THE CRISIS OF LIFE.
When the Irish priest conjectured that it was about two o'clock in the
morning he was not very far astray in his calculation. The short
remarks that were exchanged between him and Ethel, and afterward
between him and the men, were followed by a profound silence. Ethel
sat by the side of the priest, with her head bent forward and her eyes
closed as though she were asleep; yet sleep was farther from her than
ever it had been, and the thrilling events of the night afforded
sufficient material to keep her awake for many a long hour yet to
come. Her mind was now filled with a thousand conflicting and most
exciting fancies, in the midst of which she might again have sunk into
despair had she not been sustained by the assurance of the priest.
Sitting near Ethel, the priest for some time looked fixedly ahead of
him as though he were contemplating the solemn midnight scene, or
meditating upon the beauties of nature. In truth, the scene around was
one which was deserving even of the close attention which the priest
appeared to give. Immediately before him lay the lake, its shore not
far beneath, and almost at their feet. Around it arose the wooded
hills, whose dark forms, darker from the gloom of night, threw
profound shadows over the opposite shores. Near by the shore extended
on either side. On the right there were fires, now burning low, yet
occasionally sending forth flashes; on the left, and at some distance,
might be seen the dusky outline of the old stone house. Behind them
was the forest, vast, gloomy, clothed in impenetrable shade, in which
lay their only hope of safety, yet where even now there lurked the
watchful guards of the brigands. It was close behind them. Once in its
shelter, and they might gain freedom; yet between them and it was an
impassable barrier of enemies, and there also lay a still more
impassable barrier in the grave where Hawbury lay. To fly, even if
they could fly, would be to give him up to death; yet to remain, as
they must remain, would be to doom him to death none the less, and
themselves too.
Seated there, with his eyes directed toward the water, the priest saw
nothing of the scene before him; his eyes were fixed on vacancy; his
thoughts were endeavoring to grapple with the situation and master it.
Yet so complicated was that situation, and so perplexing the dilemma
in which he found himself--a dilemma where death perched upon either
horn--that the good priest found his faculties becoming gradually more
and more unable to deal with the difficulty, and he felt himself once
more sinking down deeper and deeper into that abyss of despair from
which he had but recently extricated himself.
And still the time passed, and the precious moments, laden with the
fate not only of Hawbury, but of all the others--the moments of the
night during which alone any escape was to be thought of--moved all
too swiftly away.
Now in this hour of perplexity the good priest bethought him of a
friend whose fidelity had been proved through the varied events of a
life--a friend which, in his life of celibacy, had found in his heart
something of that place which a fond and faithful wife may hold in the
heart of a more fortunate man. It was a little friend, a fragrant
friend, a tawny and somewhat grimy friend; it was in the pocket of his
coat; it was of clay; in fact, it was nothing else than a dudeen.
Where in the world had the good priest who lived in this remote corner
of Italy got that emblem of his green native isle? Perhaps he had
brought it with him in the band of his hat when he first turned his
back upon his country, or perhaps he had obtained it from the same
quarter which had supplied him with that very black plug of tobacco
which he brought forth shortly afterward. The one was the complement
of the other, and each was handled with equal love and care. Soon the
occupation of cutting up the tobacco and rubbing it gave a temporary
distraction to his thoughts, which distraction was prolonged by the
further operation of pressing the tobacco into the bowl of the dudeen.
Here the priest paused and cast a longing look toward the fire, which
was not far away.
"Would you have any objection to let me go and get a coal to light the
pipe?" said he to one of the men.
The man had an objection, and a very strong one.
"Would one of you be kind enough to go and get me a brand or a hot
coal?"
This led to an earnest debate, and finally one of the men thought that
he might venture. Before doing so, however, a solemn promise was
extorted from the priest that he would not try to escape during his
absence. This the priest gave.
"Escape!" he said--"it's a smoke I want. Besides, how can I escape
with three of ye watching me? And then, what would I want to escape
for? I'm safe enough here."
The man now went off, and returned in a short time with a brand. The
priest gave him his blessing, and received the brand with a quiet
exultation that was pleasing to behold.
"Matches," said he, "ruin the smoke. They give it a sulphur taste.
There's nothing like a hot coal."
