to look upon as far from a misfortune after all; indeed, he felt himself quite at home. This, doubtless arose from a cosmopolitan spirit and much travel. Nothing so much teaches a man to adapt himself gracefully to circumstances as years of travel, and the inevitable experience that it is sure to impart. The young cavalier had visited many lands, and had learned to rely upon himself, as his ready hand had proved to the banditti.
Left to himself, Don Heranzo now strolled about the grounds, curiously observing the wild character of the place, and soon joined a party of the outlaws, who were target-shooting at the outskirts of the clearing. No attempt had been made to place him under personal restraint, the banditti evidently feeling assured that he would not attempt to escape. He marked, with keen rest, the practice of his captors with their weapons, pistols mainly being used; nor could he entirely suppress a look of surprise to see that no better shorts were made by men who should be experts.
The unmistakable expression of his countenance was observed by the outlaws, and one sneeringly said: "Perhaps this courageous young cavalier would like to show us how to shoot better. Say, comrades shall we give him a chance?"
"If it will give you pleasure to see me fire," replied the prisoner. "I will do so." Saying which, he extended his hand for one of the pistols, and aiming at the target from where he stood, a considerable distance further from it than the others had practiced, he fired so quickly that it was hardly believed among them he had aimed at all; but nevertheless, his ball penetrated the very centre of the target, to the no small amazement of those rude men about him. Again, was he importuned to fire, for the incredulous ones were inclined to attribute his shot to a chance hit, extraordinary luck, or something of the sort. Three shots, each one of which penetrated the "eye" of the target, caused the outlaws to cheer him with hearty good will.
Just then, as the dusk of evening began to shut over the sky, there dashed into the open space, a couple of horses and riders. The two were a woman and a male attendant, the former young, petite and beautiful: the latter a specimen of herculean strength, and a man of some forty years. Even beside these hardy men, he seemed to be one able to master a dozen single-handed. He had dismounted, and stood respectfully holding the rein of his mistress's horse, and offering his arm, which she touched lightly as she sprang from the saddle.
Don Heranzo observed every movement of the new-comer with intense interest; first because he had already heard enough to deeply interest him, and secondly, because of her extraordinary beauty. Beneath a deep gypsy bronzed hue, she exhibited a refinement of feature, and a delicacy of beauty, that struck him as exceeding anything even his experienced eye had beheld. The person whom he had so lately conversed with, was now busy in conducting the new-comer into the cave, and as she passed, the prisoner observed the respectful military salute of the guard. Turning to one near him, he asked:—
page: 4-5[View Page 4-5]"Who is that lady?"
"She is our mistress," said the man.
"Inizilla?"
"So she is known to us," was the reply.
"Has she no other name?"
"I have never asked," replied the man, either with well-assumed or real indifference.
"Dose she live within the cave?"
"No."
"Where, then?"
"I know not," replied the man, puffing his cigar with perfect indifference.
Don Heranzo had been prepared by the romantic associations of the announcement of her coming to see a beautiful woman, but he found the reality to far exceed his most exaggerated fancy. Youthful of wonderful grace and ease of manner, entirely self-possessed, and seemingly endowed with a consciousness of position and power that made her entirely at her ease, she bore about her the atmosphere of command and of loveliness that at once enslaved his heart. A thousand wild questions sprang up spontaneously in his heart. "Is she free? Could she love? Has she a true woman's heart, as she has an angel's form? Ah, how strangely my heart beats under the influence of this entrancing vision!"
After the lapse of half an hour, during which the round full moon hand quietly crept up from the horizon, and now looked bright and clear down upon the wild group of hardy and reckless mountaineers, the prisoner was summoned to the interior of the cave, into a neatly and comfortably fitted apartment, where he was brought before the lady whom we have already partially described. She was now divested of her riding cap, but otherwise, dressed as he had first seen her. The wreath of glossy hair that fell in natural curls all about her face and neck, acted as a half veil, but yet quite insufficient to even partially screen her wondrous beauty. By her side stood the same stalwart man who had ridden upon the grounds with her on her first coming.
Saluting him gracefully with a wave of her hand, she told him that she was already cognizant of his case, and that it would only be necessary of him to exercise his patience until morning, when he should again be free; that the slight loss he had realized from the troop was merely the toll required of travelers upon the mountain; and that his person was sacred. This was expressed to him with a sweetness of voice and dignity of manner that struck him with amazement, and even half-confounded him in his grateful reply. Indeed, he was dumb with admiration, and felt more like kneeling and worshiping in silence, than uttering even a single syllable aloud.
At length he found himself partially alone with her, excepting that same herculean attendant who never left her side, and he ventured to ask her, after a few introductory words:—
"Do you not fear to be among such people as these?" he asked, with undisguised amazement depicted in every lineament of his fine, expressive face.
"Fear?"
"Yes, lady."
"I fear nothing, sir," she said, with a proud and yet beautiful turn of her lip, as she significantly touched the jeweled hilt of her stiletto.
"But, lady, your beauty, so extraordinary, the lawless character of these people, your comparatively unprotected condition"——
She smiled in a manner that expressed far more than words could have done, her entire sense of security and conscious power, as she passed out of the cave, conversing with him who had appeared to Don Heranzo as the leader of the banditti.
CHAPTER II.
THE FEMALE BANDIT.
IT was a glorious moonlight night on those bills of the Apennines, when Don Heranzo was invited to partake of the rude but sumptuous fare which formed the supper of the hand, and which was spread upon the green sward. Near by he heard the music of a foaming torrent, as it coursed its way towards the River Po. It was a wild and exciting scene, one which thrilled our adventurer in every nerve, as he gazed upon the lawless troop, in their picturesque groups.
He was by birth a gentleman, though but a humble Spanish cavalier, well-educated, refined in taste, and chivalric in every prompting. A person of varied accomplishments, he was never without his artist's pencil, and though but an amateur, yet he seized the moment to make a hasty sketch of the wild and beautiful scene. He was undisturbed until he finally outlined the picture and giving a life-like portrait of the leader, the beautiful woman who had so filled him with admiration.
Inizilla's seat was arranged by itself, and she sat down to her repast alone, except that her inseparable attendant threw himself upon the ground not far from her side, and between her and the hardy men of the band. At last, she signed for Don Heranzo to join her at the rude table spread upon a rock, where she was partaking of her meal, and a young peasant-girl served him with the necessary articles for his sharing with her the simple bounty provided. The robber mistress talked pleasantly, indeed most agreeably to the captive, until he found the moments gliding with lightning speed. Himself a fine linguist, he addressed her in the purest Italian, and she seemed equally well-acquainted as himself with the history of his own beloved Castile. Her intelligence no less than her beauty captivated him.
At last, led on by an irresistible impulse, he alluded to her associations with these rude beings about her; sought by eloquent words to point out to her the terrible end of such a career, besought her to listen to his counsel, and forgive his earnestness—in short, throwing heart and soul into the effort he made. The beautiful being he addressed calmly smiled at his earnestness, but shook her head; not, however, without a shadow of sadness beaming in her face.
"Fair Inizilla," he said, at length, "I am but a humble Spanish cavalier, but let me beseech you to leave these wild associations. I have enough for the real wants of us both, though I am not rich. I will share hand and heart with you, if you will but give yourself thoroughly to my guidance."
"How dare you propose to one whom you cannot know?"
"I know that no deceit can lurk beneath those eyes," he calmly replied; "that no guile can be harbored in that bosom, or cruelty find place in your heart. It is enough for me, Inizilla, I love you, and at once."
"You have known me but three hours."
"True."
"And would bind yourself for life to one you find engaged with such associates as these?" she asked, solemnly.
"I would," answered Don Heranzo, distinctly and earnestly.
"You know not all, nay, not one half with what I am charged," she added, somewhat earnestly; at the same time watching the young cavalier's countenance intently, as though she would study the effect of her words upon him; her fine features lighted up the while with intelligence and earnest feeling, imparted an aspect of wonderful beauty.
"I care not with what you are charged," answered her companion; "mine be the task and privilege to lead you back to those sweet paths which you were born to ornament."
"A price is set upon my head."
"It weighs nothing with me. I can protect you."
"And lose your own life, perhaps, in the endeavor?"
"It could be expended in no more grateful cause."
A gratified smile stole over and lit up her beautiful face, while she mused for a moment in silence. At length she said:—
"This cannot be, or rather not now; I may talk to you at another time about this purpose, so generous on your part; but we all have duties to perform, however humble may seemingly be our station. These people depend upon me; to leave them would be to insure their destruction sooner or later. They have trusted me, I will not desert them."
page: 6-7[View Page 6-7]"May I not hope that in time this bond could be severed?"
"Perhaps in time it might."
"Ah, there is hope, then?" said the prisoner, earnestly.
"We shall meet again. Whither do you travel?"
"To Parma, the capital."
"It is well; now, good sir, a fair rest to you."
"Must we separate so early?"
"It is necessary."
"Then, good-night. One token of remembrance?" he asked.
"I have none to give, unless it be this silver call."
As she spoke, she unscrewed a tiny whistle from her riding-whip, and handed it to him.
The cavalier took the token with grateful looks and words and did not forget to kiss the delicate hand that presented it. The commander of the troops, as if in answer to some signal from the lady, beckoned him at once into the cave, where he found a rude bed prepared for him, and upon which he threw himself to dream all night long of the lovely being he had just left.
Again and again her fair form and beautiful face visited him in his dreams; that darkly beautiful face, the soft regular features beaming through the deep olive gipsy hue of her complexion, seemed the very embodiment of loveliness and to the sleeper appeared to gaze upon him with gentle fondness. Her form, so lithe and graceful in every movement, assumed ethereal proportions, and floated before him in a soft and misty could towards which he involuntarily extended his arms, but it was a dream.
On the morrow when he awoke, he found he had slept late, far into the morning, and hastily making a rude toilet, he partook of food and wine placed for him, and found his horse already saddle and awaiting him at the entrance of the cave. His valise was there, too, the contents restored, with the exception of the cigars, which had been consumed by the eager band. The chief stood there to see him depart, and courteously greet him with a fair, bright good-morning.
"How is it that I find my property restored?" he asked, as he observed this to be the case.
The robber quietly removed his cigar from his lips, as be replied:—
"Our mistress ordered it so."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, it is often her way."
"Can I see her and thank her?" asked Don Heranzo, eagerly.
"No."
"And why not?"
"She departed last night."
"Where has she gone?"
"I know not. Her movements are all in secret, sudden and untraceable as those of the wind that sweeps over these Apennines. No one question her pleasure, which is to keep her own counsel, for her will is imperative. It is enough for us that she serves and protects and directs us with unvarying wisdom. Following her counsel we have never yet known failure; when we have deviated from it, defeat and mortification have always followed in our footsteps. The band hold her sacred, and we know her to be endowed with power above man's compass."
The chief spoke reverentially, and with a quiet expression of truth, that showed Don Heranzo he was uttering his inward convictions, not playing upon the credulity of a stranger; and he himself mused thoughtfully for some moments, before he mounted and turned his horse's head towards the road at the foot of the mountain.
"Adieu, adieu, captain," he said, with a wave of the hand; "and thanks for the night's lodging I have enjoyed at your hands."
"Hold," said the robber, gently placing his hand on the rein. "Need I say that there is one promise necessary from you, before you leave us?"
"I understand you, I shall utter no word of betrayal."
"Neither of your experience here, nor of the locality?" said the robber.
"Of neither shall I speak to anyone."
"You promise on your word of honor?"
"I promise," said the traveler.
"It is enough; and now farewell, and a pleasant trip for you to Parma."
Don Heranzo put spurs to his horse, and dashed swiftly down the mountain road on his way to the capital; his mind, however, far more occupied with the memory of the mysterious female robber, than of the surroundings of his path. He recalled, beneath an assumed air of levity and freedom on her part, an innate degree of refinement and delicacy, which he could not reconcile with the situation in which he found her. What could possibly be the incentive for her association with these rude and daring mountaineers? If it was merely a mercenary spirit, whence the reason for her known liberality, as acknowledged to him by the robber captain? Were not his own effects, by no means trifling in value, all returned to him? Was it revenge that actuated her? The purpose to avenge some fearful personal outrage? Thus he rode on, musing within himself, only to be more and more puzzled at his adventure. One thing he was forced to acknowledge to his own heart—he loved the beautiful being he had so singularly met, be she who or what she might—and he felt that his fate was in some way to be connected with her mysterious destiny.
At the period of which we write, the Duchy of Parma, from its northern boundary of Austrian Italy to the southmost extent, where it borders on the Sardinian States and Tuscany, had become distracted by certain local political events, for a series of successive years, until lawlessness reigned supreme. The lofty and most inaccessible chain of the Apennines within its southern border, more especially, had become infested by bands of well-organized banditti, absolutely strong enough to defy the government. These bands of outlaws, though distinctive, and operating generally independent of each other, yet formed a league of mutual interest, and subscribed to a code which bound them all together for the good and protection of the entire whole. As isolated and roving bands, they were comparatively unimportant and weak, but as a leagued body, they became strong, powerful and dangerous.
These bands were composed mainly of hardy mountaineers, the peasantry of the country; and so complete were they in their organization, that when necessary, the captains could bring together large numbers for an occasion, whose legitimate occupation was that of vine-dressers and agriculturists, whose neighbors, even, suspected them not of belonging to the secret league. The fearful oaths under which they were placed, and the condign punishment that was often meted out to delinquents, kept them true; besides, the equitable distribution of booty made it for their pecuniary interest to remain faithful to the banditti. Two years of active measures on the part of the government against the outlaws had proved perfectly futile in suppressing their power, and the condition of things assumed most fearful aspect of anarchy at the particular period when we have opened out story.
Of all the bands that headed by Alfonzo Mataloni, and which we have already introduced to the reader, was the most feared and felt throughout the broad valley and hillsides that he on the right bank of the River Po. None knew this man's history but all understood his character which was a singular combination of chivalry and daring. Scarcely a needy peasant within forty leagues of his immediate haunts, but had shared his bounty and protection. He had never evinced cruelty never shed blood except in open fight and in self-defence; but he was king of the road, and laid all who were able under ample tax to support his treasury, and for bounty to divide among his band. He seemed to be actuated by some secret motive beyond that of gain alone, as his princely charities to the poor robbed him of all aspect of avarice.
Thus the name of Alfonzo Mataloni, while it was one of terror to the proud and rich, became one mentioned only with reverence and love by the peasantry of Parma. No bribe of the government was sufficient to induce man or woman to betray him, of those who were able to do so, from a knowledge of his haunts; and the soldiery had too page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] often felt the keenness of his aim, and the deadly fire of his faithful carbines, to desire an encounter with them among the wooded passes of the mountains.
For many months, at just the period of our story, the banditti had become stronger and better organized than ever. Indeed, the advisers of the government had openly declared in council that their own authority in the kingdom was far less than that of the combined outlaws. A crisis was evidently at hand—no government could stand long under such an alarming state of discord, and to heighten the fears of the court, it had been discovered that the terrible league was organized and led by a woman, who was represented to be as beautiful as she was remarkable for executive power and discretion. All tongues resounded with wild stories of her power, her marvelous beauty, her influence over the banditti, and her wonderful means of information, and promptness of action.
CHAPTER III.
THE TIMELY RESCUE.
"LAY by your carbines and put your shoulders to these wheels," said a clear, manly voice, that sounded distinctly above the ranging of the storm, and the rush of the torrent that had submerged the road, and was sweeping a carriage and its occupants over the fearful precipice. "With a will, my men," continued the speaker, as he seized the reins of the plunging horses, and with an iron grasp controlled their movements.
It was a terrible scene, just at nightfall, on the main road of southern Parma. A wild, raging storm had flooded the mountain side, and came pouring down in a most resistless torrent directly in the course of the carriage, which was occupied by a female of evident rank. One moment more, and the vehicle, horses, occupants and all, would have been inevitably forced over the precipice to instant death, when a score of men sprang into the road, headed by their leader, whose daring courage and instant expedient, aided by his followers, saved all.
Temporary security being gained, the leader of the banditti, for it was a detachment of the outlaws that had just rendered this all-important service to the travelers, approaching the door of the carriage, bade the occupants hasten out as soon as possible, and follow him to a place of safety. A single glance sufficed to show him that the lady was already insensible, and seizing her in his arms, the chief of the banditti bore her within the shelter of a vast overhanging rock, bidding her companion to follow him to on the instant. Another moment and the torrent which seemed howling in its fury, bore carriage, horses, and postilion over the fearful precipice to otter and instant destruction.
"The saints be praised," exclaimed the gentleman, as he reached a sheltered spot: "one moment later, and our lives had gone with that of the postilion. But we owe all to you," he continued, turning to the chief; "your ready hand and gallant daring have saved us from a fearful death."
The speaker was a man of some fifty years, dignified and noble in bearing, while the order he wore conspicuously upon his breast, showed him to be a person of distinction. The chief had gently laid the fainting lady upon as convenient a spot as was to be found at the moment, and pillowing her head upon his own half-military cloak, which he had taken off for the purpose, he was now gently chafing her wrists in an endeavor to arouse her once more to consciousness.
"It is the result of fright," said the robber. "She has certainly sustained no bodily injury.
"None," replied her companion; "thanks to your ready hand and care."
At this moment the lady opened her eyes, and with a shudder, gradually returned to full consciousness, as she did so, discovering a loveliness of youthful beauty that might charm an anchorite. She gazed about her confusedly for a moment, and then, as her full, deep black eyes rested on the robber chief, the recalled the whole of the fearful scene through which they had passed up to the moment of her swooning. The gentle-man observing her thus gazing intently upon the chief, said:—
"We owe our very lives to him, Nina."
"To whom, uncle?" she asked, gently rising from her reclining posture, while the robber cast his ample cloak about her shoulders to protect her from the flooding rain.
"Well, I can't exactly say," was the reply, "not having asked the question myself."
At the same moment, there seemed to come over the traveler for the first time, an idea as to whom he was indebted for his timely preservation. A vague feeling of uneasiness shot through his mind, as he seemed to understand that these rude mountaineers could be no other than the well-known banditti of the Apennines. He paused thus thoughtfully but for a moment, then said:—
"Whom have we to thank for this great service?"
"It matters not," was the moody reply of the chief who stood by his side.
"Surely you will gratify us by giving the name of one to whom we are forever indebted?"
"It is a name, sir, which you at the capital hear only coupled with blood-thirsty deeds, and ideas of all sorts of villany; a name that is used as a bugbear to frighten stubborn children into obedience in your princely halls—but here, on the mountain side, and in the valley, for many a league, even to the banks of the Po—you will hear the common people call it with a kindly smile and a friendly benediction."
"You are then"——
"Alfonzo Mataloni."
The young lady drew instinctively nearer the side of her protector, who in turn became sensibly affected by the name, which was, indeed, the terror of half the city of Parma. The robber folded his arms and looked calmly at them. On the lovely girl his eyes rested in earnest but deferential admiration; while, feeling the tenderness of his gaze, her own sought the ground. It was but for a moment, when a feeling of noble and generous trust seemed to actuate her, and she said, earnestly:—
"It matters not who you are, you have placed us under deep and lasting obligations; you have even risked your own life to save ours. In return, we can at least but pay you the poor compliment of giving you our full trust."
As she spoke thus, she approached Alfonzo, and extended to him her hand, which he took gently, bent over it for one instant, and with a sigh that heaved his broad chest visibly, he said:—
"Your trust shall not be abused." Then turning to his men, who had stood respectfully one side while their chief chose to take the business in his own hands, he said, "What, ho! a litter, my men, a litter forth-with. Lady, I will bear you to some safer spot than this dangerous place, where you can remain until the storm abates."
The following morning broke bright and clear over a scene of devastation such as does not often occur even in the Apennines. The streams had all become torrents, and in their course to the valley had carried huge rocks, and torn up trees as though they were mere feathers. Nina and her uncle saw with amazement the fearful picture of the power of the torrent, in some spots totally obliterating the road, and remembered what might have been their fate, when the fearful catastrophe threatened them, on the spot where the postilion and horses were destroyed before their very eyes.
They had been humbly but comfortably entertained at a mountain hut during the night, and stood now refreshed after a wholesome breakfast, partaken of with an appetite that only mountain air can inspire. While the uncle and niece were thus gazing off the lofty mountain side, there stood unobserved by them, a little in the background, the robber, leaning carelessly upon his carbine and regarding them earnestly. The rude cottage forming the background to the picture, made it one fit for the canvas of an artist.
Count Fialto was high in station, rich, nobly connected, and all-powerful at the page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] court of Parma, one of the main pillars of which he was considered. His niece, who had long since been left an orphan, and to his especial care, was now just returning from Rome, whither he had been to bring her from her convent studies, she now having arrived at a suitable age for presentation in society. The uncle was proud of his fair ward, and being himself unmarried and childless, she was to be heir to all his broad estate, an amount of riches that rivaled any private fortune in all Italy. It was thus that the count and his ward were found upon the mountain road as we have before described.
Nina was of a rich Italian olive in her complexion, through which a fresh color, induced by the morning air, now glowed with an exquisite loveliness. She was just rounding into the fullness of womanhood and womanly dignity, which was in itself an attraction. Her brilliant eyes sparkled with unwonted fire as she stood there now gazing over the will scene, and off, far away over the valley of the Po. Both were for some moments silent as they felt the grandeur of the scene and drank in of its thrilling beauty. At last the count turned and said:—
"We must seek out the chief of the mountaineers and ask his purpose."
Observing their intent, Alfonzo, tossing his carbine carelessly into the hollow of his arm, approached them, and gave them the usual morning greeting.
"You would resume your journey to the capital?" he said, as though he had divined their thoughts. "To do this, I am sorry to say you will have nearly half a league to walk, after which, you come to the uninjured portion of the road once more. There you will find post-horses awaiting you, and though your own conveyance is lost, you will yet proceed comfortably."
"And you, what recompense can we make to you for this service?" asked the count. "I have but small means with me, but I know the practice of a ransom."
"You are free to depart," answered the robber. "We war not upon those whom we find in distress. Had you met with no misfortune, we might have demanded our usual toll, but as it is, you become sacred under the name of guests."
Nina thought as he stood there in his free and picturesque costume, with the grace that a noble action gave him, for the moment, at least, that she had never seen so fine a specimen of a man. He had an innate aspect of manliness, a delicacy and grace of expression, and a refinement of voice and manner, that a count could not have rivaled. Even Count Fialto realized this, though not so fully, perhaps, as his niece.
