Foxholme Hall Part 19

The dead man had been steward of the Prince Montefalcone, and was returning to Naples after collecting the rents on his employer's estates. At the sound of the firing, a horseman who was following the caleche turned to fly; but his steed fell, and he was thrown. He was immediately seized on, and bound back to back with the postillion, while his horse was likewise caught. The brigands were rapid in their proceedings. The carriage was smashed to pieces, and its materials, with the body of the murdered man, being packed on the three horses and the two prisoners, the robbers themselves carrying what could not be thus transported, the whole party struck off up the mountain, their leader stopping behind for a moment to a.s.sure himself that no traces of the encounter remained. Having picked up a couple of b.a.l.l.s and some splinters, and stamped over some drops of blood, he sprang after his comrades. They had reached a dark and secluded glen, with rocks and trees overhanging, when the chief called a halt. After a little consultation, two graves were dug under the moss. In one the body of the steward was deposited.

"Now, friends," said the chief, in his mild, bland way, addressing his prisoners, "we require recruits; are either of you inclined to join us?"

"Not I, indeed!" exclaimed the steward's servant. "You've murdered my good master, and I hope to see you all hung--especially you, Signor Ninco Nanco; I remember you in the Bagnio of Castellamare--rogue that you are!"

"Very well, friend, take your way," said Ninco Nanco, blandly, as before. "And you, Signor Postiglione, what do you say?"

"That I am unprejudiced; but it depends on the offer you can make me, most worthy signori," answered the postillion.

"You see that grave; one of you two will fill it before ten minutes are over," said the bandit, with terrible calmness.

"Oh, oh! then I will join you or do anything you wish, most worthy and honourable gentlemen," exclaimed the poor fellow, trembling in every limb.

"You have selected wisely, friend," said the bandit, with an unpleasant smile; "but you will understand that we require proof of your sincerity; vows are, like strings of macaroni, easily broken. You will have the goodness to take this pistol, and shoot yonder contumacious slave of the steward of the Prince Montefalcone. I wish that I could have given you the satisfaction of shooting the Prince himself."

The postillion took the pistol which the brigand handed to him, but hesitated to lift it towards the head of the victim.

"Come, come! we are transacting business," cried the brigand, with a terrible frown. "If you are in earnest, fire; if not, we will give him his choice of shooting you."

The servant, who had not seemed till this moment to understand the cruel fate prepared for him, turned an imploring glance at the brigands surrounding him; but no expression of commiseration could he discover in the countenances of any of them. He was in the act of lifting up his hands towards the blue sky above his head, when the report of a pistol was heard, and he fell flat on his face to the ground.

Instantly the outer clothing was stripped off, the pockets rifled, and the yet warm corpse was thrown into the grave and covered up.

"Put on this," said the brigand, handing the murdered man's jacket to the postillion; "you've made a good beginning, and, as your life is now not worth a half carline if you were to appear in Naples, when you have taken the oath you may consider yourself one of us; but you'll remember, that if you ever turn traitor, though you were to fly to the centre of the Vatican, or to cling to the altar of Saint Peter's, you would not be safe from our vengeance. Now, onward, comrades!"

After climbing some way the band reached their huts, where, the remains of the carriage being piled in a heap, a fire was lighted, and they set to work to cook the remainder of their provisions, with the pleasant knowledge that they had now the means amply to replenish their supply.

Having eaten and drunk their fill of salt fish, oil, garlic, macaroni, and sour wine, they stretched themselves, wrapped up in their cloaks, at their lengths inside the hut, while one stood sentry at a spot whence he could watch the only approach to this rocky domain. Such was the everyday life of these gentlemen. It would require a curious twist of the imagination to conceive Ninco Nanco a hero, or his followers otherwise than unmitigated villains.

Poor Pietro, the postillion, soon discovered that he was to be a mere hewer of wood to the band.

While awaiting a reply to their letters, Greco and a companion were sent occasionally into the neighbouring village to procure provisions and necessaries, for which they honestly paid, the traders not finding it convenient to give credit to gentlemen of their profession. Only two recruits joined them, invited by Greco, old hands at the trade. No answers were returned to the rest of their epistles.

"We must take other means of recruiting our forces," exclaimed Ninco Nanco, pulling his moustachios in a way which meant mischief.

Story 11--CHAPTER TWO.

A long, low cottage, with broad verandahs, over which luxuriant vines had been taught to creep, stood on the side of one of the numerous ridges of the Apennines, some way to the east of Naples, in the province of Basilicata. It belonged to old Marco Maffei, a contadino, or small farmer, who had nothing very peculiar about him except that he was an honest man, and that he had a very pretty daughter, an only child, born when he was already advanced in life, and now the joy and comfort of his declining years. It was no fault of the pretty Chiarina that she had admirers, especially as she did her best to keep them at a respectful distance. Her heart, however, was not altogether made of stone; and therefore, by degrees, the young, good-looking, and gallant Lorenzo Tadino had somehow or other contrived to make an impression on it, deeper, perhaps, than Chiarina would have been willing to acknowledge, even to herself. From the house could be seen, some way below, the high road already spoken of, which stretches from the Adriatic to the western waters of the Mediterranean. Lorenzo, or 'Renzo, as he was more familiarly called, was standing just outside the entrance-gate of the farm, while Chiarina, distaff in hand, sat within, under the shade of the wide-spreading vines which, supported by trellis-work, formed an arch overhead. Her father had gone to market some miles off, leaving her in charge with an old man, who had been with him for many years, and her serving-maiden as her attendant. In the absence of her father, her sense of propriety would not allow her to admit 'Renzo within the gate; nor did he complain, for Chiarina had confessed that if she ever did such a foolish thing as to fall in love, she should in all probability select him as the object of her affections, provided always that her father approved of her choice. 'Renzo had just gone inside the arbour to thank her, it is possible, for her judicious selection, when their attention was drawn towards the road by the sound of horses' feet galloping furiously along it. There were three hors.e.m.e.n, wild-looking fellows, each with a carbine or rifle in his hand. As they were pa.s.sing directly under the house one of the steeds fell, and the rider was thrown with violence to the ground. His companions pulled rein, and dismounted to a.s.sist him. He must have been severely hurt; for, after they had tied their horses to a tree, they were seen bearing him up the steep path leading to the cottage.