Saying this, he lighted his pipe. This operation was accomplished with
a series of those short, quick, hard, percussive puffs with which the
Irish race in every clime on this terrestrial ball perform the solemn
rite.
And now the thoughts of the priest became more calm and regular and
manageable. His confusion departed, and gradually, as the smoke
ascended to the skies, there was diffused over his soul a certain
soothing and all-pervading calm.
He now began to face the full difficulty of his position. He saw that
escape was impossible and death inevitable. He made up his mind to
die. The discovery would surely be made in the morning that Hawbury
had been substituted for the robber; he would be found and punished,
and the priest would be involved in his fate. His only care now was
for Ethel; and he turned his thoughts toward the formation of some
plan by which he might obtain mercy for her.
He was in the midst of these thoughts--for himself resigned, for Ethel
anxious--and turning over in his mind all the various modes by which
the emotion of pity or mercy might be roused in a merciless and
pitiless nature; he was thinking of an appeal to the brigands
themselves, and had already decided that in this there lay his best
hope of success--when all of a sudden these thoughts were rudely
interrupted and dissipated and scattered to the winds by a most
startling cry.
Ethel started to her feet.
"Oh Heavens!" she cried, "what was that?"
"Down! down!" cried the men, wrathfully; but before Ethel could obey
the sound was repeated, and the men themselves were arrested by it.
The sound that thus interrupted the meditations of the priest was the
explosion of a rifle. As Ethel started up another followed. This
excited the men themselves, who now listened intently to learn the
cause.
They did not have to wait long.
Another rifle explosion followed, which was succeeded by a loud, long
shriek.
"An attack!" cried one of the men, with a deep curse. They listened
still, yet did not move away from the place, for the duty to which
they had been assigned was still prominent in their minds. The priest
had already risen to his feet, still smoking his pipe, as though in
this new turn of affairs its assistance might be more than ever needed
to enable him to preserve his presence of mind, and keep his soul
serene in the midst of confusion.
And now they saw all around them the signs of agitation. Figures in
swift motion flitted to and fro amidst the shade, and others darted
past the smouldering fires. In the midst of this another shot sounded,
and another, and still another. At the third there was a wild yell of
rage and pain, followed by the shrill cry of a woman's voice. The fact
was evident that some one of the brigands had fallen, and the women
were lamenting.
The confusion grew greater. Loud cries arose; calls of encouragement,
of entreaty, of command, and of defiance. Over by the old house there
was the uproar of rushing men, and in the midst of it a loud, stern
voice of command. The voices and the rushing footsteps moved from the
house to the woods. Then all was still for a time.
It was but for a short time, however. Then came shot after shot in
rapid succession. The flashes could be seen among the trees. All
around them there seemed to be a struggle going on. There was some
unseen assailant striking terrific blows from the impenetrable shadow
of the woods. The brigands were firing back, but they fired only into
thick darkness. Shrieks and yells of pain arose from time to time, the
direction of which showed that the brigands were suffering. Among the
assailants there was neither voice nor cry. But, in spite of their
losses and the disadvantage under which they labored, the brigands
fought well, and resisted stubbornly. From time to time a loud, stern
voice arose, whose commands resounded far and wide, and sustained the
courage of the men and directed their movements.
The men who guarded the priest and Ethel were growing more and more
excited every moment, and were impatient at their enforced inaction.
"They must be soldiers," said one.
"Of course," said another.
"They fight well."
"Ay; better than the last time."
"How did they learn to fight so well under cover?"
"They've improved. The last time we met them we shot them like sheep,
and drove them back in five minutes."
"They've got a leader who understands fighting in the woods. He keeps
them under cover."
"Who is he?"
"Diavolo! who knows? They get new captains every day."
"Was there not a famous American Indian--"
"True. I heard of him. An Indian warrior from the American forests.
Guiseppe saw him when he was at Rome."
"Bah!--you all saw him."
"Where?"
"On the road."
"We didn't."
"You did. He was the Zouave who fled to the woods first."
"He?"
"Yes."
"Diavolo!"
These words were exchanged between them as they looked at the
fighting. But suddenly there came rapid flashes and rolling volleys
beyond the fires that lay before them, and the movement of the flashes
showed that a rush had been made toward the lake. Wild yells arose,
then fierce returning fires, and these showed that the brigands were
being driven back.