"Let me at least leave a few pieces of gold to be distributed among your followers, more especially those who were immediately engaged with you in the rescue of last evening," said Nina, handing a rich purse heavy with the precious coinage.
"Lady, I see by your countenance, that it will give you pleasure to have me receive this purse for distribution among the men, and I shall fulfil your desire."
A low whistle blown upon a silver call that hung from his neck, brought to the robber's side an athletic youth, who received his directions with regard to guiding the travelers to that point of the guiding the travelers to that point of the road where their conveyance awaited them. Nina gave her hand once more, with a sweet smile, to the leader as they parted; and Count Fialto bade him farewell with a courteous assurance that this favor should be remembered, if the time ever arrived when his influence could serve the true interests of Alfonzo Mataloni.
"I should be loath to press you, were I by chance in such a position as to need your aid."
"If that occasion comes, jet me require this favor," said the count, earnestly.
"I shall remember your offer, Count Fialto," said the outlaw.
"I trust so; once more, farewell."
"Farewell," said the chief, pressing the offered hand of the count.
On the following day, after the arrival of Count Fialto and his ward safe at Parma, the whole court rang with the story of their late adventure. The young reigning queen, who had succeeded to the throne from reason of there being no male heir, listened with great interest, and inquired into every particular concerning the gentle Nina. The act made much capital for the outlaws, and several declared openly, that there was little need of government troops to fight men who could be governed thus by a sense of honor and chivalry.
Maria Colonna, the Queen of Parma, was young and beautiful, just the age when the heart bears the largest share in the council-chamber of our discretion, and she easily saw, while Nina spoke thus enthusiastically of the young robber chief, that their single meeting had given rise in the young girl's heart to a sentiment that was at least, of a most significant, if not absolutely dangerous character. The queen warned the blushing girl against thinking too much concerning one whose romantic surroundings gave a certain dramatic effect to his appearance and bearing, which was altogether temporary.
"You saw nothing of this Inizilla, this female leader of the banditti?" asked the queen, of Count Fialto.
"Nothing, indeed; I do not think we approached near the stronghold of the troop, but rather that we were entertained at the nearest mountain cabin."
"I would that you could have seen this female robber," continued the queen. "All the rewards that have been offered, have failed to gain us any information on this point, and it seems to be to her alone that the outlaws owe their remarkable organization."
"Your majesty is about to issue fresh offers of reward for her arrest, I have learned?"
"It is our purpose to do so, or for any information whatever concerning this remarkable woman, who thus puts at defiance our authority on the throne. There have lately been fresh outrages committed in the northern districts, and the banditti are growing bold."
"I much fear they are too strong for us, and that your majesty will find it as difficult to manage them as did your late honored father."
"Force and military expeditions will not do it, count, I am well satisfied of that; it must be accomplished by ingenious strategy and finesse. Time will show. Have you heard of one Don Heranzo, count?" continued the queen, after a short pause.
"There is a Spanish gentleman on his travels, of that name, I think, and now in Parma," replied the count.
"It has been reported that he has suspicious connections with the banditti in some way. That he has been among them, and has information of value which he might impart if he chose."
"I cannot believe him in any way implicated with the outlaws, your majesty, as the gentleman, I think, brings letters of undoubted character."
"Yet we have certain information of the fact," continued the queen.
"Possibly he may have been attacked by them and made prisoner for a period."
Had this been the case, he would doubtless have entered his complaint at the government office."
"It would seem probable certainly," replied the count.
"He must be closely watched, and examined ere he leaves the city. If he is innocent, there will no harm accrue to him or any one; if guilty, he must expect to pay the penalty."
CHAPTER IV.
THE SPANISH CAVALIER.
IN the meantime, Don Heranzo, little suspecting that he had aroused the suspicions of the government against himself by any means, accidental or otherwise, passed his time in the innocent pursuit of examining such local attractions as might engage a traveler's eye. But notwithstanding the pleasant novelty of the capital, a certain restlessness haunted him constantly, until at length he found himself quite miserable. He could think of nothing save the lovely female robber of the mountain pass; he page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] longed once more to see her, to strive and pursuade persuade her to leave the life she had adopted, and be his bride.
Those to whom he had brought letters found him very dull and stupid, and set him down as either crazy or half-witted, and realized a degree of relief that he did not force his society upon them. Perhaps, too, the suspicions which had been made known to Count Fialto by the queen, concerning the young traveler, might have reached other ears, for certain it was, that he found little cordiality evinced towards him in Parma. At last, unable longer to deny himself and the promptings of his heart, he resolved to seek the robber's retreat in the mountain at all hazards, and strive to see the lovely Inizilla.
With this purpose, he once more mounted his horse, and sought the mountain path, which he dilligently pursued until he reached the very spot where he so lately rested as a prisoner to the banditti. But the scene was now changed, the place deserted; he found none here, and only an old woman left to keep the cave in order. The robbers rarely occupied one spot for any great length of time, but consulted their safety by frequent changes. Disappointed and unhappy, the traveler turned his horse's head once more towards Parma, whither he slowly wended his way.
Don Heranzo had proceeded thus but a short league, when there dashed across the road from a bridle-path off the mountain side, and from out the thick wood, the figure of a horsewoman followed by an attendant. The cavalier was but an instant in discovering that the lady was she whom he sought, and that her companion was the same dark stalwart attendant he had before met by her side.
"Ah, Don Heranzo," she said gaily. "what brings you again into the mountains?"
"Lady," he replied, "shall I tell you truly?"
"Indeed, yes."
"It is in search of your own bright self, then; naught else, believe me."
"Where did you expect to meet me?"
"At the cave where I first saw you."
"I am seldom long in one place," she replied. "Our trade is hazardous one, and we dare not be too permanent or fixed in our camp grounds. Now I think of it, Don Heranzo, how do I know what real motive may actuate you? It were worth any man's while who loves gold, to betray me. The government is offering fabulous sums to induce some one to hunt me out, and give the needed information."
The lady, who had drawn up her horse and was now walking him slowly by the side of Don Heranzo, looked into his expressive face as she uttered these words.
"Is it generous to even hint at such an idea as connected with me?" he asked, in a tone slightly indicative of a sense of injury.
"We will not discuss this matter now, Don Heranzo, and yet we are told that every man has his price. A terrible thought, but alas, my own experience goes far to prove it true."
She spoke with a sad earnestness, that signified quite as much as the words themselves and sighed deeply as she did so.
"Prove me, if it be in your power," said Don Heranzo.
"The occasion may not be wanting, if you remain long in Parma," she answered. "I am deeply engaged now, and must beg you to leave me. Another time and I will"——
"But, lady," continued Don Heranzo. "I find myself miserable without you; pray do not let me again lose sight of one who"——
"Yes—yes—I know very well what you would say, but it is impossible for me to be longer with you at present. So you must turn your horse's head back again towards the main road; my path lies up the mountain—I promise you that at another time I will meet you on more agreeable terms."
"Fair Inizilla, I know not the reason why, but I feel instantly the inclination to obey your wishes, though so averse to my own I shall leave you, but will you not say where I can meet you? This doubt—not knowing where to address you—where to find you in any emergency, is too painful to bear."
"I will find means for our meeting, do not fear. Enough, farewell!"
"I obey you, however unpleasant it is to me," replied the young cavalier, as he turned his horse's head in the opposite direction.
"Stay, Don Heranzo, I like your promptness." As she said this, she extended her ungloved hand towards him. The cavalier dismounted quickly, pressed it tenderly to his lips, with as much respect as though she had been a queen, and mounting once more, he waved his cap in farewell, and dashed off for Parma.
The young cavalier realized fully that he loved the strange but beautiful being he had just separated from. It was useless for his calmer discretion to bring up before the mind's eye the striking fact of her guilty associations, that she was an outlaw, a price set upon her head; all this signified little to him. True, he trembled for her safety on account of all this, but his heart knew no vacillation because of her situation. He only knew that he loved her. Her sweet face was daguerreotyped upon his very soul, and his heart was full of her alone.
"She is accustomed to admiration," he said to himself; "no woman ever bore herself in that courtly manner who had not received the homage of many men. Alas! can I hope to touch her heart? Am I the first that will share its love? Will she love me at all?" Thus he mused, as he traversed the lonely road to the capital.
In the meantime, could Don Heranzo have followed the fair Inizilla, he would have seen her dashing up the mountain side followed respectfully by her attendant, until reaching an encampment similar to that we have already described, she dismounted, and was soon engaged in close converse with the swarthy leader, aside from the place occupied by the members of the band. The deference paid to her presence, the tone and bearing of the outlaw chief, showed that she had acquired a most powerful control over these wild mountaineers.
There was a calm, business-like address about the fair girl that exhibited a wonderful executive ability—her memorandum-book, in which she was now making careful and copious notes, showed that she had system, too, in her management, and altogether, it would seem little like the conducting of a lawless band of men, but more like the systematic control of a well-organized government force. To add to the remarkable character of all this, there was her youth—for certainly not more than four-and-twenty years had yet passed over the fair Inizilla; possibly she was even younger than we have named. The petite and delicate character of her form, rather favored the idea of her youth, but which, as we have intimated, seemed belied by her calm self-control and assurance of manner.
The court circle of Parma was one of the gayest of all Europe at the period of which we write, the nights being one succession of gala scenes. A few days subsequent to the date of the occurences we have just described, there came to Parma a gallant officer in the Sardinian service, though an Italian by birth, named Count Nicola Bianchi; he brought letters to various nobles at the court, and though on his way from Rome with government despatches, yet he proposed to tarry a few days at the court of Parma, and enjoy its hospitalities. One of these letters of introduction was addressed to Count Fialto, and the stranger found himself at once in the midst of all the gayety of the court and its attractions. He was a noble-looking young officer, and the gay Sardinian uniform set gracefully upon his finely turned limbs and form.
Particularly did Count Fialto seek to do him honor; and his beautiful niece seemed never happier than when amid the giddy mazes of the dance, with the young officer as her companion. Indeed, he was the observed of all observers. To Nina he seemed to pay particular court, and whispers ran through the ball-room often, of a very tender relationship, that promised to spring up between them. Their quiet resort together to the retired balcony, their strolls in the brilliant gardens of the palace, their manifest page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] tenderness for each other, were all observed and commented upon.
All this was particularly bitter to one, a young prince of Rome, named Carrafa, who had long been an ardent admirer of Nina, but who now saw his hopes gradually fading away, and the beloved object of his regard being won from him by a stranger. His quick Italian blood could bear this but a short period. Indeed, but a few days had transpired since the Count Nicola Bianchi had arrived and seeking him in her presence, he offered him an insult which it is needless to detail, and which could not fail to draw out all the resentment of any brave man's nature. This was indeed his purpose.
The sword was the weapon of the duel. They fought at sunrise, and their blades dashed in the first golden light of the morning. The prince was a good swordsman, and indeed, a man of powerful strength, but the count prayed himself to be his superior in skill. He disarmed his rival after a short conflict and in room of taking the advantage which the code of the duello gave to him, he returned the prince his weapon, bowed low, and they separated. His adversary, impressed with the generous action of his rival, who had actually spared his life, handsomely acknowledged the noble deed, and Count Bianchi found the court ringing with his praise, while the prince retired to Rome, leaving his rival with undisputed right to the lady's favor.
Nina, just ripening into the charms of womanhood, was an object to be beloved, and the young Sardinian soldier regarded her with a tenderness which it was impossible to disguise. The sweet, young girl on her part, loved him already with her whole heart, though neither had yet owned the fact to the other; indeed, the period they had been together could be as well counted by hours as by days. Count Fialto was not so blind as not to see the state of affair, and though he had ever been proverbially jealous for Nina's sake, yet he seemed to adquiesce acquiesce in the present instance, or, at least, to present no obstacles to the growing intimacy of the handsome couple. Indeed, the count had become a guest at his house, and was to remain there during the few brief days of his stay in Parma, and thus he had been thrown much into the company of the lovely Nina.
Nothing occurred to mar the pleasant interview of his stay, and indeed, he seemed to make himself a grand favorite by his address, wit and general accomplishments. Without one particle of pride, he yet seemed to command the full respect which his station should receive.
Suddenly, one evening, when the Count Fialto's drawing-rooms resounded to the notes of the waltz and the merry feet of the dancers, one of Count Bianchi's servants was seen to hasten into the hall, regardless of all ceremony, and seeking his master's side, he whispered some secret intelligence, and disappeared as abruptly as he had come. Whatever the news might be which he had brought, it seemed to act like magic upon his master, who, turning hurriedly to Nina Fialto, who was his partner, begged her to excuse him, as serious and important intelligence called him at once to leave Parma and pressing her hand, he hastened away.
Scarcely had the count disappeared from the apartment, before the heavy tread of armed men was heard in the corridors, and a file of soldiers were posted at every door, while an officer entering, at once sought the presence of Count Fialto. Consternation reigne din reigned in every face; all was mystery and amazement; the scene of revelry became one of fear. What trouble had fallen? was there any immediate danger? The ladies grew pale, and the gentlemen prepared to meet whatever exigency might come. The officer whispered a few words to the count, who in turn drew him still more one side, and after a few moment's conversation, the soldiers were withdrawn. There was a feeble attempt to renew the pleasures of the evening, but it was a failure, and ere long the guests departed, evidently impressed with the idea, that all this trouble was in some way related to the person of Count Bianchi, the young Sardinian soldier and guest of Count Fialto.
Count Fialto strove to deceive his guests with politeness, but his courtesy was forced, and though he stood by his niece's side, and bade each and all a fair good-night, it was easy to see that both were much disconcerted, and were sadly troubled.
No sooner were uncle and niece left alone, than the count drew Nina one side, and regarding her intently for a moment, almost shuddered, as he asked:—
"Nina, do you love this stranger who has been among us?"
"Uncle!" exclaimed the gentle girl, startled by the abrupt question.
"Answer me, child, let me know the worst." He spoke with fearful earnestness.
"The worst, uncle—can there be any harm in loving such a man?" she asked, innocently.
"This means that you do love him, Nina?"
"Uncle!" repeated the fair girl, half-reproachfully, with tell-tale blushes.
"It has gone further than I supposed, then. Has he spoken to you of love?"
"Never," said Nina, with downcast eyes. "But why these eager questions, uncle?"
"Did you not see the soldiery here to-night?"
"Yes; and was amazed. Why were they here, uncle?"
"To arrest him, the self-styled Count Bianchi!"
"For what?"
"Nina, who do you suppose he reality is?"
"Indeed, I know not, unless he be what we all supposed."
"He is Alfonzo Mataloni, the robber chief. But the troops are on his track now—he cannot escape them except by a miracle."
Nina gave one long, agonized cry, and fell senseless at the feet of Count Fialto.
CHAPTER V.
THE PEASANT BRIDE.
COUNT FIALTO sat alone in his study on the day subsequent to the summary scene which had taken place in his drawing-rooms, when the soldiery had entered and sought, but in vain, to arrest the disguised robber chief. He felt terribly chagrined, first at the publicity of the exposure, as well as that he should have been so easily imposed upon, and that this daring character should have been received cordially into his family, and entertained there as a distinguished guest. Had he remained one day longer, Count Fialto had proposed to present him to the queen, and now thanked the saints, that at least this mortification was spared him. He felt amazed that he had not himself recognized the robber, who was the same person who saved his own and his niece's life so lately in the terrible storm on the mountain; and he went back and reviewed the entire circumstances of his present sojourn at the palace. The complete change of circumstances, the dress and doubtless other means of disguise, which the outlaw had adopted, probably afforded ample excuse for his not discovering, in the pretended count, the individual whom he had met under circumstances so vastly different. His letters, too, all authentic—indeed, he saw that he had been the dupe of a remarkable combination of circumstances.
He had thought over all these matters for hours, that day, and now sat before a sweet, simple picture, beautifully done in oil, that hung upon the wall, and from before which he had drawn a certain that usually remained as a screen to it, hiding it from general view. It was the face and bust of a mere girl in years, but one of such exquisite loveliness, that the most casual observer would have paused to gaze upon it in admiration. A peasant girl, of simple attire, luxuriant hair, and a wealth of sweetness in her innocent face, that had an almost sacred aspect, such as the old masters loved to give to the Madonna. What was she to the rich and noble Count Fialto?
He learned his head sadly upon his hand, as his eyes gazed intently upon the sweet face above him, and his breast heaved quickly, as a deep sigh escaped from his lips. All the world knew him as a bachelor—who page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] then was she whose memory seemed so potent in his heart? It could not be a daughter—there was no likeness that signified kindred blood; was it some one, some dearly loved object of his youthful years, of whom death had robbed him, and whose memory he thus held sacred, and to whom he had remained faithful, even while she slept in the grave? A looker-on would have conjectured this.
At this moment, Nina entered softly her uncle's study, and approached so near as to even lay her hand gently upon his arm, before he was aware of her presence. The count started, looked confused, and rising hastily, drew the curtain before the face of the fair portrait he had been regarding so intently. The resuming his seat, he buried his face in his hands for a moment before he spoke. The proud man's heart was full of sorrow, how keen, the deep-drawn sigh evinced.
"Uncle, dear uncle," said Nina, regarding him with great tenderness. "How often do I find you thus sad and thoughtful, regarding that beautiful portrait? You have never told me its story, nor why you deem it so precious? Speak, uncle won't you tell me?"
As she spoke, she seated herself at his feet upon a footstool, and looked up tenderly into his face.
"Not now, my darling, not now; at some other time. I am dejected now. I cannot spoke of those things. At another time I will do so. Don't importune me to-day, Nina."
"Uncle, father, for you are both to me," she said; "I only know that I would endeavour to alleviate, by sharing your interests, or your sorrows. It is no idle curiosity that actuates me. You know that my affection for you, dear uncle, is all in all of my life."
As she spoke, she kneeled down by his side, and throwing her arms tenderly about him, looked up into his face with all the trust and love of her young heart expressed in her countenance.
The proud man drew his gentle ward to his bosom, and imprinted a fond kiss upon her forehead. Worldly though he might be, proud and inaccessible to others, it seemed as though he became a mere child in her dear spiritualizing presence. A few kindly words, and he told her that state business engaged him, and they parted. She did not press him further, for she saw that he would avoid the subject.
But that the reader may fully understand our story, it will be necessary for us to look back, down the long vista of the past, for a series of twenty-five years, and to paint for the eye the picture of a fair but humble cottage on the banks of the River Po. It is a beautiful scene that we would summon up before the mind's eye of our patient followers in this story of Italian life. On the bank of that lovely and far-famed river, stands the cottage home of a vine-dresser, one Carlotti, an aged and thrifty peasant, known throughout the district for his manliness, and the beauty and goodness of an only daughter. This child, for many years motherless, strove to perform the duty of wife and daughter to her loving father; and all the lads of the valley worshiped at her shrine. In her pleasant way she had a kind word for all, but made no choice among them.
Her quiet, unobtrusive life was beautiful in its simplicity and truth. Unheeding all the lures of pleasures, and the assiduous attentions of many an ardent admirer, she was devoted to her father and her home. At length, one summer's evening, there came a pedestrian, who, fatigued and hungry, sought shelter at their door. He was welcome, and his brief stay, which from evening until morning would have been only the ordinary occurrence of the road, was prolonged to days; weeks—nay, he departed for a brief period, and again returned to the cottage by the swift running river.
The young pedestrian was a student from the college at Rome, on his way to the north. His wealth of language, his nobleness of person, his brilliant imagination and his seeming truthfulness, all combined, won the love and confidence of the gentle Italian girl. They wandered by moonlight along the banks of the river, and strolled amid the shadowy aisles of the thick wood. A new world opened to the eyes of the sweet peasant—so unsophisticated, so gentle, so pure. There was no guile no knowledge of the world; to her sinless heart all was new and beautiful. She loved! Her heart, trust, and soul were given to him who had won her first, artless, devoted confidence and affection. Alas! how inadequate is innocence to cope with experience!
The tide of joyous, innocent, delight flowed on for months. At last deceit crept in, the tempter was all-powerful, the sacrifice was ready. All was lost!
Ashamed to look her doting old father in the face. Fenella Carlotti banished herself from home. Deserted, she strolled to the mountains, and, but for the hospitality of the banditti, would have perished! They took care of her, their women nursed her; and in them she found the firm, resolute friends that her forlorn situation needed. Her deceiver was the son of a rich man, and the representative of a proud house. He was well known the course for the robbers was clear.
A timely and well-arranged foray was entirely successful. He, the betrayer, was captured. A princely ransom was demanded, and instantly paid by his father. But the young student was not permitted to depart, until a priest of the church of Rome had united him in the holy bonds of marriage with the beautiful but deceived Fenella. The robber chief desired no more, for even the demands of honor were now satisfied. The sweet girl refused to live with him who had thus proved false to her, and he was dismissed, to contend alone with the struggle of a conscience which was not scared in guilt, but which must agonize him forever; while the fair but deceived one made her home among the mountain passes of the Apennines. She never smiled again! Her cup of misery was full to the brim.
Months, long and bitter passed; the lover and husband sought his wife in vain—his first deceit was his last. She utterly refused to ever see him again. Her heart was scared; all the fountains of her young love were dried up; she no longer lived, she only existed, and time to her was a weary, lagging march towards the tomb! Patient uncomplaining, she bore her lot. The rich ransom had been so devised as to smooth her aged father's path towards his long home, and to supply her own necessities. This was not the work of the deceived and ruined girl herself, but of those bolder and stronger minds, which, with a love of justice, had taken her lot into their own rude but faithful hands.
Could it have been known to her truly how much he, the fearful offender and robber of her virtue, suffered, how his entire life had become embittered and sacrificed, she would at least have pitied the erring one, if she did not trust her future happiness to his keeping. But this she could not know. Her own proud spirit denied her the power to meet his often made advances, his strenuous efforts to find her out, and to acknowledge her. Indeed, once deceived, she became upon the subject of its cause a monomaniac, and she would in no way receive communication or knowledge of him on any pretext whatever. He did not know the spirit he wounded.
At last sickness, weary, long sickness came. The delicate, sweet mother, laid her down to die. The soft summer sun came in at her mountain home; and kissed the cheek of the long-suffering and weary Italian wife, all of whose life had been an unanswered and unfulfilled promise. Her dear boy, though but an infant in years, wept sadly by her deathbed, and the rude but tender wives of the brigands smoothed her drying pillow, until the last sigh gave relief to the wounded spirit of a loving, a deceived and broken heart!