"You will have the goodness to take care of this cavalier, and to see that no injury befalls him," said one of them to Chiarina, as they reached the arbour.

'Renzo frowned, but to little purpose, at their impudent manner. It would have been against Chiarina's gentle nature to refuse to take care of the injured man. There was not another house along the high road for nearly half-a-league, and he would die before he could be carried there.

The men turned their glances uneasily up the road. Some object was seen approaching. They immediately placed their burden on the ground, and were about to make off down the hill at full speed, when Chiarina exclaimed that it was her father.

Old Marco, though he did not look over well pleased at seeing the strangers, after exchanging a few words with them, at once consented to take charge of their wounded comrade. Calling 'Renzo to his aid, he lifted the man from the ground to bear him towards the house.

"Remember, if harm befalls him!--" exclaimed one of the men, lifting up his finger, as he turned to hurry down the hill.

"If harm befalls him it will be no fault of mine," answered Marco.

The stranger was carried in and placed on Marco's own bed, and his injuries carefully looked to; while his comrades, having caught his horse, galloped off with it along the road at the same headlong speed as that at which they were before going.

After some time the stranger opened his eyes and looked about him with a very troubled expression, till they fell on Marco. He then seemed more satisfied.

"What has happened?" he asked.

Marco told him.

"I can trust you, old friend?" he whispered.

"Yes, yes, no fear," said Marco, turning away; "I would, though, that your shadow had never darkened my doorway."

Chiarina longed to know who the stranger could he; yet she did not like to ask her father. 'Renzo, left equally in ignorance, at length was compelled to take his departure, not at all satisfied in his mind that all would go well.

Story 11--CHAPTER THREE.

Had the stranger been a son, Marco could not have tended him with greater care than he did, aided by Chiarina, who, however, never got over the mistrust she had felt of him from the first. 'Renzo came whenever he could, and never before had he been so sensible of making rapid progress in her affections. The truth is, she felt that she required some one on whom she could rely for protection and support.

Her father never gave a hint as to who the stranger was, and all she knew was that he looked at her in a way she did not like, and that he spoke in a bold, self-confident tone, which grated harshly on her ears.

He had now almost entirely recovered his strength, but, except when the shades of evening came on, he did not go out of doors. The only reason he gave for this was, that the light of day was disagreeable to his eyes. It was evident that Marco wished that he would take his departure. In the first place, Marco could not go to market; in the second, the stranger was making love, in a rough way, to his daughter; in the third, he was eating up his provisions; and, in the fourth place--but that reason, probably stronger than any of the others, he kept to himself. 'Renzo would gladly have volunteered to turn him out crop and heel, but that would not have suited Marco's notions of hospitality; nor was it likely that such proceeding would have pa.s.sed by unnoticed in some disagreeable manner by the stranger's friends.

One day, at noon, as Marco was working in his fields, and had just been joined by Chiarina, who came to tell him that his dinner was ready, they saw in the distance a cloud of dust, out of which shortly emerged a troop of dragoons. Chiarina remarked her father's agitation as he hurried towards the house. Their guest, on hearing who was approaching, instantly retired to his room, telling Marco to say, if any inquiries were made, that there was a sick man up-stairs with an infectious fever.

"Invite the officer to come in and prescribe for me," he added, laughing.

The body of cavalry halted under the house, but only an officer dismounted and came up the hill. He entered the house, and asking carelessly for a jug of wine, inquired of Marco whether he had been annoyed by the brigands.

"Ah, signore! I am, happily, too small game for them to fly at," he answered; "yet I love them not, nor wish to have any dealings with them."

The officer looked satisfied, and Marco hoped that he would ask no further questions.

"Have you other inmates besides yourself and daughter?" asked the officer.

"a.s.suredly, yes--a sick man up-stairs, who has been earnestly begging that any gentleman who has a knowledge of the healing art, pa.s.sing this way, would come and see him," answered Marco, with all the calmness he could command. "His fever, he says, may be infectious; and, at all events, I wish to have as little to do with him as possible. Perhaps, if you have a surgeon with your troop, you could send him up; or, if you have any skill, signore, you would see him."

"I! My skill is to kill, not to cure," said the officer, laughing at his own wit, and completely deceived.

It was with no small satisfaction that Marco saw him again moving on at the head of his men.

The stranger soon after appeared.

"I owe you a good turn, Marco Maffei," he said, with more cordiality than he generally exhibited. "The day may come when I can repay it. I shall not much longer trouble you with my society."

Marco did not say what he thought--that the sooner he was gone the better.

Day after day, however, pa.s.sed by, the guest employing his time in making love, as before, to Chiarina, to her evident annoyance, though at this he seemed in no way disconcerted.

At length, one evening after dark, a loud knock was heard at the door, and, when Marco opened it, an unshorn countenance was thrust in.