The guards could endure this no longer.
"They are beating us," cried one of the men, with a curse. "We must go
and fight."
"What shall we do with these prisoners?"
"Tie them and leave them."
"Have you a rope?"
"No. There is one by the grave."
"Let's take the prisoners there and bind them."
This proposition was accepted; and, seizing the priest and Ethel, the
four men hurried them back to the grave. The square hole lay there
just beside them, with the earth by its side. Ethel tried to see into
it, but was not near enough to do so. One of the men found the rope,
and began in great haste to bind the arms of the priest behind him.
Another began to bind Ethel in the same way.
But now there came loud cries, and the rush of men near them. A loud,
stern voice was encouraging the men.
"On! on!" he cried. "Follow me! We'll drive them back!"
Saying this, a man hurried on, followed by a score of brigands.
It was Girasole.
He had been guarding the woods at this side when he had seen the rush
that had been made farther up. He had seen his men driven in, and was
now hurrying up to the place to retrieve the battle. As he was running
on he came up to the party at the grave.
He stopped.
"What's this?" he cried.
"The prisoners--we were securing them."
It was now lighter than it had been, and dawn was not far off. The
features of Girasole were plainly distinguishable. They were convulsed
with the most furious passion, which was not caused so much by the
rage of conflict as by the sight of the prisoners. He had suspected
treachery on their part, and had spared them for a time only so as to
see whether his suspicions were true or not. But now this sudden
assault by night, conducted so skillfully, and by such a powerful
force, pointed clearly to treachery, as he saw it, and the ones who to
him seemed most prominent in guilt were the priest and Ethel.
His suspicions were quite reasonable under the circumstances. Here was
a priest whom he regarded as his natural enemy. These brigands
identified themselves with republicans and Garibaldians whenever it
suited their purposes to do so, and consequently, as such, they were
under the condemnation of the Pope; and any priest might think he was
doing the Pope good service by betraying those who were his enemies.
As to this priest, every thing was against him. He lived close by;
every step of the country was no doubt familiar to him; he had come to
the camp under very suspicious circumstances, bringing with him a
stranger in disguise. He had given plausible answers to the
cross-questioning of Girasole; but those were empty words, which went
for nothing in the presence of the living facts that now stood before
him in the presence of the enemy.
These thoughts had all occurred to Girasole, and the sight of the two
prisoners kindled his rage to madness. It was the deadliest purpose of
vengeance that gleamed in his eyes as he looked upon them, and they
knew it. He gave one glance, and then turned to his men.
"On! on!" he cried; "I will join you in an instant; and you," he said
to the guards, "wait a moment."
The brigands rushed on with shouts to assist their comrades in the
fight, while the other four waited.
All this time the fight had not ceased. The air was filled with the
reports of rifle-shots, the shouts of men, the yells of the wounded.
The flashes seemed to be gradually drawing nearer, as though the
assailants were still driving the brigands. But their progress was
slow, for the fighting was carried on among the trees, and the
brigands resisted stubbornly, retreating from cover to cover, and
stopping every moment to make a fresh stand. But the assailants had
gained much ground, and were already close by the borders of the lake,
and advancing along toward the old stone house.
The robbers had not succeeded in binding their prisoners. The priest
and Ethel both stood where they had encountered Girasole, and the
ropes fell from the robbers' hands at the new interruption. The grave
with its mound was only a few feet away.
Girasole had a pistol in his left hand and a sword in his right. He
sheathed his sword and drew another pistol, keeping his eyes fixed
steadily all the while upon his victims.
"You needn't bind these prisoners," said Girasole, grimly; "I know a
better way to secure them."
"In the name of God," cried the priest, "I implore you not to shed
innocent blood!"
"Pooh!" said Girasole.
"This lady is innocent; you will at least spare her!"
"She shall die first!" said Girasole, in a fury, and reached out his
hand to grasp Ethel. The priest flung himself forward between the two.
Girasole dashed him aside.
"Give us time to pray, for God's sake--one moment to pray!"
"Not a moment!" cried Girasole, grasping at Ethel.
Ethel gave a loud shriek and started away in horror. Girasole sprang
after her. The four men turned to seize her. With a wild and frantic
energy, inspired by the deadly terror that was in her heart, she
bounded away toward the grave.