That offspring, adopted by the robbers of the Apennines, was born and bred for fearful destiny. With little cultivation themselves, these rude mountaineers knew the great value of education and cultivation in letters; and the boy, while yet but three years old was sent to Rome, where his education was undertaken by the monks. A page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] liberal and regularly paid stipend made him a welcome scholar, and he progressed in all the cunning of letters which the capital could so easily teach. At last that portion of his history which told of his remarkable birth became known to him, and a sense of pride possessing him, he deserted the tutorship of his convent friends, and resorted to the mountains. With a feeling of revenge for those forms of society which had ruined his mother before him, and blighted his own prospects in life, and without knowing or seeking to know what it was to whom he was indebted for a being that had, to his sensitive mind, resolved itself into a shame, he joined the banditti, and at once became, by reason of his intelligence, bravery and a natural spirit of command, one of vast influence and power in the widely extended league. Fate seemed to have marked out his course for him, and he blindly submitted to her promptings.
A life thus embittered by the untoward circumstances of its very beginning, thus poisoned at the very fountain-head, became one sombre and dreamy in every phase; and the young robber knew no delight except in the heat of action, and the gallantry of noble, physical and moral deeds; for there was a noble moral in the large charity he bestowed through the wide valley of the Po. No picture of woman's love had ever dawned upon his only half-defined heart, he hardly knew that he had one. Yet he was in reality actuated only by the most chivalric motives, and controlled the bands he had now come to command quite as much by the force of his native nobleness of character, as by the steady arm of discipline.
He like all the leaders of the brigands, however, acknowledged the singular power and direction of that one mind, which had brought them all into a system of organization and control which surprised themselves by its completeness and perfection. Inizilla was their leader and under her direction and sanction, they felt strong even against the government itself. It might have been supposed that such a character would have challenged the love of some of the leaders. Not so, however, for in fact she seemed sacred, and was only approached with that deference which men might render to a superior being. Indeed, there were stories among the bands, and generally believed, too, that she was in some way superhuman. Her word was law—her counsel sought on the slightest subject, and then followed implicitly.
Was it to be wondered at, that a man thus born, thus introduced into the brotherhood of the mountaineers should be one of remarkable singleness of purpose, chivalric in spirit, unselfish, self-sacrificing, determined, brave beyond compare, and indeed, embodying all those attributes of command which he seemed to inherit? He could not fail to be great as a leader of those wild mountain spirits, whom be commanded. Such fortune made men that the government found it impossible to subdue either by force or bribery. It was only in that mountain air, seemingly, that such could live, breathe and have a being. The cold forms of society afforded no attractions for such. They were solus—unapproachable.
The attentive reader, who follows us so patiently, will easily see through the simple threads that weave the woof of our story. In the son of that delicate and lovely girl of the valley of the Po. they will recognize the famous bandit—Alfonzo Mataloni. We need hardly have written the fact. Until he met the sweet Nina, in that fearful contest with the storm on the mountain side, his heart had never been touched, but to see her was to love; and he found himself her slave.
A sardinian envoy taken by his band, easily afforded the disguise necessary for him, in order to visit her at her palace home, and his letters answered as well for the robber chief as for himself. One or two of the band as attendants, made the arrangement complete.
And now, who was that father, who had lived and suffered? Reader, the portrait we have described in Nina's home was the picture of the sweet peasant mother of Alfonzo Mataloni, and the proud Count Fialto was his legal father.
CHAPTER VI.
THE REFUGE OF THE CLOISTER.
COUNT FIALTO, little thinking who the mountain chief really was, felt outraged beyond measure, at the fact of his having been thus his guest; and bitter, also, beyond expression to think that he had dared to was court to Nina. This latter feeling was especially aggravated by the fact that every day and hour after the departure of the mountain chief. Nina betrayed only too plainly that her heart had gone with him to his Apennine home. She listened patiently to her uncle's reproaches, and made no attempt to defend herself, but all the fire of her nature was aroused to defend and find excuse for Alfonzo.
No sooner did the young Prince Carrafa learn of the absence of his rival, than he once more returned to Parma, resolved to press his suit, and in him Nina found a source of exquisite annoyance, particularly to her uncle, under the circumstances of the case, deemed it proper to sanction the prince's wishes, and to second most assiduously his efforts to win an interest in the fair young girl's heart. He was forced upon her at every point, and on all occasions, until he became her bane. At last, from being a respectful and tender lover, he became is persistent adversary. His pride being piqued, he swore to marry and then the humble the spirit of Nina Fialto. All the baseness of his nature seemed to be enlisted in this unworthy undertaking.
Count Fialto, jealous of his house and Nina's position, became morose and severe; and the young and trusting girl was made thoroughly miserable by his importunities. At last, he demanded an unconditional compliance with his wishes, as it regarded the young prince, giving Nina only the choice of a cloister, or marriage with him. It was to her young and hopeful spirit, a terrible sacrifice; but she made it rather than to desecrate; the love she felt she could not control. And the broken-hearted Nina preferred to enter the convent of Ferati, and become a nun for life. The veil once taken, no earthly power could release her from her vows, and she would thenceforth be the bride of the church, never to separate from its exacting rules—thus rushing as it were, into an actual living grave.
"Either marry Prince Carrafa, or take the convent vows. You must choose at once." said Count Fialto, sternly, to his niece, as she knelt at his side.
"Alas! dear uncle, is there no other alternative?"
"None."
"Will you grant me a few months time, at least?" asked.
"This very month thou must either wed the church or the prince."
"So soon?" she sighed.
"I am resolved."
"But Alfonzo may reform, some happy chance may occur, if we but permit time to pass. I pray you, uncle, remember the noble act that saved your life and mine on the mountain!"
"That man is an outlaw, a vile, low-born peasant. Were he freed from all claim of the law, he still could never be aught to thee?"
"Then uncle, I am resolved!"
"That the prince shall be thy husband?" he asked, quickly.
"Never!"
"Then prepare for the service of the church."
"Ay, the cloister is my only refuge!"
Nina sighed bitterly, the die was cast!
Prince Carrafa had not been permitted to pursue his unwarantable importunities of the fair young girl unobserved. The spies of the banditti were everywhere, and in every guise, scarcely less active than the agents of the inquisition—the movements of all persons of consequence were observed and reported by them. Alfonzo knew full well what passed at the Fialto palace, from whence he lately escaped so opportunely, when the soldiery surrounded it. He declared that the prince who had acted thus dishonorably, should suffer a fitting penalty for his conduct; and he therefore had all his movements watched. At last, entirely disconcerted page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] certed by the firmness of Nina, and the announcement of her choice of a convent, rather than an alliance with him, he prepared to return to Rome.
Scarcely had the carriage of Prince Carrafa, with its postillions, outriders and guards, proceeded half-a-dozen leagues on the road, before they were suddenly surrounded, made prisoners, and quietly marched towards the mountain passes. Not a shot was fired by either party the surprise had been so perfect, and the purpose so, well perfected. The prince found himself a prisoner to Alfonzo Mataloni, who now confronted him, and after telling the prisoner that all the particulars of his gallant crusade against a poor, unhappy girl, were known to him, and that he might consider that his present detention was solely owing to this affair, he demanded so heavy a ransom for his liberty, as to cause even the rich Prince Carrafa to feel amazed.
The robber chief was unruffled, entirely at his ease, informing the prince that there was no hurry in the matter, he might remain thus confined in the fastness of the mountains for a year, if he chose. But one thing was certain, he would never leave the custody he was now in, alive, until the ransom was paid. Satisfied of this, a trusty follower was despatched to Rome, and the sum finally was sent to the stipulated point, and paid in full, before the prince was liberated. He was then sent away with an admonition never to appear in the valley of the Po again, unless he came prepared to pay another and heavier ransom. With a heart overflowing with bitterness towards Alfonzo Mataloni, he swore to be avenged.
In the meantime, the sad and almost heart-broken Nina, was prepared to make the fearful sacrifice which was so peremptorily demanded of her. All the glad young hopes of her heart were to be crushed out, and the sunshine of her existence was to be clouded at its very budding. An orphan, with no one to look to but her uncle, she seemed almost entirely forsaken now—no one to trust, no one to advise her—and could only weep and pray until at length the dreaded period arrived, and she was conducted with much form to the convent of Ferati, where she was to take the veil, and which was to be the tomb of her hopes forever.
The accession to their body of one so high in birth, so lovely in person, so brilliant in cultivation and mind, was no common circumstance, and much ceremony and preparation attended the present occasion. A bishop was to come from Rome, and the service was to be one of great impressiveness. No matter for the hypocrisy it involved, it was to be glossed over as a holy and voluntary surrender of all the glad usages of the world, a sacrifice of the exultant tide of life, by one of its most lovely children, and her devotion of herself to the glory and interest of the church. All was in readiness, and the meek but heroic young girl resolved to suffer and be strong.
From early morn, the priests had chanted in the gray old chapel, little groups of nuns walked hither and thither in the aisles, chanting and swinging censers, from whence incense poured in light curling vapor. The organ pealed forth its deep and thrilling notes and at intervals a chorus of hidden singers burst forth in the Te Deum. It was solemn and effective like all the ceremonies of the Catholic church, which address themselves so much to the eye and general out-ward senses—impressive, and often beautiful in the extreme. All the ceremony which centuries had invested this rite with, was scrupulously observed, even the most minute particular, and poor Nina was worn out with mental and physical toil.
The various stages of the act progressed. Now the fair young girl kneels before the altar, and at the feet of the Lady Abbess, who coldly clasps the long, luxuriant hair of the beautiful girl, which in its profusion and length, swept the marble floor as she knelt, and with the fatal scissors, prepares to sever the rich locks close to her head. A shudder runs through the frame of the young girl. She sighs to lose that crowning beauty of her sex, and even casts one pleading look to the eyes of the abbess, but all is cold and hard and stern there. She looks upon these things as the vanity of the world.
The prayer is being said which precedes this sacrifice; all is still now, even the sister nuns seem to sigh when they behold the sacrifice which is about to be made. But the time has come, and the fatal words are uttered by the abbess. The scissors are about to sever her hair—when hark! What fearful and sacrilegious noise is that? The whole assembly look at each other in consternation. Wild shouts, the report of musketry, and the noise of reckless men resound within the convent walls. The abbess clasps her hands in horror, the priests forget to continue their part before the altar, the nuns gather close together in a body, and retire to one side of the altar. At this moment, there is heard a clear, stern voice within the chapel, saying:—
"Stay this ceremony! Another step taken in the introduction of that lady to the veil of this convent, and the torches of my followers shall lay it in ashes."
At the sound of that voice, Nina uttered a wild cry of joy, and turning, rushed heedless of all things, in her white robes and nun's attire, into the outstretched arms of Alfonzo Mataloni. Terrible denunciations came from the priests, and all those who were connected with the convent. But the dark, frowning groups that stood behind the outlaw, formed an argument that did not admit of discussion. Bold, reckless men, they cared neither for the church not the laws; their leader's word was their law, and they would burn a convent as quickly as a mud cabin, if he were to order them, and with as little compunctions of conscience.
The scene was never forgotten by the eyes that witnessed its wild and picturesque effect. It was a fearful tableau. The actors, amazed and outraged priest, terrified nuns, startled auditors, a hand of baring outlaws, and the fair and sweet child that had been brought hither for the heartless sacrifice. And there they stood for a moment, a death-like stillness followed the catastrophe of the act. Nina resting on the broad manly breast of Alfonzo Mataloni, her white robes nearly concealing her person, and her rich, profuse hair falling over all, even below her waist.
The master spirit of this scene was accustomed to command. His eyes roamed over the whole assembly for one moment, then turning, his band opened for him a passage, and closing up again at a signal marched from the church without another word, without so much as lifting a finger to disturb the rich belongings about them. They had received their orders, their duty had been explained to them, their accomplished. No taunts, no insult save open violence, would have roused them to pull a trigger, or dull the dazzling brightness of their blades.
As the setting sun hung in rich and golden hues over the mountain side, and twilight already partially shrouded the valley of the Po, there might have been seen a band of half a hundred men filling up the mountain pass, preceded by a closed litter, in which was the rescued person of Nina Fialto, now under the protection of Alfonzo Mataloni. Poor Child, wearied and over-wrought by excitement and contending emotions, she had borne up during the whole of that fearful and trying day, until now with these rude outlaws for protectors, and being carried she knew not whither, she slept, as innocent and trusting as infant.
As the band paused upon an open plateau on the mountain side, they met there Inizilla, mounted upon her powerful and noble charger, and attended, as always, by that powerful and silent horseman, who seemed to be, as it were, her very shadow. Alfonzo approached her, with all the deference we have before seen observed.
"You have succeeded? I read it in your eyes," she said to him.
"We have."
"And no violence was offered, even in the slightest instance?"
"Not an arm was lifted," was the reply.
"Our arrangements were complete."
"And the lady?"
"Sleeps in yonder litter."
"For her security and honor. Alfonzo page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] Mataloni, I have your promise. I require nothing more."
"Madam, you know only too well, that duty and inclination are twins in my heart, in the instance of this beautiful and beloved object," was the calm and earnest reply.
"Has the heavy ransom of Prince Carrafa been distributed?"
"It has; the band have each received their percentage, and the eight poor cottagers of the southern valley, whom you sought out, have been made comfortable for life."
"Is Nicoli's wife above at the cave, to attend upon this lady when she arrives ?" asked Inizilla.
"She awaits us, and has all things prepared for the comfort of the new-comer."
"All is then well. Your monthly report will be required at my next visit, and in the meantime. Alfonzo, keep your people within the prescribed limits until you see me again. The troops will be abroad to-morrow, in a vain attempt to avenge this abduction of Nina Fialto. Let them find the passes empty, and not so much as an echo to answer their random shots, and defiant drum beat. Farewell."
Night closed over the scene as the female robber dashed away with her single attendant, and the cortege passed on up the steep acclivity of the Apennines.
CHAPTER VII.
THE PUNISHMENT OF A TRAITOR.
IT was but a few days subsequent to the period of the last chapter, wherein we have described the abduction of Nina Fialto from the very walls of the church and convent of Ferati, that we would now take the reader into the precincts of the massive prison of Parma. Within its walls were confined two members of Alfonzo's band, who by some extraordinary act of carelessness had exposed themselves to be captured by the government troops. Great was the rejoicing of the prison officials that they had now in their hands those of the outlaws of whom they could make a fearful example, and their summary punishment was resolved upon.
A hurried trial of these men had taken place, and the day for the execution had already been fixed upon; while every effort had been made by the authorities to induce them to confess and betray the stronghold of the band, and to act as guide in conducting the troops thither. A free pardon and rich reward in gold had been pressed upon them, providing they would accede to the wishes of the government.
They held out, however, to the last. The binding nature of their fearful oaths and confidence in the mysterious power of their leader, by some means to release them having thus far sustained the prisoners amid all their deprivations and suffering. At last, when their lease of life could be counted by hours, rather than by days, one resolved to turn State's evidence, and secure his own pardon and the rich reward offered, which was promised to him on this condition, but the other stoutly refused under any circumstances to betray his comrades. The recreant was one Spoletto; he who was faithful was Nicoli, whose wife at that moment, was the personal attendant of the fair Nina in the stronghold of the robbers.
They were confined in separate cells, and every influence had been brought to bear upon them to turn traitors to their bond with the outlaws. Not only pardon, but the promise of large amounts of gold. But Nicoli was firm and would make no answer to the importunities of the officers. Spoletto, on the contrary, was at length half persuaded, and had even signified his purpose on the following day of making a clean breast of his guilt, and of betraying those with whom he was implicated. This is the period of time when we would introduce the reader to the prison.
It was past midnight, Spoletto was sleeping, and dreaming uneasily of the treachery he contemplated on the morrow. He tossed and turned restlessly on his hard straw bed, while his conscience condemned him for the course he had adopted. He dreamed over all the faithful service he had realized from the hands of his comrades whom he was about to betray. How they had dressed his wounds and tended him in sickness, how they had stood by him in the fight, the fearful tenor of his oath, the sacred bond of the league which he had sworn to support in all and every contingency. His brain was terribly active, but life was sweet, and he was striving to preserve that.
As he was thus tossing restlessly, he suddenly awoke and found a hand laid upon his shoulder. It was dark in the cell, and for some moments he could not collect himself sufficiently to realize where he was. At last rubbing his eyes, he sat upright and beheld a well-known figure. It spoke, too!
"Spoletto, you have been tried and found wanting. Did you think there were stone wails think enough in Parma to hide you from the eyes ears and hands of our league? Look well. Who am I?"
The unfaithful outlaw regarded him who had addressed him for a single moment, and then with a shudder, covering his eyes with his hands, he exclaimed:—
"Is it possible you are here! you, my captain, Alfonzo Mataloni?"
"Were you in the lowest depths, I should have found you, and had you been faithful would have delivered you at the risk of my own life. As it is, Spoletto, I find you are a traitor, that you have already partially betrayed your comrades, and that to-morrow you are to consummate the foul deed by revealing all that is asked of you. Is this so, Spoletto?"
"Ah, captain, life is sweet, and I could not make up my mind to die."
"Did you not know that you would be cared for, and in due season rescued?"
"I know that this is the belief of our league, but I saw no way that it could be accomplished," answered the outlaw.
"Have you not broken the oath, of our league?" asked his captain, solemnly.
"I have," signed the culprit.
"You know, then, what my duty is and what my oath binds me to do?"
"I know all," said the prisoner, with a shudder convulsing his frame.
"Then prepare to die!" said the captain, calmly drawing his stiletto!
"Is there no chance for my life?" asked the object outlaw, falling on his knees.
"None. Had you been faithful you would have been released."
"How is this possible?"
"It matters not. There are more in our interest in Parma than is dreamed of."
"Ah, captain, spare me!" groaned the terrified outlaw, with uplifted hands.
"One moment for a prayer, no longer! Quickly, or you die before you ask forgiveness of Heaven, and above all, pray to be forgiven this last fatal act you are guilty of."
Spoletto knew whom he had to deal with. He knew the fearful oaths that bound his captain to punish traitors, as well as be knew that he deserved a traitor's fate. He kneeled and breathed forth a whispered prayer; then rising and turning; confronted Alfonzo with his bosom bared. Quick as thought the stiletto drank his heart's blood, and he fell dead upon the stone floor of his prison! He would now betray no one. Alfonzo groaned audibly at the sight before him. His duty and his oath had bound him to this; he could not avoid the deed.
In a few moments later, Nicoli was aroused from his sleep by a hand pressed gently upon him, and the tones of a well-known voice sounding in his ear.
"Arouse thee, honest and faithful Nicoli, throw this gown and cowl about thee and follow me in silence. Thou wast true to thy oath and thy brotherhood!"
"Captain, is it indeed Alfonzo Mataloni?" asked the half-confused prisoner.
"Ah, good Nicoli, you have been tried and proved true."
"And Spoletto?" said the prisoner, inquiringly.
"He sleeps!"
"Shall we not wake him?"
"In God's good time he will awake, but never on this earth again!"
"Is he dead?" asked Nicoli, in undisguised amazement.
"Ay, traitors are unworthy to live," was the significant reply.
"I understand," said Nicoli, who knew in part of Spoletto's betrayal of his fellows.
page: 24-25[View Page 24-25]"Enough, Now forward in silence," said his commander, as he led the way from the prison.
What was his means of thus gaining access and egress with impunity, was not obvious to his companion, but he saw only the most ordinary means of concealment observed, and that they passed unchallenged. Both were dressed in the gown and cowl of a monk, and when at the last point of egress the password for the night was demanded, it was promptly given, and the two disguised outlaws were in the street and were again free.
In a well guarded apartment of this very prison, and at the same moment that there two left its walls, there was confined another of our characters, Don Heranzo. The boldness of the banditti of late, the abduction of Nina and some other audacious acts, had aroused the authorities to a pitch of excitement that led to great vigilance and earnestness. By some means quite unknown to Don Heranzo himself, the authorities, after his second visit to the mountains, became aware that he had some knowledge of the outlaws, and that at least he had once sought them voluntarily. This was quite sufficient to form grounds for his examination before the officials, but they could elicit nothing from him whatever.
In vain did the young Spaniard offer to produce his letters and credentials—it was all of no avail—sufficient for the officials was she fact that he was known to have had some interest with the outlaws, and more-over that he totally declined to answer any questions upon the subject. The matter assumed a most serious character, and Don Heranzo found that he was likely to be placed in a critical situation, and after a second and even third examination, he was deliberately remanded to the prison.
Here, after he had passed a couple of miserable, lonely days, it was made known to him, to his no small amazement, that the government had certain knowledge and proof of his having been at least twice in the robbers quarters, and this, too, voluntarily, and also of his having more than once met the leader of the banditti, who was a woman. Thus charged with these facts, he was too chivalric in his disposition, too truthful in his nature to deny them, and frankly acknowledged them to be true, though he denied any connection whatever with the outlaws, or any interest connected with them, declaring his associations to be of a personal character solely, and in no wise affecting the public interest.
Still, with the officials, especially at such a moment when all Parma was on the alert concerning the outlaws, all these things seemed to be weighty with significance, and to implicate Don Heranzo, whose own evidence seemed to condemn himself. His motives in thus seeking out robbers' quarters were demanded in particular, but without betraying his love, he could not answer this question, and so declined to speak. In vain were all the importunities of the examining officials, and even the threat of a prolonged sentence of confinement within the walls of the prison, with dark hints of a still worse fate. He would divulge nothing; indeed, he knew not much, but what little he did know would have been of great value to the government.
At last, finding all attempts in vain to prevail upon Don Heranzo to speak out on the subject, the official deputed for the purpose offered him a full pardon if he would write out a fair and true description of the person of Inizilla, the leader of the banditti, such a paper as would aid in seeking her out and bringing her to justice. Though suffering from the unwholesome damps of the prison, the miserable fare, the sense of close confinement, and even a prospect of a sentence for life, or perhaps, to death itself, the young cavalier stoutly refused to betray the least particular of her whom he had met as a chief of the outlaws. He at last told the government official that he might save himself further trouble, for that no earthly force could make him divulge aught of the woman to whom they referred. That if he was to be beheaded for his silence the sooner it was done the better, as nothing could change his determination.
Outraged by what they termed his Castilian stubbornness, the officials remanded him to prison, to remain there until he chose to speak out and divulge the knowledge he possessed. And thus we find Don Heranzo, on the night when the two outlaws left the prison in disguise, himself remaining a close prisoner within its damp and dreary walls. He was not without a sustaining sense. The memory of the beautiful Inizilla was a constant delight to him, and the idea that he was suffering in part for her sweet sake lightened all his discomforts. In the lonely hours of his confinement, he had ample time to realize how deeply the image of the lovely outlaw was imprinted on his heart, and how truly he loved her, almost at first sight.
In the present state of public excitement the authorities felt equal to almost any severity to make an example. The murder of one of the outlaws who was to give them all the desired information, and the escape of the other who was already condemned to death only added fuel to the flame of their excited wrath; and they were prepared to deal with Don Heranzo in a most summary manner, as being the only one left upon whom they could wreak their vengeance and satisfy the demands of the clamorous citizens of Parma for retribution upon the outlaws.
Don Heranzo was therefore once more summoned before the council, and told that his last opportunity was now offered him for revealing the knowledge he possessed, and on which condition he would receive an unconditional pardon; otherwise, the council would sentence him as an aider and abettor of the outlaws, the penalty for which crime was death! The young cavalier hardly thought that the authorities would dare to take such extreme measures as this—even the sacrifice of his life—but still he was firm, and declined to speak. The consultation was brief, and in a few seconds he was condemned to death! The young Spanish cavalier was startled, but not shaken by the danger of his situation. He returned to his cheerless cell, firm in his purpose, but with a sad heart. So young, his life hardly yet commenced, a happy future before him to be cut off thus, and for the alleged crime of which he was entirely innocent. He sighed heavily; and his busy brain kept pace with the flying minutes, for on the morrow he was to breathe his last. As night came on, he threw himself upon his straw couch and dreamed of home, and all the happy belongings of his birthplace. He dreamed, too, of her, the beautiful, wayward being, whom he felt was at heart so pure and good, and whom he loved with all faith and truth. Could she but know he had made this sacrifice for her sake, he would die happy in so doing.
As he dreamed thus, he was awakened by a voice which bade him arise at once and don the attire which was offered him by the speaker. It was the undress of an officer of the army. He was told to hasten—that there was no time to be lost—and to ask no questions. Believing that fortune had raised up for him some good friend he quickly obeyed, while the agent who thus addressed him stood in a monk's dress by his side. The transformation was quickly made, and he followed his conductor quietly, who gave the necessary pass-word at each challenge, and from the prison walls to the outskirts of the city. Here a horse awaited him—a noble animal, saddled and bridled. He leaped joyously into his seat, and then turning, asked:—
"And to whom am I indebted for this opportune deliverance?"
The seeming monk threw back for an instant the cowl from before the face.
"Inizilla!" exclaimed Heranzo, in delight and amazement.
"Don Heranzo," she said, hurriedly, "You are true as steel. Now to the mountains, quickly away! We shall meet again. God speed you, gallant sir!"
She paused for a moment until the sound of the horse's feet died away in the distance, and then disappeared.
page: 26-27[View Page 26-27]CHAPTER VIII.
THE MYSTERIOUS PORTRAIT.
THE wonderful means of information possessed by the banditti, the power and cunning which enabled them to place even the strongest prison walls at defiance, the frequent loss of prisoners from beneath their very hands, seemed to madden the officials to the last degree, and yet they were entirely outwitted. They could not solve the mystery. In vain was the commandant of the prison confined and another appointed to his place. The same extraordinary escapes occurred, as in the instance of Don Heranzo, as had so amazed them under the authority of the former commandant. No one seemed to blame, all were equally amazed, and it was believed that evil spirits aided the outlaws.
The ranks of the army were strengthened, and a vigorous warfare was determined upon by the officials against the banditti; and then followed weeks of useless expeditions into the mountains. When the troops were in one spot, the robbers were in another. No matter how secretly the plans of the campaign were kept by the generals and officers, the strange means of knowledge possessed by the robbers was always sure and perfect. It was found, after a month of these expensive and laborious expeditions, that nothing had been accomplished, and with bitter chagrin the purpose was abandoned.
On one occasion, it was the last combined effort of the campaign, on the part of the officials, when it had been resolved to divide the soldiery into six divisions, and to assail as many different points of the mountains at the same time, a robbery was committed within the very atmosphere of the queen's palace in Parma. The house of one Rabaldo, a cruel miser and usurer, whose immense wealth had been ground from the hard earnings of the poor, and whose life had been a series of petty exactions and oppressions upon those over whom his ill-gotten wealth gave him power, was entered by a score of the banditti, his coffers emptied of their golden stores, and himself left gagged and tied to his own bedpost. This audacious act, within the immediate precincts of the city, aroused the citizens, who demanded that the soldiery should be kept at home to protect the city, rather than to bivouac nightly away upon the mountain side in useless expeditions.
Don Heranzo, now virtually outlawed by the government of Parma, had but one resort, if he intended still to remain in the kingdom, and that was to seek the protection of the outlaws themselves. He could not bring himself to seek safety by flying from the place where she who possessed his whole heart remained; his whole sense of life was already centered in her. His resolution, therefore, was taken at once. After his escape from prison, be sought the old haunts of Alfonzo, and easily found the robber and his band. He resolved to use every power of his imagination to induce Inizilla to abandon these wild and terrible associations, and with him to fly to the home of his childhood, where, united, they might live in love and peace for the future.
It was but a few days after his release that Don Heranzo again met Inizilla in the mountain. As heretofore, she was accompanied by her never-failing companion, and was devoted to the business and doings of the band. Directly, however, she acceded to the request of Don Heranzo, and giving him a private audience, he found the long desired opportunity to propose to her that which he had already matured in his own mind regarding herself and his own hopes.
"Don Heranzo," she answered, after listening patiently and feelingly to his fond and unselfish proposal to her, "I once before told you that we all have a duty to perform. I have mine, and until that be accomplished, I shall not pause to consider self for one moment. Think not that I lack for heart or tenderness to appreciate the sweet picture you draw of quiet peace and love, but these I cannot yet know. They are the hope of my heart, but not until my purpose is perfected. By-and-by, a few months hence, perhaps; but I will not speculate."
"Months, ay, even years, if it must be," he answered. "I will wait, if you will only give me the dear assurance that it shall not be in vain."
He spoke warmly and sincerely.
"I can make no promises; there, however, is my hand, Don Heranzo, and I am pleased and proud that one so truly noble and manly finds aught in Inizilla to attract him. Since you have been so devoted, so true to me, know that this band and heart are free, and that Inizilla is as innocent in soul and deed as those who love her best could desire. The time is not yet come, but it will anon; when she will drop all mystery, and then, Don Heranzo, yours is the first hand she would wish to grasp."
As she spoke, her bosom heaved quickly, her words flowed soft and musically, and to the young cavalier she seemed more angelic than he had before thought her. A tear, even, glistened for a moment in her eye, and through the pure crystal beamed upon him the wealth and loveliness of a soul he might not yet clearly read. He bent low before her. He had never met her eye except in the fullness of respect, and a feeling of undefined yet honest reverence possessed him.
"I feel your word and will to be so clearly law to me," he said, "that I should not question its direction, lead me where and to what it might."
"Don Heranzo, your nobleness of soul is evinced by this entire trust in me. It does but reflect the truthfulness of your own character and nature." As she spoke, she extended her hand to him, which he pressed to his lips. "And now," she continued, "a truce to all sentiment; there is business to do. I have need of a trusty agent, Don Heranzo. The business is hazardous and requires intelligence, decision of character and bravery; these are your prominent characteristics. Speak, Don Heranzo, will you undertake the commission?"
"Command me in all things. I shall not hesitate to execute whatever you may desire and order. I am at this moment ready to receive your directions."
Withdrawing still more to one side, and away from the band, Inizilla revealed to her new follower the commission she had for him. It involved his visit at once to the most distant band of the organization, many a league to the north. She gave him minute directions as to her wishes and the business upon which he had entered. Her policy was plain, but the actuating motive remained to him a mystery.
"And now, Don Heranzo, when will you start?" asked Inizilla.
"Now."
"No preparation? Are you quite ready to go at such short notice?"
"Entirely so."
"Excellent, then away, and God speed you, my friend."
Don Heranzo was in his saddle in half an hour, and with a zealous spirit drew not his rein for hill or valley, but pressed forward eager to perform the duty faithfully which had been assigned to him.
Nina Fialto, though rudely lodged in the cave, was yet made perfectly comfortable. No attention which delicacy could devise was omitted, and one of her own sex was her constant companion. She had been ill of late, and her pale cheek had been only too indisputable evidence of the fact. But the bracing mountain air, the invigorating food, the comparative peace of mind which she enjoyed, had ultimately summoned back the rose to her cheek, and she looked now the personification of health and joyous hopes. Alfonzo frequently sat by her side and read to her, for he had plenty of books and a refined and appreciating taste. Sometimes they would ride together, and Nina was introduced to such mountain scenery as she had never before even conceived of. Thus weeks of quiet happiness passed over Nina's existence.
She saw no rudeness or even boisterousness among the band. The strictest system of discipline was observed, and she could hardly have realized the difference between these men and those of the regularly enlisted rank and file of the army. The stories she had listened to of their blood-thirsty character page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] ter, their wild and fiendish lives, she found were untrue in every particular. True, they were outlaws and robbers; but discipline and a system of organization had rendered all as little repulsive in aspect as possible.
In Alfonzo Mataloni she found one who seemed forced by circumstances into his present position. He opened his entire heart to the beautiful girl, and laid all its wealth of earnest, respectful love at her feet. He had indeed already won her heart as her uncle's guest, and under a different name, and now he found that Nina was unaffected by the startling change as to his real character. True, she besought him to leave this wild and fearful life, and her words and arguments had a most powerful effect upon him.
Nothing had ever occurred to him to turn his eyes inward upon his own heart before. He felt that he was born for better things, and with such a being to love and guide him, that life had a brave and goodly purpose now; and all this he frankly acknowledged, and promised what she so tenderly urged.
Inizilla and Nina had not yet met; indeed, the female robber seemed to avoid this, for some reason not obvious. Nina heard constantly of Inizilla, but never saw her, and she asked Alfonzo to conduct her to the leader of the league. He told her he could not do this without first consulting her, and knowing her will upon the subject.
While Nina was thus situated, Count Fialto was leading a lonely and weary life at his palace in Parma. At first, the outrage at the convent, which had led to the abduction of Nina, aroused all his energy, and he called upon the government for aid in recovering his niece, but with what success we have already seen. Finally, he had relapsed into a state of apathy, saddened and almost broken-hearted. In vain had he attempted to offer a ransom for his ward, the robbers refused to treat with him on any terms. But Nina had written to him a tender letter, assuring her uncle of her entire safety, and the respectful and kind treatment which she enjoyed in this rude mountain home.
Again, the proud, rich man sat alone in his study, and again had he drawn the curtain from before that sweet portrait that hung upon the wall. He sat gazing there, the breath coming more and more quickly, and a big tear struggling down his cheek, as he sighed half aloud:—
"It might have been!"
Sad words, how much they signified! A wasted life, wasted affections, misspent opportunity—and the expressive face echoed all this and more, as the proud man sat there alone, surrounded by wealth and luxury, but nothing that could respond to his heart.
"And now," he said, turning from the picture and musing aloud, "Nina must bring this fearful disgrace upon my name. The wife of an outlaw, a robber chief! Horrible! Ah, has Heaven sent this mortification as a punishment for the great sin of my life? These closing years must to me be bitter indeed—disgraced, mortified and broken-hearted!"
And he groaned audibly. He sighed aloud as he thus pictured his own forlorn condition.
At this moment a priest entered the room so noiselessly, that he had reached the count's very side before he roused him to a consciousness of his presence. The count started and hurriedly moved to draw the curtain before the face of the mysterious and lovely portrait, but at the same time, he caught the expression of the priest's face, who was intently regarding the portrait, and paused in astonishment at the singular aspect it presented. He stood with his hands thrown wide apart, his form braced back as though an apparition had started up before him, his eyes staring as though they would burst the sockets—altogether presenting such an aspect as to completely amaze the count, who drew back almost trembling.
After the lapse of a few moments, during which time the new-comer had not once removed his eyes from the picture, he drew from his bosom a tiny locket containing a miniature of exquisite finish, and then gazed from one to the other intensely excited. At last he broke the silence, by turning to Count Fialto, and demanding hoarsely:—
"Why have you that portrait here?"
"What right have you to ask of me such a question?"
"Every right—every possible right," still answered the priest hoarsely.
"Methinks you exceed the duty of your ghostly office, father; indeed, I know not why I am favored with this visit at all?" said the count.
"Count Fialto, speak! what was the original of that picture to you?"
"Some strange influence constrains me to tell you that which has been a secret for years within my own bosom. She should have been my wife and companion for life."
"Should have been?" echoed the priest.
"Ay, she was my wife, legally; but never afterwards my companion."
"Behold this miniature," continued the priest, handing that which he had drawn from his bosom to Count Fialto.
"Great Heaven! It was once my own! How came you by this?"
"It was my mother's last gift to me."
"Your mother? I knew not she ever had a son."
"And you are"—
"Great Heaven! thy father!"
As he spoke he trembled like an aspen leaf, and fixed his eyes imploringly upon the priest.
The cowl was thrown back, the gown opened, the skull cap removed, and there stood before Count Fialto, his son, Alfonzo Mataloni! In one instant all was revealed to his consciousness! No explanation was required, not a word! The proud man covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a child! The robber chief folded his arms and gazed steadily upon his father, his expressive face discovering in part the contending emotions of his heart. Whatever the purpose that brought him hither, all seemed changed now—his entire life changed in one instant of time. Father or son spoke not a word.
CHAPTER IX.
THE CUNNING SPY.
AS Alfonzo Mataloni's band lounged lazily one afternoon on the little plateau already described to the reader in the opening chapter of our story, one of their outposts brought in a wretched looking creature, in the form of a half-clothed, half-starved man. He could give but a poor account of himself at first, but told his captors that he sought for service, and if they would but give him food to restore his famished system, he would then make fair answer to any questions.
The men in their idle humor were amused with the stranger. They fed him, gave him of the best fare they had, and looked on in amazement to see him eat such incredible quantities—some remarking, that if such a fellow could fight as well as he could eat, he would be an invaluable acquisition to the band. He told them that they need have no fear on that score, that as soon as his appetite was appeased, he was ready to give them a sample of his strength and skill in the various weapons of the period.
At length he declared himself satisfied, and stepping forth was prepared to amuse those who had so hospitably entertained him. When asked what he could do, he offered to wrestle with any man of the band. The champion of the outlaws in that particular department of manly sport prepared to meet the new-comer. His rags had been removed and he was now passably dressed, while the food he had eaten seemed to have made him quite another being. The wrestling match came off, and the new-comer was an easy winner. The sword, the carbine and pistols were each handed him by turn, and he astonished all by his skill in the use of these weapons.
He was but lately escaped from the prison of Parma, as he said, and having wandered for days, he had chanced upon the robbers' stronghold. Gladly would he take service in their ranks—and they, only too well pleased to add so thoroughly accomplished a soldier to their corps, acceded to the idea at once, and he was brought before Alfonzo, who, page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] after hearing of his prowess in the use of arms, questioned him somewhat, and told him that on the morrow, if he still wished to do so, he might join the band.
The following day was one that called nearly the entire band and their commander to duty, some leagues away; only two or three men were left behind with the women, and as Beppo—thus the new-comer was called—was fresh and untried in emergency, it was thought proper to leave him also behind, for the present occasion. And thus with the early dawn, the band with full ranks filed down through the mountain pass, headed by him in whom they all placed so much confidence—Alfonzo Mataloni.
An observant person would have noticed that no sooner had the last man of the robbers passed from sight, than the entire aspect of Beppo underwent a decided change. The half-foolish and stupid expression which his face had worn heretofore, gave place to one of quick intelligence. His eyes were everywhere; nothing seemed to escape his observation. What did this signify? Had all his first appearances, of rags, hunger, and his story of his escape been fabricated for an occasion? Was he a spy? What did he want here, in the stronghold of Mataloni's band? What could be the object that would compensate for such a daring risk? These natural queries will soon be explained.
An hour after the band departed, those who were left sat down to their morning meal. Beppo, pretending to have broken his fast with the earlier ones, did not partake of this meal at all. Nina Fialto had her own viands carried to her from this table. In one hour more, all save Beppo, after struggling against an irresistible desire to sleep, for a while, had at last thrown them-elves down here and there, and slept soundly. Even Nina was affected with the rest. Beppo waited until the last one slept soundly, and then slipping one or two extra weapons in his belt, he brought round a powerful horse saddled and bridled, from the rear of the cave—one belonging to Alfonzo Mataloni himself. Then entering the cave he came forth with Nina in his arms, and in a moment more he was mounted with the insensible girl in the saddle, and hurrying down the bridle-path to the valley below!
The horseman was strong and sinewy, and bore the maiden with an ease that showed his power, and the stout horse carried the two with speed down the narrow way. It must have been an active drug that made Nina's eyes so heavy and wrapped her consciousness in darkness. A potent drug indeed, that so quickly overpowered all at the cave—cunningly devised and most shrewdly applied. Everything had favored the purpose of Beppo, and that purpose was now evident enough, since he left all, and bore Nina speedily away.
Hours passed before such a point was reached as rendered a post-chaise possible to be had, and still Nina slept, and was placed carefully within by her singular companion. While the horses were being harnessed, Beppo had washed the dark stain from his face and hands, and discovered the skin of one not accustomed to exposure of labor. His strange costume, improvised among the robbers, he could not pause to change, but bade the post-boy to make the best possible time towards Parma, bribing him to extra exertions by a broad piece of fold and the promise of more at the end of the journey.
It was late in the afternoon before Nina awoke from the deep sleep induced by the drug. Doubtless the constant exercise and motion of the vehicle made her throw off the effects much easier than those who had been left behind sleeping quietly and without motion. That night Nina was clasped in the arms of her uncle, forgiven every-thing, and bade thrice welcome to his heart again. And who was he who had thus gallantly delivered Nina from the robber's cave? It was Prince Carrafa!
Little did he know the present state of affairs, and the ceremonious manner in which the count received him, after the rendering of such a service, surprised him. All phases of life had undergone a change with Count Fialto, since the discovery he made as described in our last chapter. He was humbled. He saw the hand of Providence at work in him immediate concerns. He pressed Nina again and again to his heart, and told her that it was her home, and that she must never have a sorrow that she did not share with him. It seemed to her like the sweet old time once more, and Nina was as happy as a child again. All her uncle's severity was forgotten and forgiven.
As to Prince Carrafa, he did not make public his agency in the affair of releasing Nina Fialto. He had good reasons for not doing so, for he knew full well that his life was not worth a piastre, if he ever fell into the hands of the outlaws again, and that they were so powerful upon the road, that they could take nearly any traveler upon whom they had any particular design. Of course Nina and her uncle desired to be secret in the matter for reasons already evident to the reader, and thus Parma knew nothing as to the gallant attempt and conduct of the prince, excepting that Nina had returned home once more, doubtless by ransom paid to the banditti. This was their conclusion.
Count Fialto was agonized by a flood of contending emotions. He felt an irresistible affection springing up in his bosom for the child of Fenella Carlotti, his lost and early beloved wife. True, he found him in a fearful position, a criminal, an outlaw in the land. But alas! by whose sin was he thus placed? He felt that the guilt was upon his own head. He could not blame the forsaken and forlorn boy who had been driven to the course of life he had adopted. To the amazed Nina he explained all, and told her that Alfonzo was her cousin and his son. He listened with vivid interest to her explanation of the respectful treatment she had received while among the fastnesses of the mountain, and her acknowledgment that she loved Alfonzo.
In her queen, Maria Colonna; Nina found warm and tender friend, in whom she also confided her whole story, and that of her singular relationship. The queen heard all, and marked well the bearing of the story, whispering to the lovely girl that there was hope for her yet, that through the tangled maze of singular circumstances she could see a happy ending. That the singular relationship between Alfonzo and Count Fialto might be the means, perhaps, of bringing about some important arrangement with the banditti for the good of the laws and the stability of her throne. Thus Nina found consolation where she had hardly expected to find it.
When the banditti returned from their expedition at the close of the day, they found those they had left in charge of the cave still in a deep slumber. Alfonzo instantly comprehended the state of the case, and needed no key to unlock the seeming mystery. The new recruit he at once saw was a spy; he knew him not but all else was clear. Before daybreak on the follow-morning a trusty agent had returned from the Fialto palace, and announced the safety of Nina. This was as Alfonzo had anticipated, and he was comparatively contented. Had she not been found at her uncle's in safety, every inch of the ground, for fifty leagues about, would have been searched by the alert banditti; as it was, however, it required no effort to recover her. Alfonzo knew that now, Count Fialto would he quite another being to her and to him.
Prince Carrafa was coldly but respectfully treated by Nina and her uncle, why, he could not exactly understand. That there was some deep mystery in the matter was, of course, plain to him, and after some days passed in a vain endeavor to fathom the position of affairs, and to strive to win the love and confidence of the fair young girl, he gave up in despair and showed all the real bitterness of his disposition, as he had done once before, when he would have married her by force, and against her own will. Then he had the countenance of Count Fialto, but now he received no encouragement from either uncle or niece; and yielding to the circumstances of the case he gave up the pursuit of his object for the moment, but he swore deeply that he would yet win the desperate game he had so persistently page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] followed. Love had resolved itself into revenge, and his Italian heart was now overflowing with all the bitterness of this passion.
In the meantime, the government of Parma found that there was political trouble in hand for them. The Sardinian ambassador who had been outraged upon the roads of the kingdom, and who had been taken and held a prisoner by the outlaws, as has already been described had returned to his government and entered a bitter complaint of the insult and injury he had received. Sardinian construing the matter into a personal and national insult both, demanded reparation, and that the army of Parma should be at once employed in a vigorous assault upon the outlaws and that the leader. Alfonzo Mataloni, especially should be captured, and expiate the crime he had committed upon the accredited agent and ambassador of Sardinia. A demand much easier made than executed.
Sardinia was peremptory and Parma, fearing an invasion of its borders by the army of that warlike people, was placed in a most critical position. The queen took counsel of her lords and officers—some secret influence was certainly at work which all did not understand. The disinclination of the queen to again embark the army in a useless crusade against the outlaws was too evident to admit of question and matters looked ominous. In the meantime. Prince Carrafa had visited Sardinia and so shrewdly represented matters as to spur on the Sardinian government, until it had committed itself to an active and determined policy against Parma. He had done this purely from private pique and the hopes of ultimately accomplishing his own private ends in the instance of such an emeute as he expected to create between the two countries. He was a man that would go to the farthest ends to accomplish his object. With an ample fortune and no occupation save the gratification of his own desires he had ample time for plotting and scheming.
There had long been a feeling of animosity existing between Sardinia and Parma, and the former government seemed ever ready, from the fact of possessing a superior army numerically, to engage in a contest that should be settled by test of battle. Parma found itself, as it were almost without an organized army; at least it numbered but about ten thousand soldiers, while the strength of the banditti league embraced at least as many fighting men the truth being that all disaffected parties and deserters from the army had joined them. Thus it was that the outlaws were able to defy the government while the queen found herself in really no condition to meet a foreign enemy not strong enough to express that real independence which she had desired. Her state officers were puzzled they knew not what to counsel; but she had thus far proved herself though so young yet quite equal to any emergency which bad arisen. She therefore instructed her ministers to gain all the time possible to cause delay in every conceivable and plausible manner and leave the rest to her own management.
In the meantime. Sardinia put off and deferred from week to week gradually began to prepare her army, and to concentrate it at the nearest department necessary to make a starting point for marching upon the possessions of Maria Colonna. But the young queen fully advised of the movements of her enemy by means of secret agents whom she freely employed was not idle: she kept her own counsel and brought into play those qualities which would have done credit to a man surprising her counsellors by her self-reliance and ability for performing the duties of the station she filled. They found her far better informed with regard to the strength and resources of her kingdom than they were themselves and submitted to her strong mind.
In the first place, her remarkable personal beauty gave her great control and power over men; this was obvious in every department of her government; and in the second place, those who had been won by these personal qualities were also forced to admit her strong characteristics and wonderful administrative qualities. And thus, one powerful will, though that of a woman, led the councils of state, and controlled their entire action. Called to fill the throne while yet hardly more than a child, the virgin queen at once resolved to be mistress of her realm. And to do this she made a study of all its varied elements, and at an age when most of her sex would have been actuated by almost childish motives, she was strong and adamantine in power.
How this was to work out the ultimate good and salvation of Parma, in such a trying crisis, the thread of our story will gradually reveal to the attentive reader.
CHAPTER X.
MIDNIGHT ASSASSINS.
DON HERANZO found the road long and dreary, but still pressed forward in fulfilment of the commission he had received. The especial business was explained in a sealed letter which he carried the import of which be knew not. His duty was only the safe delivery of the package to the leader of one of the northern bands of the league and to return to Inizilla a sealed answer. For the first time in his life he traveled with a desire to avoid observation, for was not this business in which he found himself engaged, taking actual service with the banditti? He half shuddered as the idea crept through his brain but thought of Inizilla's yes and was content. She had given him a ring which she told him would command old and protection from any members of the mountain league. The emblem was known to every one of them whom therefore he need not fear, but the authorities, the government officers, be must avoid at all hazards, and with every care.
This Don Heranzo found not so easy a task as it might at first be supposed. Before he had any business engagement with the outlaws, he had been imprisoned on the charge, as we have already seen and now that he really was in their interest and virtually one of them for the time being, he felt how difficult it would be for him to pass an examination. In his love of truth and high chivalric disposition, he would have found it impossible to lie, and therefore his only hope was in the exercise of such vigilance as should prevent his arrest.
As he hurried forward over the route some dozen leagues from his starting point lost for the moment within himself and musing upon the singular fortune which had placed him just where he was at that very instant, he found himself suddenly stopped in his career by a couple of horsemen immediately in front of him on the road and two more one on either side of his horse. With the instinct of his nature. Don Heranzo drew his pistols and prepared for self-defence, before the thought crossed his mind that—it was hard to acknowledge it even to himself—he was one of their league!
"Hold!" be said. "Who is the leader among you?"
He who led the little party drew up to Don Heranzo's side, saying:—
"What would you with me?"
"Behold this ring! do you recognize its authority?"
"He who wears that emblem of Inizilla's passes free among the mountains of Parma," was the immediate answer of the outlaw motioning to his comrades to draw back.
"It is well: I had at first thought there were to have been some broken heads among us, before I bethought me of this talisman given me by Inizilla."
"You are in the service of our mistress, or you would not wear that. Speak," continued the robber, "can we in any way further your business?"
"Why friend, you will doubtless observe that the horse I ride, though a good one, is nevertheless quite weary. I should certainly be better able to perform my commission, were I mounted on either of the fine animals you have among you."
At a sign one of the men dismounted, and leading his horse, a fine, powerful one, to Don Heranzo, instantly exchanged without a word of banter.
"What name may I give Inizilla as having thus generously served her messenger?"
page: 34-35[View Page 34-35]"Tell her you met Donati of the north pass, and she will know as well as though I sent her a gilded card with a flaming coat of arms. Some people who wish to be particularly complimentary call me Donati Il Diabolo. You know, however, the old gentleman is never quite so black as he is painted. But we detain you, and time is precious. Pass on, good sir, and a safe journey to you wherever you are bound. If you return this way, by riding half a league higher up the mountain, you will be sure to meet some of us. Farewell."
Don Heranzo waved them a cheerful farewell, and touching his horse's flank with the spur, pressed his way with fresh food for thought in this new adventure. He had tested the potency of the ring, and was amazed at the control and power which Inizilla had by some means obtained over these professed outlaws and daring banditti. Moreover he could not but realize the fact that there were elements of excellence among these rude mountaineers, which, if turned to good account, would be the thrift of any government. Brave, though reckless and unprincipled, yet he saw a spirit of discipline and strict adherence to their own laws and regulations, that challenged his admiration.
As the young cavalier came down more and more by the road into the low country of the valley, he became more observant and watchful of those he met. He had now reached the most dangerous portion of his route, and more than one military post must be passed. Assuming an easy air humming a gay tune, he rode on as though his business was that of a traveler seeking only his own amusement. He still bore about him his original passport, which he hoped would afford him protection if he chanced to be challenged. But his he would not resort to except as a last auxiliary, preferring other modes of escape of that of encountering a searching and vexatious detention by the petty officials of the district.
At this moment as he turned an angle in the road, he found himself confronted by a half-dozen soldiers headed by an officer, who instantly bade him halt! A myriad of schemes at once rushed through the ready brain of Don Heranzo in the way of escape. Open force was out of the question, therefore he obeyed instantly and with seeming good grace, and entire indifference.
"Whence came you?" demanded the officer.
"From the west bank of the Po," was the reply.
"And wither do you travel?"
"To Sardinia."
"You have a passport then?"
"Yes."
"Hand it to me."
"Directly."
Don Heranzo settled himself in the saddle as if about to produce the paper, but at the same moment tightening the rein, and guiding his horse a few steps ahead. The men seeing no trouble, had again drawn themselves to one side, and were talking among themselves, while the officer dismounted to examine the passport. Don Heranzo saw that this was just the moment for him to act, and dashing his spurs into his horse's flanks he shot away from the group with the speed of lighting. He had examined hastily the horses of the soldiers, and save that which was ridden by the officer, he felt sure none could hold way with his own fresh and stout roan. Before the confused soldiers could understand the position of affairs and the officer mount his horse, Don Heranzo had got a fair start of them, and laughed as he heard their wildly aimed shots whistle about him, arousing his own horse to still greater exertion, and causing himself scarcely a thought of anxiety.
The chase was a long one, the night was already settling over the valley. Don Heranzo's directions as to the read had been minute and complete; and now having left his pursuers far behind, he gently eased his horse's speed, and the clatter of hoofs was no longer heard in his rear. He rode, however, far into the night, in order to put all pursuit out of the question, and did not draw up to rest his now weary horse and his own overtasked strength until he came to a little wayside inn, a dozen leagues from the spot where he had so nearly fallen into the hands of the troops. It was a lonely spot, and one that most travelers would have avoided after nightfall; but with full confidence in the potency of his ring, Don Heranzo resolved to tarry here until morning. His quick eye detected at once the questionable character of the place and its people, but after taking the ordinary precautions of defence, examining his pistols, and placing them handy for use, he retired to rest.
It was past midnight when he awoke from a pleasant dream having been aroused by a singular noise. He had no light burning, but the full moon sent its powerful rays in through the uncurtained window and to his no small amazement, he beheld a portion of the ceiling apparently being lowered from nearly above his head, by four stout ropes, one attached to each corner, and upon the small platform thus formed he saw the person of a man kneeling, in whose hand he detected a long, glittering blade, like a heavy carving-knife! A cold shudder ran through Don Heranzo's frame at this stealthy and foreboding picture; but gathering his limbs beneath him he waited until the trap had been lowered as to rest upon the floor near by his bedside. Then with one spring, he threw his whole body upon the assassin and bore him to the floor upon his back at the same time planting his own dagger in his very heart.
The man was dead in an instant while his companion above who had operated the trap called out to him in a whisper to know if he had fallen or what the trouble was below.
"Slide down the ropes," whispered Don Heranzo, "I want your help!"
This he of course intended should sound to the accomplice like his comrade's answer.
The ruse was effective, and in a moment more the other party was gradually letting himself down by the ropes to the floor of Don Heranzo's chamber. He was not permitted to touch it with his feet, however, before he was laid senseless by a terrible blow from a chair seized by his intended victim, and with which he nearly dashed the man's brains out. The scene before the young cavalier was now startling in the extreme. One man lay dead at his feet, and another with the blood pouring from his nostrils and ears, lay near by insensible. Up to this moment, he had forgotten his ring, but instantly rejected the idea of this class of assassins being in any way connected with the league; which was indeed true. He felt that he was safe, however.
By turning the face of the man who had first reached the floor towards the moonlight. Don Heranzo at once recognized the features of the landlord, whose obsequious attentions on his first arrival had given birth to the strongest suspicious in his mind as to what the man and place really were. The other was the hostler who had groomed and fed the animal he rode. From these facts Don Heranzo inferred that they were without accomplices and hastily dressing himself, and carefully preparing his weapons, he descended quietly to the stable, saddled his horse and ere another hour was a couple of leagues on his journey, leaving the villain who was only stunned gradually to come to his senses, and then take care of the body of his accomplice and late master.
With such varied fortune Don Heranzo at length accomplished his commission, and on receiving a written answer, after a few hours rest he again mounted his horse, and turned his head once more towards the point from whence he had come. It was a long and weary way, the path was beset with dangers on all sides, as he had abundant reason to know; but he was brave, and not one to flinch from the performance of a duty he had voluntarily assumed. He remembered, too, for whom he had undertaken this difficult and dangerous commission, and his strongest desire was now to reach her side, deliver his verbal message and the documents, and be rewarded by one of those glorious smiles translated into thanks that were far sweeter than words.
It was several days since Don Heranzo started upon his commission, and we would page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] take the reader back to the plateau before the robbers' cave, where Inizilla is pacing some what impatiently. Ever and anon she would ask some trifling question, or perhaps fondle the soft nostrils of her charger which stood hard by, attended by the same herculean follower we have so often observed. There was the usual dreamy afternoon scene, the banditti lounging about, some playing cards, some at trifling games upon the grass. Inizilla grew each minute more and more impatient, directing her eyes ever and anon upon the northern road.
At last, turning to Alfonzo who say near at hand observing her, she said:—
"This is the eighth day since Don Heranzo left us."
"It is."
"And this is the very hour which he set for his return."
"But it would be very remarkable if he could keep so punctually the agreement."
"If he is the man I take him for, nothing but imprisonment wild detain him."
"The way is long, and the dangers are very numerous."
"I grant it; but Don Heranzo is equal to any contingency."
"He is brave, that we all know," said Alfonzo, emphatically.
"Ay, and true as steel," she added, with a bright expression beaming from her eyes.
At that moment there was heard a peculiar signal from one of the distant out-posts, which brought Alfonzo to his feet in a moment, and two of the best men were at once despatched to learn the signification of the warning uttered by the outpost. They had gone but a few moments before the cry signifying. "All's well," came echoing back from the woods, to the ears of those about the cave.
A few moments later there came into the scene a weary and dusty-soiled horseman, his face begrimmed with dust and hard riding, and his whole appearance indicating great fatigue. Inizilla could not suppress her interest, but went half way to meet the young cavalier as he dismounted and tossed his rein to an attendant. She held forth her hand to him, which he kissed tenderly and held to his heart.
"You are punctual to an hour, Don Heranzo," she said, "and I know how hard you must have ridden, and what fatigue you must have encountered, to accomplish this. Have you brought the answer?"
"Fortune has favored me," replied the weary horseman, "and in fitting time you may be amused to hear my adventures on this eight days mission: they have not been few."
Inizilla hastily ran her eyes over the package he had brought, reading the contents, and then turned to him and said, with pleasure lighting up the lineaments of her lovely face:—
"This is all-important, and consummates a consummates a long-cherished purpose. Don Heranzo, for this hazardous and faithful service we owe you more than banks."
The young cavalier felt richly paid by the light of her gracious smiles.
CHAPTER XI.
THE FOILED ASSASSIN.
IT was a soft autumnal evening in Parma. The summer lingers long in the valley of this sweet land, and winter, which in our climate puts on such garments of frosty his and chills the vegetation so early, only briefly visits this more favored region. The pale moon lay lovingly over the palace garden of Count Fialto, which still bloomed in all the freshness of summer. The fine white marble walls of the grand structure were intensified by the amber light that fell all over and about them, almost extinguishing the pretentious glow of the lights that blazed from the windows.
In the graceful and vine-clad arbor that ended the long perspective reaching for three hundred feet from the palace to the far end of the richly cultivated grounds, there sat alone one, who had of late loved solitude, though young and beautiful, with every surrounding of gay life. Still Nina Fialto had too much to think about, too much of which she could not speak to others, not to improve such occasional opportunities for sad musings. Her heart was in the highlands now; away among those half inaccessible passes of the Apennines. She was thinking of Alfonzo Mataloni, the proscribed outlaw, but yet her dearly loved idol.
Her young heart was saddened almost to breaking, for what possible hope could she in reason find? Was he not the enemy of the government; was he not an outcast, upon whose head a price was set; was he not entirely without the pale of society, in a word, was he not a robber? She sighed bitterly, and reviewed the strange story which revealed him still to be her cousin! The last few months had seemed to give her years of experience, and in them she fancied she must really have grown old. Alas! how sadness lengthens time. How daringly it will frost both heart and head with its indelible fingers.
She felt how hopeless was her love for Alfonzo, but she also felt that let him be what he might, she should love him still. It was easy for her to excuse to a great degree the life he led, knowing all that she was now familiar with. Fate had placed him there, but fate had not robbed him of the nobleness of heart which was native of him. She still left his noble brow to tell its own story of manliness, bravery and chivalric purpose. It was as well known in Parma that Alfonzo was nearly worshiped by the peasantry of the valley, as it was realized how strong in power he was in his own mountain fastness. Nina was not child enough to believe him blameless in the wild life he had chosen, but she saw it all in a far different light from others.
As she sat thus musing, entirely lost to all outward circumstances, there might have been seen the figure of a man stealthily scaling the high wall of the lower part of the palace gardens. He drew up after him the rope ladder with which he had ascended the outer side, and fixing it on the inner ledge, quietly descended into the garden within twenty feet of the spot where Nina eat. She heard him not, indeed, she heard or saw no external object; her mind's eye was too far away; too deeply absorbed in the contemplation of the panorama unrolling in her heart. The figure crept stealthily forward until it reached the side of the arbor, and then looking in through the lattice work, regarded the beautiful form and face of the dreaming girl.
Stealthily the new-comer crept round to the entrance, and then suddenly, almost with a bound, he was by Nina's side, and his quick hand placed over her lips smothered the effort at a shriek of fear.
"Hold! Nina Fialto," said the Prince Carrafa, for it was he who had assassin-like entered the palace gardens. "Hold! I am desperate, determined. Utter one cry of alarm, and this stiletto shall silence you forever after. Sit down again and listen to me!"
"Why do you seek me in this unprecedented manner? What means this rudeness?" she asked, as she struggled to release her arm from his iron grasp.
"My love—passion, if you will, for you have half crazed me, Nina, and now I am resolved to say that to you which could only be communicated in such a quiet place as this."
"You amaze and frighten me; let us return to the reception hall at once."
"No! here and here alone will I speak. I have watched for this opportunity. You know that within the palace you avoid me, openly, pointedly slight my attention. Here I will be heard."
"Prince you are heated with wine. I pray you release my arm, we will to the palace."
"It is not wine that has heated me, but passion. Sit still and listen to me."
As he said this he placed himself immediately before the door, where he could prevent her egress in any instance.
"With what patience can I listen to thee thus?" she asked, indignantly.
"You will listen, nevertheless," he said, tauntingly, and still grasping upon her arm. "You love this outlaw, Mataloni. I have learned it by the current of circumstances. page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] You would even disgrace yourself by marrying this robber chief, and in place of thanking me for releasing you from the prison in the mountain both you and your infatuated uncle give me only cold looks and some formal words. Think you I would thus have run the risk of my life, had I not loved you, and think you a Carrafa is thus to be foiled of his purpose? Our blood is royal, far, far above thine, girl. Yet I would share all with thee, would be thy lasting lover and husband thy willing slave. Nina, hear what I say.
"What avails this useless talk? I can never regard thee other than I now do. You have no right to catechize me as to my affection for another."
"I knew the first Nina, and paid thee court before this robber chief saw thee at all. I had a prior claim, and I am not one to be thus thwarted."
"Let me pass, sir. I will not listen longer."
"Not yet. Nina Fialto. Before we part you must swear not to marry this man."
"I will promise nothing."
"I had rather see thee dead, ay, be thy executioner myself, than live to see another possess thee. Swear then, Nina, that you will not marry this outlaw."
"I will not."
"Beware!" said the prince, hoarsely, while his eyes glowed with passion.
"I will promise nothing." repeated Nina, stoutly at the same time struggling to escape from the firm grasp he retained upon her arm.
"Thy fate be on thine own head, then," said the villain, as he raised his dagger to strike her to the heart. Her struggles for a moment disconcerted him, and her cry rang out clear upon the night.
The next instant the dagger was wrested from his grasp, and its bright blade buried to the very hilt in his body; while Nina, with a cry fell insensible into the arms of him who had thus opportunely rescued her from the grasp of the would be assassin. He laid Nina upon the broad bench that formed the seat of the arbor, and hastening to a fountain hard by, returned with cool water which he sprinkled over her temples and face, and soon saw her revive once more. Faint and weak in the extreme, she yet threw one arm about his neck tenderly, and whispered half aloud:—
"Alfonzo dear Alfonzo, is it to you I again owe my life?"
"It seems incredible that this villain should have dared to attempt your life; but now, dear one there is but one course to pursue. You must keep secret this occurrence, inasmuch as no evidence would convince the public that I had not assassinated him with mercenary intent in place of struggling simply to save your life."
"I see it all dear Alfonzo."
"Then hasten within and keep your own counsel. I have waited for hours to gain this much covered meeting with you; but now I must not lose one moment first in taking care of this body, and secondly in quitting Parma as quickly as possible."
"Alas! must this be even so?" sighed Nina.
"We will hope for a happier time dearest but for the present farewell."
As he spoke he pressed a tender kiss upon her forehead the first that had ever been permitted and she bounded up the pathway and disappeared within the palace.
A moments's consideration convinced the outlaw that to leave the body of the prince here within the garden walls, would be to betray the whole affair, but to remove it beyond the high wall seemed entirely out of the question. He had sealed the wall himself with perfect ease, but he could not do this with the weight of another person in his arms. Besides this the delay that would be necessary in order to transport so large a body over the walls, would lead to certain exposure. He finally surveyed the inner wall as near to the palace doors as he thought prudent, and fortunately found a door with a key on the inside though locked.
For a person of his powerful physical strength to bear the body of the prince to a convenient spot without the gardens, was but a few moments labor, and this he instantly stantly accomplished, leaving the body with the prince's own stiletto by its side. Then hastening from the spot, he improved those facilities which he always had at hand for reaching as quickly as might he his mountain fastness. Nor was he one moment too soon, for in one hour later, all the police force of Parma was on the alert, the prince's after having been found almost immediately after Alfonzo had left it. At first there was not the most distant clew to be had as to the matter though the city was rife with rumors but no one of course approached the true solution.
Poor Nina trembled to think of the fearful deed and her own critical situation but she did not even mention it to her uncle, who was as much in the dark as any one. But there was yet to be a sequel to the affair, for it had been found that life was not wholly extinct, and by skillful treatment it was thought by the surgeon that his ultimate recovery was not impossible. Day after day passed by but the wounded man did not get strength sufficient to even utter a word and so far from being able to explain the singular circumstances under which he was placed, the past seemed to him a blank and it was feared that his brain had received some fatal shock.
The catastrophe to Prince Carrafa was deemed by the queen of Parma and her counselors as a divine interposition in their favor inasmuch as he was a great moving agent of the controversy between Sardinia and Parma—at least so far as the former government was concerned—and his indisposition must retard for the time being any active measures on the part of Sardinia. But now a fresh trouble arose. The powerful family of Carrafa at Rome conceived that the political position of the prince had led to an attempt to assassinate him through the agency of some of the government officials, and loud and earnest demands came from Rome for the arrest and giving up of the criminal, a demand, of course, which could not be responded to by Maria Colonna, the queen of Parma. The most summary measures of retaliation were threatened, and the government of Parma felt that with the outlaws at home, the exasperated Sardinians on the one hand, and the house of Carrafa on the other, to oppose them, the political aspect of the kingdom looked sombre indeed.
"Now had we but an army of well-organized men, double the present force, we might content ourselves to act on our own soil, and speak with a true spirit of independence. Twenty thousand troops would make Parma inviolable, with its various mountain passes and roads that a score of men could hold against hundreds."
Such were the words of Maria Colonna.
The young queen amazed her counselors by her energy. She instituted a thorough reorganization of the army, recruited its ranks, infused a fresh spirit of discipline into its various departments, and made such arrangements that should her territory be invaded the enemy would not find them unprepared to meet them in earnest. She sent to both of her would-be enemies, Sardinia and the house of Carrafa, temporary messages, to the effect that she would comply with their demands were it possible to do so; but that before a criminal could be punished he must be taken. Having thus made all reasonable explanation, she resolved to do no more but to prepare to meet any emergency that presented itself.
Meantime Prince Carrafa gradually recovered his speech and strength, and the terrible wound he had received began to heal. By degrees, too, his memory came back to him up to the very moment when he received the fearful blow that had so nearly cost him his life. But as to who gave that blow, even he could not say, it was so sudden, and he himself was so intently exercised with a wild purpose at the very moment, that his perceptions were blinded. He declined to talk about the matter at all, as he could not do so without betraying his own vile purposes, and the real cause of his punishment. As the prince recovered there was a two-fold result to the interests of Parma. The anticipated trouble from Rome was quieted by the prince's own agency and page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] desire, while the emeute with Sardinia was promised to be renewed at once with increased vigor.
In certain circles of Parma, a singular mystery seemed to present itself as hanging over the relationship of Count Fialto, Nina and the Prince Carrafa; and though these people knew little of the real and extraordinary circumstances of the case, yet they found sufficient grounds in the external aspect of things to arrive at a sense of curious surprise. Count Fialto, from being a prominent and active member of the government, had suddenly withdrawn almost entirely from public life. Nina Fialto, from the reigning belle of Parma, had become a partial recluse, and Prince Carrafa, since his catastrophe, had grown moody and morose, scarcely noticing those persons who had heretofore been his friends and intimates.
Mystery seemed to be the order of the day—indeed in Parma, the State councils were held with closed doors—Maria Colonna kept her own counsel and plans locked up apparently in her own bosom, while there seemed to be purposes on the point of being accomplished of vast importance. Her council was busy, the queen was busy, the people were busy in surmising, and the immediate future seemed big with the fate of the kingdom.
CHAPTER XII.
THE THREE CONSPIRATORS.
PRINCE CARRAFA evinced a force of character and industrious effort which, if exerted in a better cause, would have won him success and renown. Let his motives be what they might, and we well know them to be of the worst character, yet we must accord to him the credit of wonderful toil and unequalled perseverance. The spark that burned brightest within his bosom now was revenge. By a series of ingenious inquiries and tracings, he had satisfied himself that he owned his late wound to the stout arm and hand of no less a person than Alfonzo Mataloni himself. Once convinced of this, he devoted himself to the purpose of retaliation, and resolved to lay his plans so adroitly and with so much forethought and care as to render success sure.
His aim was to capture the outlaw chief, and bring him to trial and execution at Parma. He might, with his boldness and recklessness of character, have sought him out in the mountains, and probably without running any extraordinary personal risk, providing he was content to bide his time, and keep concealed, however much he might suffer thereby, have taken the outlaw's life by shooting him in some exposed situation. But the prince reasoned with a double purpose; by bringing him to Parma a prisoner, procuring his public trial and execution, he would not only satisfy his own bitter spirit, but also break if he did not humble into submission the heart of Nina Fialto, for he had by no means given up his pursuit of the beautiful girl.
Stratagem, he was well aware, could alone put Mataloni in his power. No force in numbers which he could bring to bear against the outlaw force in the mountains could accomplish this, and in the matter of intrigue and finesse, the prince was entirely at home. The manner in which he had executed the purpose of Nina's deliverance from the mountain cave, showed him to be a man full of resources and even beyond rivalry in such matters. If born a prince, yet he seemed by nature to have been intended for struggling among the lowest depth of society, and contending with men and minds where brute force alone gave precedence and power. He had the agility of an Indian, the strength of Hercules, and the incentives of a Fra Diavolo!
At the time of which we write, there sat a motley group in one of the vilest dram-shops of all Parma, drinking and smoking at nearly the hour of midnight. A little one side from the others, one tall, broad-shouldered, roughly clad person sat sipping some cheap wine, and blowing a cloud of tobacco smoke about his head. There seemed to be little about him to create remark, except the keenness of his dark eye, and the full development of a manly form. He had sat thus studying the group before him, and watching those who came and went from the outside, until at last his statue-like position had provoked the remark of some of those among the rude domino players, whom repeated libations had rendered a little quarrelsome.
Now and then, a coarse remark was distinguished as designed to reflect upon the person who thus sat aside from the rest, whose very exclusiveness seemed to aggravate the loungers about the room. He however, did not heed these remarks, or at least, did not seem to do so, but still sipped his wine and smoked his cigar, and ever and anon lighting a fresh one, and keeping most industriously at work. At last, as the neighboring cathedral chimed the hour of midnight, these wordy assaults increased and became so personal, that once or twice the stranger started as if to resent them, then apparently remembering himself, he sank back in his seat and smoked away more violently then before. He might have stood in fear of those burly drinkers, at least they so construed his patient endurance.
"You have sat there long enough without speaking to any of us," said one of the rough customers who had been present all the evening. "Who are you, and what do you seek?"
"I am here on my own business," answered the stranger, coolly, emitting a cloud of smoke.
"Ay, we thought as much; but what may that be?"
"Such as permits no interference," he replied.
The persistent individual, however, drew closer to him, backed by his comrades; but in a moment more lay flat on the floor felled by a straight blow from the stranger's fist.
A second instantly intercepted his form to avenge the insult upon his companion, but before he had hardly assumed his position, he, too, lay beside his comrade upon the floor. This was quite, sufficient; the rest, seeing the quite, self-possessed manner of the stranger, and glancing at their discomfited companions, withdrew from the immediate presence of him whom they would have insulted with impunity, finding this purpose out of the question. And once more he was left to the undisturbed indulgence of his quiet humor. Thus he still remained, sipping his wine and smoking with wonderful equanimity.
As the clock struck one, a change had taken place, the stranger with the two persons whom he had so signally discomfited sat drinking wine together and in half an hour later, the three went out of the saloon amicably together, and steadily wended their way without the walls of the city of Parma. Singular transition from enemies, they had apparently become good friends, and went on in the most sociable mood. They avoided the most frequented streets and pursued their course through by-ways, until they had emerged from the city, then entering a grove of trees, the three sat down upon the ground, to talk over the business they were to engage in.
As the party at once came to understand each other, their own words will inform the reader of the peculiar purpose which had brought them hither. He who was evidently the moving spirit of the three, whatever the purpose that actuated them, and who had proved himself the better man of the party, now spoke of the business:—
"Men, I had a purpose to-night in visiting that dram-shop. I wanted to find two stout and daring fellows, who for a rich reward would risk something in the way of personal harm, a couple on whom I could depend in a case of emergency, where possibly hard blows might be plenty. I made my selection of both of you, before you saw fit to attack me, and I was not sorry of an opportunity to show you whom you had to page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] deal with in me. So far, we understand each other perfectly.
"Now, as I have said, the business I want to engage you in is one of danger, but the reward is ample, and in your instance shall not be wholly contingent upon the success of the undertaking. If we succeed, you will receive a brilliant sum of money and the thanks of the government and a pardon of all past offences; but at any rate, I shall pay you well for serving me, whether we succeed or not. As an assurance of this take this purse and divide the contents between you."
This was an argument that addressed itself to their ready comprehension, and the men eagerly received counted and divided the gold, declaring themselves willing to join so liberal a paymaster in any enterprise he chose to name.
"Now, my man what is your name?" asked the leader addressing the nearest one to him.
"Fabio."
"And yours?"
"My name is Rubaldo."
"Very well Messrs. Fabio and Rubaldo, we are getting on famously."
"You have forgotten to tell us your name?" suggested Rubaldo.
"That matters not: it would be of no service to either of you. Unless I mistake you very much you have discernment enough to see that I am not what this dress indicates, and that I wish to preserve an incognito; this you will regard also as a part of my purpose. And now, I will unveil my plan to you; but first put your hands upon this sacred emblem."
As he spoke, he produced a small ivory crucifix from his pocket, and the men both laid their hands upon it, reverentially lifting their caps as they did so.
"Swear to faithfully serve me in the business I shall name, to keep secret the purpose and not to desert me in any emergency of life or death, whatever shall be the result to yourselves."
"We swear!" said both, bowing low over the cross.
"Rubaldo, press that emblem to your lips and swear again."
"Now, Fabio, do you likewise."
This ceremony completed, the leader put back the emblem and said:—
"There is a man who is my personal enemy, and who is also the enemy of the government; he is outlawed, and a price set upon his head. The sum offered for his capture would enrich you both for life. My object is personal satisfaction, the reward shall be shared between you. To insure success, patient, unflinching sleepless assiduity is requisite. I shall not only plan for you, but act with you. I shall demand no more of you than I shall do myself. It will require days, maybe weeks to accomplish his capture, but it can be done, and it shall be done. If you prove faithful to me."
"But who is this man?" asked Rubaldo.
"Of that I will speak directly. Our success will be more contingent upon stratagem than force, though the latter may have to be employed. I will supply you with weapons, but our object is to bring the man to Parma. If we were to take his life one half of my purpose would be defeated. This must therefore be borne in mind. We shall be obliged to repair to the mountains and live there, enduring severe hardships, exposure, and perhaps, often hunger and thirst, but all will be abundantly recompensed by success."
"And now, who is our man?" demanded Fabio.
"Alfonzo Mataloni!" was the firm answer.
The two men absolutely sprang to their feet and regarded each other in dumb amazement, while their leader calmly folded his arms and waited for them to recover themselves.
"Alfonso Mataloni!" repeated Fabio.
"The robber of the middle pass!" echoed Rubaldo.
"The same," was the calm response.
"Impossible!" said Fabio; "why, this man has a band of fifty followers. What head could three of us make against an organized banditti?"
"Nothing is impossible to brave men," replied their leader. "I know that you are stout and brave. I have no fear of your cowardice; It is only your superstitious fears that have clothed this famous robber with so much prowess. He is but a man like you and me. I know him well. We have crossed swords together; ay, and met more than once. I fear him not single-handed, and were it simply to take his life. I should not want the help of even your hands. But my object is to bring him to Parma, and to do this. I must have more than one pair of hands it would otherwise be impossible."
The two men were simply awed by the came of Mataloni. They were brave enough a far as mere brute courage was concerned, and their new leader saw at once what he had to contend against, which was the morale of the famous robber's name.
"You fear the name, not the man," said Prince Carrafa; for as the reader is doubtless aware, it was he who was thus conspiring with Fabio and Rubaldo.
"We fear no man," said Fabio, "but you were rather sudden upon us."
"You know the business now, however, and are content."
"We will follow your lead, at all events," they answered.
"Then back to the city, keep your own counsel, remember your oath and meet me here to-morrow night, an hour after dark, prepared to commence the work. I will bring you weapons."
The three conspirators separated, Fabio and Rubaldo walked away together, and the prince seeking an entrance to the city by a separate route from his late companions. He had gone through with this preliminary piece of business with all the sang-froid of one whose whole life had been passed among cut-throats and robbers. If he was not naturally a villain, he certainly showed a wonderful facility in adapting himself to the business of conspiracy. In his dealing with Fabio and Rubaldo, he showed a quick conception and true knowledge of human nature. In the first place he astonished them by his own physical prowess, then by a hint of reward he excited their curiosity, then by a sight of gold he acted upon their cupidity, and finally the promise of so large a sum as was offered for the capture of the outlaw to be all their own, won them to entire faithfulness. The oaths he exacted he would himself have broken any time, but he relied upon the superstition of the two men, who held such an act on the cross as sacred.
By means of a trusty agent, the necessary weapons were procured, and a couple of stout saddle-horses, all of which, with some trifling matters that the prince particularly arranged himself in a pack for the back of the saddle, were transmitted to the place of rendezvous. Here at one hour after dark, the three men met each other again, and mounting their horses rode slowly away towards the mountains. Little was said at first, the prince musing to himself rode a little in advance of the two men, but as they progressed he seemed to arouse from the reverie he had indulged in, and reining up his horse, came between the other two.
"These horses," he said, "will carry us before daybreak to the spot where we shall be obliged to strap our packs upon our backs and leave them, if possible, where they can be recovered, for they may be of great use to us."
"We can tether their feet and leave them where there is grass and water, and they will not wander a mile in a week," said Rubaldo, knowingly.
page: 44-45[View Page 44-45]"That is just the idea," said the prince, "and before we leave the main road, we must supply ourselves with suitable cord for the purpose."
Thus the three riders wended their way among the deep shadows of the night, in their bold and most daring enterprise. They were, however men equal to almost any contingency which they were likely to encounter. They were thoroughly armed and familiar with the use of the weapons they carried. These consisted for each man of a pair of pistols, a long double-edged stiletto, and swung at the back a light but excellent carbine, the usual army weapon, though of lighter calibre.
Thus equipped the three persons were a formidable party in an emergency.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CAPTURED OUTLAW.
IT will be remembered that the prince was not unacquainted with the mountain pass where the outlaws made their strong-held, for it was here that as Beppo he had acted the spy upon the band by seeking apparently to join it and making this mode of affecting Nina's abduction from the cave. He was therefore able to lay his plans with perfect foresight as to locality and he guided his men with so much precision and certainty as to impart a vast degree of confidence to their minds; indeed, they had already screwed their courage up to the sticking point.
Arriving at a certain point which had before been selected, the horses were tethered in an out of the way spot, and here the three placed their packs on their backs, assumed their weapons, and in this guise straggled secretly to such intersecting paths as the prince had selected as most likely to be passed from time to time by the outlaws, or more especially by their leader, whose habits the prince had already calculated upon. Day after day, the three men lay concealed with no shelter at night, save the blue sky above them. Twice in the first week they saw Alfonzo Mataloni, and might have shot him, ay, have been sure of their object when three triggers were pulled upon him, but this was not the purpose. On these occasions, he was so accompanied as to render his capture next to an impossibility, and the attempt was therefore not made.
Once the chief of the outlaws passed so near to the ambush that a lasso might have been thrown by the men over this head, but there were five trusty followers with him, though this odds would not have deterred the prince from the attack except that it would have occasioned too much noise to overpower so many, and the band above once aroused by pistol shots, it would be impossible to get their prisoner off in safety. So they waited patiently, trusting for the hour when Alfonzo should singly pass near the spot, from whence they had so assiduously watched for him.
Their provisions ran low, their wine had long since been entirely exhausted, and the two men were growing impatient, and did not hesitate to grumble somewhat loudly of their condition. But the indomitable spirit of the prince never for one moment heeded these things, and he did not fail to instil in to his companions some degree of his patience, and full determination to succeed in their wild but well-conceived expedition. It was on the evening of the twenty-third day since the three entered the mountain pass that the men declared they could remain no longer thus half-famished. They said if they were called upon for any exertion of physical strength, but one or two days of privation in addition to what they had already experienced, would incapacitate them for even self-defence, and that any longer self-denial would but defeat the very object which they had in view.
The prince was forced to allow the truth of this argument, and indeed was just about to assent to a temporary return to the valley for recruiting their stock of provisions, when suddenly the three heard the approach of a horseman, and in a moment more Alfonzo rode forth alone, and at a very quiet pace. In an instant more a lasso was thrown over his head and drawn so tightly about his throat as to nearly choke him at once, and sufficiently tight to entirely remove every sense of self-defence, as well as all physical strength. Thus he was forced backwards in the saddle, and pulled by force from the horse's back to the ground.
In five minutes more he was bound hand and foot, entirely disarmed, and tied to the back of his horse, was being hurried forward by one of the men, while the prince and the other man the one in front and the other behind, stood prepared with their weapons to cover the retreating party on the way from the mountain to the valley below. So [View Figure]
THE CAPTURE OF THE OUTLAW.
well had their arrangements been made with regard to their own horses, that they succeeded in recovering them with very little trouble, and as it was now again night, they hardly feared any interruption on the road, but still pressed forward as though life depended upon their exertions. The four horsemen exchanged not a word, but the silent and remarkable troop made great headway towards their destination, the city of Parma. The prince blessed his stars for the cover of the night. At about midnight, having arrived at what was considered an entirely safe point, the gag was removed from the prisoner's month and he was conducted forward carefully bound hand and foot, but still with all possible speed, in order to make assurance doubly sure.
Alfonzo Mataloni vouchsafed not a word; a cold, sinister smile wreathed his features, and no more concern seemed to actuate him than as though he came thus voluntarily towards page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] wards the city of Parma. What his grounds of assurance really were of course only himself knew, but he seemed little troubled. As the gray of the morning was breaking, the little cortege entered Parma, and in half an hour Alfonzo Mataloni was lodged securely within the sombre and heavy prison walls. Strange was the transition from the wild freedom of the freedom of the mountain to the dampness of these dark cells, but he was accustomed to all contingencies of fortune, and in a few moments after he had entered his apartment he threw himself upon the straw and slept soundly, after the fatigue of his long and forced march.
The whole town was soon agog with the news of this remarkable affair. Now that his victim was safely arrested and lodged in prison, the prince desired to withdraw altogether, and leave to Fabio and Rubaldo all the fame and recompense of the capture. His purpose was gained in the personal revenge he had gratified, to say nothing of his design upon Nina Fialto. But now Prince Carrafa appeared in his real character, and induced Sardinia to press for the immediate trail and punishment of this famous bandit who had insulted her agent. There was no good reason why this demand of Sardinia should not now be complied with, and the government of Parma prepared to respond to the wishes of that kingdom, though the arrangements were made with a tardiness only too apparent to those interested.
The feelings of Count Fialto and Nina can better be imagined than described at this period. The father was half crazed, and poor Nina was bathed in tears from morning until night. The count feared to move lest he should betray his relationship, and feared not to act, lest his son's life should pay the forfeit. Indeed he knew not that all his power could possibly save Alfonzo now: the whole business looked fearfully dark to him. He had grown old terribly fast in the past few months, and felt himself quite unequal to the contingencies of the situation in which he was so inopportunely placed by the arrest of Alfonzo; but he felt that he could not remain inactive, he must at least make an effort to save him.
"Why do you seek for his pardon?" said Maria Colonna the queen in answer to the petition of Count Fialto to that effect.
"From a sense of gratitude."
"And for what?"
"Because he once saved my life and that of my ward in the mountain pass."
"True: this was one good deed: but did he not afterwards abduct Nina from the convent when she was about to take the veil?" asked the queen, significantly.
"He did."
"Then I cannot see but that he has forfeited all claim upon your favor, by thus seeking out your ward, and disregarding the ceremonies of the church."
The count seemed met upon all hands, and there was not one in all Parma who would befriend the imprisoned outlaw: but there was at least one woman's heart that beat only the more truly and tenderly for him because his usual fortune had forsaken him. Nina would have given her own freedom gladly, to release him from the fangs of the law.
It was on the second evening after Alfonzo had been placed within the prison, that a page wearing an ample cloak, presented the necessary pass and was admitted to his presence. The outlaw sat calmly upon the rough bench of his cell, and scarcely raised his head at the interruption caused by the entrance of the new-comer. He seemed lost in thought, and the jailor closed the door after the page, leaving them together some minutes before Alfonzo aroused himself so far as to regard his visitor with any attention, and as he did so it was with a heavy sigh.
"I had looked for a more kindly greeting," said the seeming page, dropping the cloak partly from the shoulders and face, and looking upon the outlaw with a radiant smile.
"Is it possible," said the outlaw, gazing for a moment in doubt; "do my eyes deceive me, or is this indeed an angel of mercy? Nina Fialto?"
She removed the satin cap from her head, and the luxuriant curls fell in profusion about her neck and face, presenting unmistakably the features of Nina Fialto. In another moment the prisoner's arms were about her, and his lips pressed to her fair forehead. Neither spoke for some minutes, the quick tears coursed down that delicate pale face, and the broad chest of the prisoner heaved with a tenderness that seldom moved its depths. Most striking was the tableau presented in the dim prison light and strong was the contrast between the slight and beautiful figure of the girl and the manly form of the outlaw. The truth was that Nina had come upon him when a new and peculiar mood possessed him. He was, at the moment of her entrance, bitterly, oh, how bitterly, regretting his past career, and sighed that his fate had not been cast in a different sphere of life, where he might have lived with honor, and have loved and won the gentle being now resting upon his breast. Conscience had been at work in the breast of the outlaw. He was already an altered man.
"The man who wins and wears you, Nina, should be honorable, true and respected of all men one who could look you in the face without a blush. I am not that man," he said, sadly.
"Nay, but you will renounce the life you lead, will retire to some other country, and we will be happy together, that is, alas! if we can procure your pardon here. But oh, I do so fear for you, so tremble to think you are a prisoner in this terrible place."
"That is the least of my troubles, Nina, this confinement. The bolts and bars have not yet been forged that can retain me in a prison of Parma. It is the terrible gnawing of conscience with which I have to combat. Those who count the wicked happy know not the fearful dreams that haunt a bad man's pillow. And yet, perhaps, I am not so much to blame as though I had voluntarily sought this mode of life. Fate, alas! has made me what I am without any agency of my own."
They sat and talked thus for an hour. Nina gently ministering to a mind diseased, and holding forth those promises for the future, based upon good and holy purposes, which could alone afford him consolation like a ministering angel pouring balm upon his troubled spirit. She sat with her hands in his and there, in that grim cold trysting-place, they pledged their love to each other and ere the jailor came again a new light had broken in upon the outlaw's heart and a purifying influence pervaded his whole soul. At last when the jailor was again heard to approach, Nina gathered her luxuriant hair once more beneath her cap and drew the folds of her cloak closer about her and left a sweet smile to light up the dim walls of that place of imprisonment. The outlaw no longer felt his bonds, life assumed a new phase for him, his prison walls stretched away into green fields and fragrant groves.
In the meantime, preparations were made for the immediate trial of Alfonzo Mataloni, and great curiosity was evinced by the citizens to behold the noted and much feared bandit. Prince Carrafa was particularly busy in the arrangements and the Sardinian government sent a trusty counselor to look after the evidence that bore upon the insult it had received through the agent who had been so summarily treated by the outlaws.
On the following day, Alfonzo was to be brought before the council of state, where the hearing was to be had, and where his instant condemnation and sentence were anticipated. Nothing else was talked or page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] thought about in Parma, and the military were collected in great force, fearing a combined attack by the banditti, in order to release one of their number who was held in such reverence, and who, next to Inizilla, was considered at the head of the outlaw league.
It was considerably past midnight when Alfonzo was awakened by a dull, heavy noise, directly under his feet, and was greatly surprised to see one of the large flagstones of the cell gradually removed from its position and slipped on one side, whereupon there ascended from below the figure of man bearing a dark lantern, who at one said:—
"Alfonzo Mataloni, follow me."
"Whither?" asked the prisoner.
"I am sent to liberate thee."
"By whom?"
"It matters not, suffice it that you gain your freedom," was the reply.
"You speak in good faith, and I will trust you," answered the outlaw; "though I would know to whom I am indebted for this important service."
"Proceed," said the new-comer, pointing to the ladder by which he had ascended. "I will follow you and replace this stone, the secret setting of which you do not understand."
Alfonzo immediately disappeared through the opening, and receiving the lantern from his conductor, awaited but a moment before the stone was replaced and secured. At the foot of the ladder he found himself in a subterranean passage that intersected other damp cells, and his companion, who seemed perfectly familiar with the way, unlocked several doors and locked them again, until at last they emerged beyond the prison walls. His conductor now handed him a brace of pistols, a sword and a cloak, bidding him to gather the latter about him and follow quickly and without words whither he should lead him. They proceeded by the most unfrequented streets to the outskirts of the city, and finally when quite removed from the observation of the town, his conductor pointed to a horse saddled, and bade him mount and away.
A thrill of pleasure shot through the outlaw's frame as he saw the noble horse impatiently champing his bit, and pawing the ground in his desire for action, and turning again he asked his conductor to whom he was indebted for this noble deed? But he received no answer, save that he was bidden to make the best of his time and reach the mountains, for that all Parma were expecting to behold him on the morrow. He paused no longer but touching the house's flanks with his heels, the animal sprang lightly away, and in a few moments Parma was lost to the rider's sight as he entered the dark and narrow road.
As he rode on his way he mused as to who could have thus befriended him. It could not have been through Count Fialto's influence, if so, Nina would have told him. He was completely at a loss to understand the matter, but remembered that he had before been singularly befriended in a not dissimilar way, and felt that he must wait for the mystery to solve itself. On one occasion by an immense bribe, the reader will remember that Alfonzo had entered the prison himself, to release one comrade and punish another.
The next day all Parma was in a state of consternation; the city was crowded with strangers from the neighborhood, come to see the famous outlaw brought before the queen's council; and when it was announced that he had escaped from prison, how, no one could tell, the superstition of the common people at once attributed it to supernatural aid, and it was whispered about that the government might as well discontinue its crusade against witchcraft.
There was one, however, who felt more circumvented than all others, ay, even the authorities themselves; that was Prince Carrafa, his capturer.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE BIRTH MARK.
WE must glance back for a single moment in our story, and bring the reader to the outlaw's cave in the mountain, the day after Alfonzo Mataloni was captured. The same hour that their leader was discovered missing, trusty spies were despatched to Parma and elsewhere, and in the briefest period it was known to the band that their commander lay incarcerated in the prison. This was enough, and their resolve was at once formed to make a night attack upon the prison, and the city itself if necessary and thus to liberate by force their beloved leader. Arrangements were already in process of completion whereby they were to be joined by several other bands, forming some six hundred bold and able men; quite enough under the circumstances to capture the prison and the city also is a night attack.
While the robbers were gathered in council relative to the matter, and Don Heranzo sat a little way off, drawing the picturesque scene, there dashed into the opening two well-known riders, doubly welcome at this trying moment, and a wild shout went up to the clouds.
"Inizilla! Inizilla!"
She rode into their midst with great self-possession, and told them to stay their counsel; this was a matter that must be left to her discretion, and to herself alone.
"But we would release our captain," said one or two eager voices, close at her side.
"Ay, men, I know your faithfulness, but leave that task to me."
"But how can you release him? This is work to be done by hard fighting," said another.
"Have I ever promised aught to this band that I did not perform?" asked Inizilla, with a proud and haughty air, glancing sternly around her.
"Never, never, never!" said fifty voices in the same breath.
"Then trust to me. He shall be liberated and join you ere four more days have passed. Give up all idea of a combined forcible action; it is not required."
"Long live Inizilla!" shouted the band coinciding at once, like children, to the dictation of the stronger will of the more active mind.
Satisfied, the fair equestrian rode across the little clearing, to the spot where Don Heranzo had taken his stand to sketch the scene, and saluted him gaily:—
"What picture-making again. Don Heranzo? I suspect you are more artist than soldier; and that the pencil is more at home in your hands than the sword."
"The group was very picturesque, and as I had naught to do with their counsel, I occupied an idle moment by depicting the scene. I wanted but one addition, that of your presence, which has been most graciously supplied."
"Let me see it, pray?"
Don Heranzo frankly showed his sketch.
"By our lady of grace, but you are a master of outline. Don Heranzo," she said, examining the picture with the eye of a connoisseur, and with strong token of pleasure.
And dismounting, she assumed a seat close at hand, where they were soon engaged in one of those brief but captivating conversations of which Heranzo had enjoyed so few, but yet which seemed to him sweet oases in the otherwise dismal past for months. Captivated by her delicate and well-chosen language, her sweet fancy, the tenderness that swam in her eyes, he felt entranced by the flood of beauty which Inizilla exhibited. On his own part, Don Heranzo, who was very intelligent, delighted the fair girl, for she seemed to be scarcely more, though there were visible upon her brow so much page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] of control and self-reliance, that it seemed to indicate the necessity of years of experience to thus delineate them.
Don Heranzo at last reminded her in gentle and courteous words that she had told him in time she would permit him to speak to her upon a tender subject. He told her he was a willing prisoner here, so long as hope of her sweet favor was held out to him as the goal he was to reach, but that if disappointment awaited him, he must be miserable indeed.
She shook her head playfully, as she said:—
"Not yet, Don Heranzo, not yet the time for you and me to meet openly and without restraint has not yet come; at length, however, when the mystery is solved I trust the agreeable change shall compensate for all this patient waiting."
"I will not strive to penetrate the mystery, because I see you do not wish me to do so, but shall still hope on an await the issue."
"But is there no home tie, no tender recollection among the dark-eyed signoritas of Castile, that should temper this warmth, Don Heranzo?" said Inizilla, seriously.
"By my honor none. Never until I first met you, was my heart moved to its native power and tenderness. A wayward wanderer from almost boyhood. I have drank the wines of many lands, and though nature has never ceased to warm and delight me everywhere, never has her masterpiece in the form of woman, until now, drawn from me a sigh."
"I believe you," said the beautiful but mysterious girl, as she bent her keen, searching eye upon the young cavalier, as though to read the truth on his inmost soul.
She signed to her attendant to draw near, and with a few kindly words to the leading men of the band, and the quiet reiteration of her promise concerning Alfonzo Mataloni, she once more mounted her horse, and with a graceful a lieu, rode away followed by the loving and respectful eyes of half a hundred men, as stern and reckless as ever leagued together.
Don Heranzo dropped his pencil and sat idly musing upon the beautiful being who had just disappeared. No matter how lowly, no matter how poor—may, even though crime should have started her fair character, so that she in person was pure as he felt she must be, he would sue and wed her, cost what it might. She had desired him to remain for a short period longer with the band, but had she not done so, no choice seemed to be left to him, since in Parma and the whole limit of its broad extent of district, he was now proscribed as identified with the interests and guilt of the robber league, and to expose himself again in the capital, or to attempt to pass its borders, would be to incur imprisonment.
"Oh, that I could add speed to the wings of time," he said, "until it shall bring me to a clear knowledge of this singular and lovely being. Something tells me that she is all that my longing and loving heart could wish. Heaven plants not these intense desires and aspirations within hearts of its children, without a reasonable hope for their consummation."
It was the morning following the escape from the prison described in the last chapter. The sun was already high in the heavens, and the morning most had been despatched by the band who bivouacked before the mouth of the mountain cave so often referred to, when there rode into the clearing a weary and jaded horseman, who was recognized at a single glance by every one to be Alfonzo Mataloni, and a shout rang clear and high on the mountain air that might have been distinctly heard for miles around. Warm, hearty and sincere were the congratulations of these rude men, and glad the faces of all, from the youngest recruit to the oldest outlaw.
Inizilla had kept her word. She was still their good angel, and not a few among that band believed her a guardian spirit sent to protect them. It was a day of joyous revel among the banditti, and the escape was listened to with a silent reverence for the power of the female bandit.
It was high noon that day, when the outposts brought in an old man, so decrepit as to be hardly able to make his way up the steep path of the mountain. His gray locks, almost white with age, hung long about his neck, and his bended form leaned upon a stout staff. The outpost said he had demanded to see the commander, and also stated that he had a right to do so, though he would not explain himself. This was a time of rejoicing, and the old man was cordially welcomed. A good bumper of wine warmed the blood in his aged veins, and new life sparkled in his dimmed eyes.
"What is his name?" asked the commander, to whom this report was made.
"Pedro Carlotti."
"Pedro Carlotti!" exclaimed Alfonzo Mataloni. "I have no desire to see him. Give him this purse of gold, but tell him he must not tarry here."
The man looked surprised, but obeyed the orders he received, though he returned almost instantly and said that the old man refused the gold, and declared that he would not retire until he had seen the commander. Alfonzo rose from his seat, and pacing back and forth for a few moments with a contracted brow, at last turned to the messenger, and said:—
"Bring him hither."
In a moment after the old man stood in the presence of the outlaw. Both stood regarding each other in silence for some moments, and then Alfonzo, spoke:—
"Why do you come from the valley hither, Pedro Carlotti? Is not thy yearly stipend duly paid? or is it too small for the wants of an old man?"
"I came for neither of these reasons," said the old man, calmly, while his eyes were bent upon the outlaw as though he would read his inmost thoughts.
"Then wherefore?"
"I came to see my daughter's son once before these old eyes close in death. They first laid her in the earth my poor, lovely Fenella, and then her little son was taken away from us almost in the same hour. By a strange name he went among strangers, grew up, 'tis said, wild and wayward, until we knew him in you, Alfonzo Mataloni. But when I would have seen you, for her dear sake. I was told that this might not be, and as time rolled on, I have been more than once repulsed by the picket guards set about your mountain home. This time I resolved to see you by some means, let what might be the penalty, and now I have spoken."
As the old man ceased, he sat down upon a rude bench exhausted.
"The accident of my birth, old man, is a matter over which neither you nor I had any control; but I have not chosen to be reminded of it by sustaining any intercourse with you, except to know that your physical wants were amply supplied."
The old man regarded him attentively, watching the expression of his face and the intonation of his voice, and, indeed, every personal characteristic, until the outlaw felt quite annoyed by the length and sternness of the examination. The old man at last shook his head and shrugged his shoulders with a puzzled air, and murmured to himself, yet half aloud:—
"Can this be Fenella's son? I do not believe it!"
"What crochet have you got into your head now, Pedro Carlotti?" said Alfonzo Mataloni, somewhat sternly, and out of patience at the continuance of the interview.
"You have not one lineament, one expression, or any likeness whatever to the page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] baby boy who was taken from us when Fenella died," continued the old man, earnestly; "nor will I believe you to have been her child."
"Fenella Carlotti not my mother! What do you mean, old man? Art thou crazy? or hast come here to trifle with me? Speak out, and at once."
The outlaw spoke with great earnestness, while a vague hope for a moment flashed over his brain; but it was either so undefined or improbable that he heeded it only for a moment, while the old man still gazed intently upon him, as if to be doubly sure.
"Oh, there is a test, a well-remembered sign, that will prove the matter?" said Pedro Carlotti.
"And what is that?"
"A birth-mark," continued the old man; "one which at thy birth was deemed wonderful, but which until now I had nearly forgotten. The dearest ornament Fenella possessed, was the first gift she received from him who afterwards proved her ruin; it was a golden crucifix with the emblem of him who died there. It was a gem of art and very costly. The jewel made a vast impression on a child who had as never seen one before, and when her child was born, he bore on the inner side of his left wrist the same figure and emblem, dim, to be sure, but yet so distinct that it could never pass away during life."
"Old man, are you sure of this?" asked Alfonzo, rolling back his coat and linen and displaying the clear, unbroken surface of his wrist and arm to the eyes of Pedro Carlotti.
"I have spoken truly," said the old man, as he intently regarded the bared arm. "Hang down thy hand that the blood may flow into the wrist; if the mark is there, then it will appear, for it was red on the child's wrist, and increased in color when the hand was down."
"This is mere child's talk. Old man, I have no such mark as you designate, nor ever had. If you have spoken correctly, you have proved that there is no relationship of blood existing between us, and have opened to me a new field of conjecture. But look you. Pedro Carlotti, and tell me whose picture is this?"
The outlaw took from his bosom the little miniature which he always wore about him, and holding it before the old man's eyes, paused for his answer. Pedro Carlotti had been sitting on a rude bench for some time, but as his eye fell upon the picture, he fairly leaped to his feet, and cried in a tone half choked by quick falling tears:—
"My child, my Fenella! It is she, it is indeed my lost Fenella!"
"This, I was told by the monks of San Felipp, where I was brought up at Rome, was the portrait of my mother, her last and only legacy to me. How can you controvert this evidence?" continued the outlaw, still holding forth the picture to the old man's gaze.
"The possession of an article like that proves nothing. Sweet and blessed as the pictures is, it may have changed hands a score of times since it was placed upon the child's neck," answered Pedro Carlotti, earnestly.
"By heaven, that is very true!" said Alfonzo Mataloni, "but all has seemed to me so simple and indisputable, that I have never even questioned the matter. Is it possible that I have thus been deluded since very childhood to this present day? That I have been living a lie year after year, through some terrible deceit?"
As he said this he paced back and forth rapidly, his invariable habit when much moved, and his thoughts ran back over his whole life, striving to penetrate the veil that hung over a portion of the period. He had been able dimly to remember the past up to the period when he entered the convent, or nearly that time, and with an unimportant hiatus nearly all of his life and experience while there, up to the period when feeling who and what he was, he fled from Rome, and to the mountains, seeking the nearest band of outlaws he could find.
He now felt that the only evidence of his birth which he possessed was the miniature, and that after all that was entirely unreliable. He was amazed and determined to devote himself at once to the unraveling of this strange and startling mystery, a matter which has never before admitted of a question in his own mind.
CHAPTER XV.
THE FATAL SHOT.
NINA FIALTO had not been released from the importunities of Prince Carrafa, during the various events which had occurred since his own recovery from the wound and his successful capture of the outlaw. No sooner was Alfonzo lodged in prison than he again, commenced to press his suit, pointing out the terrible fate which awaited the robber, and striving in all manner of ways to influence the beautiful girl to efface his memory from her heart. Nina would not have borne this continued annoyance, had she not felt in a degree in the power of the prince. He was possessed of her secret and could publicly denounce her, indeed he had not forgotten in threaten this more than once. She therefore bore his importunities when they were almost past endurance, without daring to complain to her uncle.
An evil spirit seemed to possess the prince, the strongest pertinacity of action, and a want of honorable principle which entirely belied his high birth and education. He seemed never to hesitate at any means that furthered his object; he stood already charged with murderous crime upon the court records of Parma, but his high political position kept him from trial. For some especial purpose he desired to keep secret his agency in the arrest of Alfonzo Mataloni from the public, and the two men, Fabio and Rubaldo, were put under a fearful oath not to reveal the matter, but the latter, one evening, when heated with wine, boasted of his acquaintance with Prince Carrafa, whose named the two ultimately discovered, and also revealed in part the nature of the business they had transacted together. The following night the dead body of Rubaldo was found near his own door. The prince's dagger had done the deed.
Whatever the native goodness that had been born to this representation of the ancient house of Carrafa, a demon certainly seemed to reign in his heart now. Nina Fialto trembled at each successive interview, and after the escape of Alfonzo, the prince seemed to become reckless beyond all belief. His position and means supplied him with the power of annoyance beyond that which almost any other person, might have exercised over her. Court Fialto remained nearly all the time now closeted in his study, miserable for the past and fearful for the future. He was an altered man, and declined to see all visitors, while Prince Carrafa claimed the entree at all times to the palace and forced his dreadful presence upon Nina.
"For the love of Heaven, prince," she exclaimed one day, "pray deliver me from this persecution; it can bring thee no hope, no satisfaction, and it is killing me."
"Unless you become my bride, Nina Fialto. I had rather see thee in thy grave," was the cold, stern reply of the prince. "Why persist against fate itself, girl?"
"Did my life depend upon wedding thee I would yield it up before I would pronounce the false vows which would make me thy wife," she replied firmly.
"I know that such is thy feeling, stubborn girl, but you will yet change."
"Never!"
page: 54-55[View Page 54-55]"But I tell thee, Nina Fialto. I never yet gave up a purpose once formed, and thinkest thou that a feeble girl can thwart the designs of one like me?"
As he spoke he grew more and more excited, and appoaching approaching her, closely clasped her arm as he had once before done on the occasion of that almost fatal meeting in the palace gardens. The memory of that occasion flashed across the brain of both. Nina grew deadly pale at the picture which recurred to her mind, but the recollection only seemed to serve as a still greater source of maddening irritation to the prince who clasped her arms as in a vice, until involuntary tears started into the gentle girl's eyes from the intense pain he caused her.
They were alone in one of the ante-rooms of the reception hall, and Nina trembled as she saw the fierce, unrelenting fire that burned in the prince's eyes. She dared not cry for help, yet twice her lips opened for the purpose of doing so. Terror alone kept her from fainting where she stood, and now she seemed to lose the power of articulation altogether, for the prince had drawn a pistol from his bosom, and the ominous click of its locks sounded in her ear.
"Nina Fialto," he said, in a voice so hoarse with excitement as to almost startle himself, "either promise to become my bride, or by the heaven above us I will kill thee on this spot."
Nina could not speak, but only looked imploringly towards him.
"Speak, and quickly, for I can bear this excitement no longer," he continued.
Still the lips of the trembling girl refused to articulate a word, until suddenly, as if a sense of the villany of his conduct aroused her, beyond all else, she quickly raised her figure to its full height, and with a bitter, scornful curl of her lips, she said clearly:—
"Never!"
And at the same moment she uttered a cry for help that rang loud and shrill through the palace halls far and near, startling many an ear by its intensity.
The pistol was quickly raised to a line with her head just as the opposite door opened. Nina sank upon her knees as the prince fired, and the person who was entering the apartment fell heavily forward upon the floor a corpse. The ball intended for her had entered the heart of Count Fialto, and the prince stood like a statue, in amazement at the terrible result of his rashness. He seemed to lose all sense of his own peril, and indeed all sense of everything, except the gray-haired old man whom he had killed, and upon whom he gazed with a sort of irresistible fascination. He could not move his eyes.
Poor Nina sprang to her feet as the report of the pistol rang through the apartment, and beholding the dead body of her uncle, fell senseless by his side just as the servants rushed in to behold the fearful scene. In a moment more the police, being summoned, arrested Prince Carrafa, who still stood spellbound with the instrument of death in his hand. He had short men before, he had stabbed them in the dark, but there seemed a horror to possess him as he saw that gray hair lying in a pool of blood, that was unaccountable. He made no answer to the interrogations of the police, but yielded himself to their control unconsciously.
There are subtle and magnetic influences not fully understood in our philosophy, which nevertheless are all-potent upon us. Those who saw the hardened Prince Carrafa gazing thus bewildered upon the dead body of Count Fialto might well believe that some power not visible to them was manifesting itself, for had not this man stain his fellow-beings in duels and otherwise time and again, without a glance of apparent remorse?
Now he seemed to be by some inward working struck dumb by the crime he had committed. He was borne quickly to prison, on ay, and placed in the very cell where Alfonzo Mataloni had been confined but so short a time before him and through his own cunning efforts.
The Queen, Maria Colonna, had long regarded Prince Carrafa as the enemy of Parma, but yet had feared to seize upon his person, for strong political reasons. Now his own act had placed him in the hands of the law, and she resolved that justice should be stern and quick in its consummation. But a few days were permitted to elapse before he was brought to trial, when the overwhelming force of the evidence gave a speedy close to the legal proceedings, and the Prince Carrafa was condemned to the headsman's within twenty days.
His wishes were attended to as far as possible, a priest of the convent of San Filipp, where as a boy he had been educated at Rome, was sent for to act as his confessor, and of course influential members of the house of Carrafa hastened to Parma, to strive if possible to procure a pardon for the wayward and guilty representative of their illustrious house. In this, however, their efforts were unavailing, for in such a case of downright assassination no plausible excuse could be offered, besides which Maria Colonna, Queen of Parma, was fixed and determined upon his punishment. As to the prince himself, a most remarkable change had come over him; he spoke to no one, even refused to see his friends from Rome, with the single exception of the gray-haired old priest who had come at his summons from San Filipp. Those who had known the reckless career of crime led by the prince heretofore were surprised at this sudden change in the man, and perhaps he could not himself have explained the singular influence.
The old priest attended him and heard under the sanction of the confessional the fearful history of his past life. Even to his cars, accustomed to be the receptacle for the burthened and sinful hearts of thousands, the story was one of terrible import. Some twenty years ago he recalled to memory that this young man, then almost an infant, had been placed under his charge in a convent at Rome. Since then how varied had been the life of both priest and penitent. The former had been sent to Jerusalem, and the far East, where years of conscientious toil had worn upon him, and his step was now feeble and his hair white as snow. How different had been the career of him whom the priest had left behind an innocent boy. His course since then might almost be traced by a path of bloodshed.
The priest heard his tale of woe and trembled as he listened, and at last he knelt to pray in that damp cell for grace and forgiveness to the doomed one. The penitent man, his spirit now indeed broken, and his heart and head bowed to the stones of the prison, lifted his clasped hands towards heaven to join the priest in prayer. But what so starts that trembling old man? why gazes he so intently at those clasped hands raised above the guilty, man's head? why does he pause thus in the act of prayer?
He seizes the prisoner and leads him towards the grated window where the light fails stronger upon him, and baring his left wrist points with tragic energy to the sign of the cross deep embedded within the flesh. It was the birth-mark!
"What signifies this singular conduct, father?" asked the prisoner, in surprise.
"What signifies it? Why, that I am the one to confess here, quite as much as you, a deed which in my religious zeal I thought at the time to be warrantable, and which years of distant travel and labor had nearly effaced from my mind."
"I cannot understand what you refer to, father."
"Let me pause to consider," said the priest, "what course I shall pursue here. The secret is my own, and mine alone, no human soul knows it beside!"
page: 56-57[View Page 56-57]"What do you speak of—secret—secret did you say?"
"Ay, one which now becomes of terrible importance. Dost remember a lad who was thy companion in the convent, one whose studies and thy own were pursued together?"
"I remember such a boy."
"And what has become of him?"
"I know not father."
"I have just returned from Alexandria and the East, or I should myself have learned something of this matter."
"What does it concern me, whither he has gone father?" asked the prisoner.
"It may not so particularly concern thee, my son but it is of great importance to others now." And the priest forgetting the holy duty which had brought him hither paced the narrow cell in great excitement until at last he turned to the prisoner once more and said: "Thou art not the true Prince Carrafa!"
"Art crazy?" said the prisoner, springing to his feet in amazement.
"Nay my son, but much agitated."
"Speak no more in riddles father; this is neither time or place for concealment."
"Ah me! what wrong have I been guilty of what misery of untold amount!"
"All this is mystery to me. Explain thyself father remember that but few hours are left for me to prepare to meet the fearful fate that I have brought upon myself."
"As I have said, thou are not the Prince Carrafa."
"Then who am I, father? From whence did I spring? Speak, who am I?"
"The son of Fenella Carlotti, a peasant girl of the valley of the Po."
"Do you speak advisedly?" asked the prisoner in amazement, yet striving to be calm.
"I do."
"Then who is my father?"
"Count Fialto."
"Speak again. Do I hear aright?"
"I said the Count Fialto."
"Great Heaven!" almost shrieked the prisoner, "It is he whom I have murdered!"
Priest and prisoner seemed weighed down by equal sense of guilt. The former knelt and prayed silently, the latter wrung his hands in an agony of suffering until the big drops of perspiration coursed down his cheeks. Would to God they could have been tears; then would have opened a new channel in the broken man's heart and made way for a ray of the sunshine of hope. He could not shed a tear his hardened and desecrated sympathies crystallized all such sensibility. He paused until the priest arose from his devotion and then once more addressed him:—
"Father, I have received all you have said as truth but I must have the evidence and quickly: this suspense I cannot bear," said the prisoner.
"Sit down on this bench," said the priest, "for my old limbs are weary and listen to me."
It was then that the monk told his story how the child of Fenella Carlotti was brought to the convent at the same time that the orphan Prince Carrafa came all his near relatives having been swept away by a recent pestilence both were of the same age and fell to the charge of the same instructor, who now was speaking. It was nearly on the very first day of their arrival that the monk discovered upon the wrist of the peasant boy the remarkable emblem referred to, and the idea struck him that by changing the dresses of the boys who were not unlike, but in fact resembled each other, he could represent this great Catholic emblem as appearing upon the body of a prince, and thus giving heightened effect to what seemed little less than miraculous.
The boys themselves were too young to realize any matter of the change, and the pestilence that then raged was all that the people could think about or attend to; so that the change of names and dress gradually became a fixed fact, as much with the boys as those with whom they were brought in contact. The priest who held the secret awaited the proper time for making use of what he intended as a great means of conversion and strength to the church, but having been suddenly ordered away to the East, he had never consummated a purpose from which he expected to make great religious capital.
Thus, when the high-minded boy who was really the Prince Carrafa, came to sufficient age to understand whose portrait he wore and to be told that a peasant was his mother, and also that he was pensioned by the robbers of the Apennines, he escaped at once from the convent and the sequel the reader already knows. Thus he who was known as Alfonzo Mataloni (the name given him by the priest as we have seen, and at first bestowed upon the youth placed there by the mountaineers themselves), was none other than the true Prince Carrafa, and this the priest explained to the prisoner.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE EXECUTION.
AT the close of the explanation which the priest had made, both remained silent for some minutes. The change, great as it was in the position of the prisoner, mattered not at all to him in reality, for ere the morrow's sun should set, he would have yielded up his life at the headsman's block, a poor atonement for a career of almost unparalleled crime. Still he brooded over the discovery with interest; perhaps he had some faint hope that pardon might reach him at the last moment, as the Prince Carrafa, but as the son of Fenella Carlotti what hope could be entertain? Suddenly he turned to the priest and asked him:—
"Do you propose to make known this discovery?"
"Only to those who are most concerned in its knowledge," was the answer.
"It matters not," replied the prisoner; "my fate is cast, my time has come, and I care not whether I die as prince or peasant. What matters his lineage to a dying man?"
An hour more and the ghostly office of the monk was performed and the prisoner was left alone with his conscience, and the bitterness of the recollection of his life of wrong. It was true the church had received his confession, had as far as form goes absolved him; but, oh, what power can absolve us from the bitter gnawings of our own conscience? The strong man groaned aloud there alone in his damp, dark cell, and swayed to and fro in a mental agony of pain to which the tortures of the inquisition were but trifles. He walked his cell rapidly, and then he knelt down and prayed.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "but for one short year of life, that I might in some degree atone for the evil I have done!"
The priest in the meantime sought out the representative of the Carrafa family who had come to Parma, and divulged the secret he had kept for twenty years, first acknowledging his own guilt and begging for that forgiveness from them which he should penitently seek from Heaven. The consternation caused by the discovery was even more than the priest anticipated; and he, when he found who and what the real prince had become through his trick, however well intended for the good of the church, tore his hair in agony of despair, even until reason tottered upon her throne.
A reprieve of one week had been obtained from the queen, to whom had been made known the particulars of these strange developments. But that week was soon past and the day of execution had arrived. The military cortege moved with muffled drums page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] to the place of execution; long files of soldiers lined the way, and the crowd was immense, which had assembled to see a fellow-being murdered. A harsh word, but what other one will express the deliberate taking of life, either by the agent of the law, or by any other agent? Fearful spectacle, hardening scene to place before the eyes of the gaping, excitable multitude, already full of wine and ribald jest! The prisoner marched between a guard of soldiers, with manacled hands and downcast eyes. He had dashed through these thoroughfares on horseback in all the pride of station but a few days since, and was well known by sight probably to one half the citizens how gathered to see him die. As he reached the open plaza of the town there was a slight pause, for an old man, in spite of the efforts of the soldiers, had made his way to the prisoner's side, and threw himself on his knees before him upon the ground. He seized the manacled wrists of the prisoner and turning back the cuff gazed upon the emblem there, and then stammered forth in wild and thrilling accents, burning words of affection and sorrow.
"You are the son of my daughter, my poor, lost Fenella—my own grandchild. Will they not take an old man in thy stead? My life is well nigh finished, a few months more or less matters not to me, but thou, thou art so strong and manly, and with all thy mother's beauty. Alas! alas! let me die for thee, my poor, unfortunate boy!"
It was rumored through the crowd what all this meant, and correctly, too. Singular that this old man should be the only one left to mourn the prisoner's death. But he, in his devotion, in his veneration for his daughter's memory, would have died for him! Now came the action of the heart—this last act to the drama, previous to the dropping of the curtain, touched the calloused soul of the prisoner, and big tears coursed down his cheeks. Wild joy was expressed in the cry he uttered; for those tears were the first he had shed since he was a boy by his mother's deathbed. Oh, what a relief he found in them! He cared not for the crowd, he heeded not that in a few moments more he was to die—tears, tears, the sacred boom, had blessed him!
Raising his manacled hands he pressed the old man to his heart for a single moment, and they took the senseless form away, for the excitement had caused him to faint, ay, faint indeed, for he never breathed again. But on, on marched the cortege once more, and now the prisoner, with a living being bound to him by the tie of blood, almost smiled as he walked firmer and steadier towards the scaffold. He mounted the steps with a resolved tread, and kneeling for one moment pressed the crucifix held to him by a priest, fervently to his lips, uttered a brief prayer, and then laid his head upon the block.
In a moment more the fatal axe had descended, and the head rolled, severed from the body, to the front of the scaffold. Thus ended the life of poor Fenella's son! Dark had been the tragedy, fearful its end!
The military re-formed, the bands struck up a lively air, and the crowd, with hardened hearts at the fearful spectacle, shouted and jeered each other, as the soldier marched with heavy tread away from the sickening scene. The execution was over but its moral effects would be perpetuated among that careless mob for years to come.
It was on the following day that a grand parade was to take place in the plaza, and the whole was to be reviewed by the queen in person. A glorious day it proved, and the glittering arms of the soldiers were dazzling as they glanced in the bright clear sunshine, the gay uniforms, the brilliant accoutrements of the cavalry, the thrilling salute of the artillery, all combined to make up a most vivid and beautiful picture. The queen was mounted upon a superb milk-white white horse, and by her ease and grace showed herself to be perfect mistress of the menage, a she rode amid a gay and brilliant train of ladies and gentlemen, all of whom delighted to honor her.
Not only was Maria Colonna queen of Parma, but she was also queen of beauty in her own realm, for rarely has so much loveliness of form and feature been depicted by the dainty pencil of the artist as dwelt upon her sweet person. It was said that she ruled more by the potency of her beauty than by the authority of her birth and position as queen. We have said that she rode amid a brilliant through. Distinguished by the number of the orders they wore upon their breasts, four persons would have been noticed in her train. They represented the proud and rich house, of Carrafa of Rome. And just in advance of them and nearest the queen, rode a lady and a gentleman side by side, who divided with the queen herself the attention of the assembled multitude.
The lady was dressed in modest style, and she dark hue of her costume indicated the morning words, for it was Nina Fialto. Her companion was dressed in the style of an Italian gentleman of that period, his apparel, rich but modest, setting off a fine manly form of admirable proportions. He sat on his horse with an easy, well-assured air, that showed him to be thoroughly at home in the saddle. His eyes glanced along the line of soldiery with an intelligent expression, and not a movement of any sort escaped the keenness of his vision.
This is he whom the reader has known as Alfonzo Mataloni, now Prince of Carrafa.
"A fine body of men, prince," said Maria Colonna, turning partially in her saddle.
"Admirable, your majesty, and if they, are well officered, should be very effective."
"Your judgment is worth something in the matter," said the queen, significantly.
"I have met them, your majesty, and know their metal," was the quiet reply.
The queen dashed forward and the prince drew up his horse once more by the side of Nina Fialto, whose eyes were beaming unutterable love upon him. The short interview between the priest's confession and the present time had proved quite sufficient to afford all the needed evidence as to his identity, and his friends had taken legal steps at once to reinstate him in his long lost position and rank. In Nina's heart he had always been a prince, and the tender love she had shown him in his adversity was now rewarded a hundred-fold. There was no restraint between them now, no necessity for disguise; aid was assured and happy.
The review of the troops on this occasion was significant of the queen's purpose to show Sardinia, whose threatening soldiers were already on the march, that Parma was prepared to defend its territorial rights. It was true that the ten thousand troops which threatened Maria Colonna's authority far outnumbered her own little army; and some of the more cautions wondered at her firmness in daring to withstand the approach, of the enemy without adopting some temporizing measures. But the young queen had thus far shown herself equal to every emergency, and even her gray-haired councilors acknowledged her wisdom and sagacity in the intricate dealings of diplomacy and government.
The Sardinian minister pressed his claims, and assumed such airs of dictation as at last provoked the queen to bid him depart to his royal master, and say that whenever the troops of an enemy of Parma crossed its borders she should be prepared to meet and punish them. Her councilors joined in her spirit, but could not understand her self-reliance based upon such a force of numerical strength as the army of Parma presented, when compared with that which threatened them. But the queen kept her own course. She felt strong, that was indeed evident, and the sequel of our story will discover the page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] manner in which she had arranged to meet the emergency.
The Sardinian troops were at once put in motion on the return of the minister from Parma with Maria Colonna's message, but scarcely had they crossed the first league of frontier line before they found themselves harassed by a guerilla foe, who attacked them in rear and front and on either flank picking off their officers and men by the dozens, while for themselves they could not return an effective shot. This was a sort of warfare they had not anticipated, and against which they had no means of defence. Nor could they understand this mode of procedure. They seemed an invisible fee and when now and then one was discovered, he was but one of the rude mountaineers of the Apennines. The Sardinian general halted his column and called a council. He found his men melting before his eyes without the possibility of his retaliating. They knew nothing of the intricate passes of the road nor the ambushes afforded to the enemy who was actually decimating their ranks without a blow being struck in defence of the army.
Even during the hasty council held in one of the narrow passes of the mountain road word was brought to the general in command, that masses of rock had been loosened and rolled down upon the columns, killing in some cases a score of men in the track of one large stone passing through the line, and that unless an immediate retreat was made, hundreds upon hundreds must lost their lives in this way alone. Indeed it was of no use to issue any orders whatever, a regular stampede had already taken place among the rank and file of the invading forces, and a general rout ensued; but many hundreds of dead bodies lined the rocks for more than a league, until the invaders had crossed once more the boundaries of Parma and found refuge in the Sardinian territory.
The commanding general called upon the government for a reinforcement of troops and with the experiences he had just realized their reinforcements consisted of troops suitable to act against the guerillas, and after deliberate arrangements the column once more moved across the boundaries of Parma. This time they were permitted to pass several leagues into the territory unmolested but having just passed a long level plateau and three-quarters of the column being already advanced into the mountain passes, suddenly the column was thrown into confusion by a preconcerted guerilla attack on every point at once. Bravely they withstood this deadly fire from rock and bush although every shot carried death into their ranks—employing skirmishers to fight the hidden foe, but they had no idea of the number of the guerrillas, and their skirmishers were led into ambushes and cut down like weeds, disappearing altogether.
Bravely the Sardinians withstood this unequal contest—unequal not in numbers but in advantages of position and knowledge of the grounds on the part of the guerillas. At last, however, all discipline failed and the rout down the mountain was complete. The guerillas followed close upon them how ever bringing down dozens and scores of the retreating soldiers without themselves losing a man. But no sooner had the Sardinians reached the open plateau, then they were amazed and completely broken up by a regular attack, on flank and front, made in a division of the regular troops of Parma who fresh and prepared, coming upon them in their disheartened and deplorable condition, actually cut them to pieces, and massacred them with terrible facility.
Thousands of the enemy were slain in those two attempts upon Parma, and Sardinia received a check the severity of which surprised all parties, while the youthful queen gained fresh laurels for the ingenious manner in which she arranged the defence.
CHAPTER XVII.
INIZILLA.
EVEN the people of Parma could not understand how it was that so insignificant a body of men as were sent to meet the Sardinians could thus not only defeat but utterly rout and nearly destroy them. But the reason soon presented itself to their comprehension. Those of the regular army who had been sent into the pass to meet the enemy, told of the person of one who led on the banditti to the aid of the troops, and who was seen everywhere arranging the outlaws in such a manner as to make them most effective against the invaders. One or two of the officers recognized this daring man as being Alfonzo Mataloni, or rather he who had borne that name so long, but whom we now know as Prince Carrafa!
This was the policy of the queen, Maria Colonna, and now the banditti, after gathering a most princely booty from the enemy, were at once received, all who desired it, into the ranks of the regular army of Parma, under a general and individual pardon to one and all for past offences, in consideration of their brave defence of their country in its late danger. Hundreds upon hundreds only needed such an opportunity to return to a life of peace and respectability, and the outlaw league of Parma, so famous for its strength, no longer existed.
The bands left their mountain haunts, and the roads were again traveled without fear.
Don Heranzo, presuming that this general pardon would of course relieve him from any further annoyance of arrest or otherwise boldly returned to Parma at its first promulgation, determined not to leave the country until he once more found Inizilla. Yet he was arrested and subjected to a rigorous examination by the authorities, but he could not be made to disclose aught concerning the female leader as to whom the officials seemed so much at fault. Either the outlaw leaders could not or would not reveal anything relating to her, and it seemed to be the purpose of the council to compel Don Heranzo to give them the information which they doubted not he possessed. Having utterly failed in all their attempts upon him, he was finally summoned before the queen herself.
It was a proud and stately presence that he was ushered into, and after some unimportant preliminaries and business arrangements, her majesty's privy council informed Don Heranzo that the great league of the banditti had been completely broken up that they had received a free pardon at the hands of her majesty, and had been enrolled into the service of government, that there no longer existed any organized opposition to the government; but still, as it was a profound secret what mind had so controlled the robbers, and who it was that had acted as their mistress, a person as little known to the robbers themselves—save for her good counsel and munificence—as she was to the councilor himself, that it was very important for the government to know and ferret out this woman, not to harm her but that she too might enjoy the general pardon and be induced to exert her powers in some more virtuous and worthy channel. The privy council then showed the cavalier that as there no longer existed any anxiety as regarded her safety, that he might speak and be himself free.
"If she desires to be known," replied Don Heranzo, "she would have sought the general pardon graciously granted by the queen."
"Perhaps she does not understand its import," suggested the official.
"I cannot speak for her," said the cavalier, "but she has trusted me, and no power on earth shall make me open my lips about her. Though, truth to say, my lord, I could give you no reliable information of her."
page: 62-63[View Page 62-63]"You conld could give us enough to enable us to search for and identify her. It is sufficient to say that so important is this that not only will your freedom be at once accorded to you but a princely sum of gold as a fee of recompense provided you will write out a simple description of this female bandit among the outlaws."
"I can only reiterate what I have already said, my lord," replied Don Heranzo.
"I am sorry then that we shall be compelled on remand you again to prison."
"That you can do, undoubtedly, my lord," said Don Heranzo "but no power on earth can make me betray a trust placed in my honor, more especially by a woman."
A wave of the queen's hand cleared the apartment of all save the privy councilor who had acted as interrogator of Don Heranzo. There was a pause for a few moments, during which the queen leaned thoughtfully upon her hand. At length she said:—
"My lord you too may retire; I would be alone with the prisoner; perhaps in private interview the needed information may be acquired."
Scarcely had the door of the audience chamber closed behind the councilor when her majesty arose and throwing back the light gauze veil from her face turned full towards Don Heranzo and looked upon him with her brilliant and beautiful eyes. The young cavalier started back aghast and gazed for nearly a minute before he found breath to utter a word: amazement was written upon every lineament of his face as he said:—
"By my hope and grace but this is none other than the female bandit!"
"Hush, Don Heranzo!"
"I am all amazement."
"You will still keep my secret? I know that I can trust you," she added.
"You know that your wish would be law to me," he answered.
"I feel your truthfulness and devotion," replied the queen with emotion.
"But I am filled with astonishment," continued Don Heranzo.
"I wonder not. You and one faithful follower were the only two beings who knew Inizilla and Maria Colonna, the queen, to be the same, until I found it necessary to confide in one other, the present Prince of Carrafa known to you as Alfonzo Mataloni. Your steadfastness your honor and faithfulness have made me your friend. It has been me more than my councilor who has urged you thus. I would prove one who had pleased me so well at first. Henceforth Don Heranzo, you are our friend."
"Your majesty overwhelms me with honor," he replied. "But what possible object could you have in the seeming life you led?"
"All efforts to break up the robbers had failed. I resolved to learn their secrets to be their true friend and finally reconcile them to the law. This I have succeeded in doing though my secret must remain sacred. To you I need hardly say this. I have found you to be actuated by true honor."
"It was your native power that inspired me. Even when I conceived you to be the character you assumed your influence was of the purest and noblest cast."
"Your words are very grateful to me. Don Heranzo because I know them to be honest and from the heart, a luxury that my position nearly always denies me. But you when you know me only as Inizilla, served me faithfully and lovingly; there could be no deceit in that. And you risked your life to carry out what was of greater importance to my throne than you knew of, for the commission you so perseveringly and successfully bore out for me was the closing and most important link in my compact with the banditti."
"You majesty overrates my poor services," answered the young cavalier.
"I but do you simple justice," answered Maria Colonna, sincerely.
There was a slight pause, and he who stood there before Parma's queen drew slightly to one side and sighed heavily. The light that had radiated his fine manly features up to this moment, from the first words which had discovered the queen to him, suddenly disappeared, and a sad expression stole gradually into its place.
"But who do you look so sad, all at once, Don Heranzo?" asked the queen.
"Sad, your majesty?"
"Ay, that was my word."
"I almost fear to speak."
"Speak plainly. Don Heranzo."
"Ah, but I may offend your majesty."
"You need not fear, my friend!" she replied, with a significant emphasis on the last words.
"Well, then, I will speak plainly. I am sad your majesty, that I find you so far above me now, that I can never hope to realize the fond pictures I had painted in my heart. As a wandering mountaineer, even as an outlaw, a proscribed bandit. I loved and would have wedded you; but as Queen of Parma, your majesty sees at once what a change comes over the spirit of my dream. Can you then ask who I am sad"
"Don Heranzo," said the queen, "I have taken occasion during the short period of our acquaintance to learn from authentic sources who you really are. Think not that Maria Colonna gives her trust lightly—experience has taught her caution. I saw in you when we first met, all the attributes that lend ideal charms to manhood. I resolved to test you, and while I prosecuted this great purpose of breaking up the outlaw league, at the same time to attach to me perchance one true heart, that would not be influenced in its choice by the glitter of a position in which heart has nought to do. I have tested your manliness and truth; I need say no more."
As she spoke, her hand, the same he had kissed in the mountains, was extended towards him with a sweet smile, and pressed to his lips as he knelt before her.
And thus, indeed, were Inizilla and Maria Colonna one and the same the incognito and purpose of the young queen being so shrewdly kept as to have been unfathomable to all. She had braved danger in nearly every form, to accomplish that which it had been deemed impossible to effect. A purpose in which her father had utterly failed before her and which had thwarted all efforts of force for years. To accomplish this she had relied solely upon her own resources and only permitted the aid and attention of one long-tried and faithful servant who had been attached to her father before she was born a man in whom she could rely in case of emergency of any sort, and whom she could also trust to keep her all-important secret.
Nina Fialto was sole heir to her uncle's rich estate. Prince Carrafa was not long absent at Rome in establishing his identity and assuming the control of his title and wealth. His heart he left behind him in Parma. The queen entered fully into the joy of the two, and the wedding between Nina and the brave lover who saved her life in the mountains and afterwards rescued her from the veil of a nun was elaborate in gorgeous splendor, the beautiful queen honoring the occasion with special favors and her sunny presence.
Don Heranzo was appointed to a civil office of high trust, and soon after was promoted, after signalizing himself by important and successful service to the State. Month after month he passed from station to station, until at last he filled the chair of privy councilor to the queen, no higher could he go by appointment. But there was still another change which was necessary for his happiness and that of the queen herself. It came ere long, and the pope sanctioned a marriage between Maria Colonna, Queen of Parma, and Don Heranzo, the young Spanish cavalier.
