THE ROADSIDE INN.
You shall see anon; 'tis a knavish piece of work.
-Hamlet.
NIGHT came, and Florinda counted the moments as they passed,
anxiously awaiting the time at which she must leave the palace to
meet Carlton, according to his last directions. The time so
anxiously anticipated at length arrived, and stealing from a private
entrance to the Palazzo, accompanied by a faithful female servant,
who had been her attendant for years, she hurried on foot to the
designated spot. She had shrewdly avoided the employment of a
vehicle, deeming it more safe and expeditious thus to make the
passage to the spot on foot.
There was one of the most delicate and high-born beauties of all
Tuscany wending her way through the dark and deserted streets,
attended by a single female as helpless as herself. She was doing
this for the love she bore to Carlton; she was risking thus her
character, and perhaps even her life, to be united to him she loved,
the gallant Americano. On she sped, now half-running, and now
retiring within the deep shade of some projecting angle of the
palaces that lined the route, thus to screen herself from the
observation of some passer-by.
The gate was reached at the precise moment. There stood, wrapped
close in his ample cloak, with his hat slouched well over his eyes,
him she took for Carlton; he stood apparently expecting her at the
door of a caleche. With a whisper of recognition, he assisted her
into the vehicle, which immediately dashed off at a reckless speed
on the mountain-road. The reader need hardly be told that this was
Petro, who thus cunningly executed the plan agreed upon, as we have
already seen, between him and his uncle, Signor Latrezzi. Thus we
explain to the reader the tableau we have presented him at the
little roadside inn on the Apennines; thus it was that Petro
Giampetti, in place of Carlton, was wedded to Signora Florinda.
Fatal mistake! Ay, fatal, indeed, was that unfortunate billet
delivered by Florinda unwittingly to Petro. It was the author of all
her present misery, and the consequences to follow were, if
possible, of a still more fatal character. In that little note,
Petro possessed himself of an agent which enabled him to work out
his treacherous plans-a key wherewith he unlocked the purposes of
Carlton, and made himself master of his secret design. We have seen,
gentle reader, to what use Petro put the information he had so
treacherously obtained, and now we will show the close of this fatal
drama.
While Florinda was still insensible, and surrounded by the servants
of the house, under Petro's directions, endeavoring to resuscitate
her, a single horseman rode up to the door of the inn on his way
down the mountain. Dismounting, he stood by his weary steed for a
moment, regarding both him and the ominous signs of the weather,
then turning to the attentive hostler, he asked:
"How far to Florence, sir?"
"A couple of leagues, signor."
"And the gates close at ten?"
"Si, signor."
"Can you accommodate me within?"
"Si, signor."
"And my horse?"
"Si, signor."
"I may as well stop here," said Carlton, for it was he, "as a few
miles nearer the city, for I cannot enter until morning."
Resolving to tarry here for the night, he threw the bridle of his
weary steed to the hostler, and entered the house. He had ridden out
from the city early that morning for exercise and pleasure, and had
ascended many miles the wild and majestic Apennines to obtain a view
of the glorious scenery presented from their lofty heights, and get
a sight of the far-off Adriatic; he was belated on his way, and
resolved to go no further in the deep darkness of the night. A
storm, too, was evidently about to break in all its fury, and might
overtake him before another shelter could be obtained. It was this
latter inducement, in connection with the weary state of his horse,
that led him to decide upon stopping at so uninviting a house as the
one in question.
It was a noble animal which he seemed to have such consideration
for, and was a gift of the duke's from his own stable-an animal that
had already learned to love his new master, and stood with arching
neck, and brilliant eye, as though no labor or fatigue could banish
his conscious pride. The young artist regarded him with undisguised
admiration, petted him by a few gentle strokes upon the head and a
kind word, and said, "Yes, Prince, you and I will tarry here until
morning, and go back to town with renewed strength and vigor gained
from this mountain air."
Having seen that his horse was properly bestowed, Carlton returned
to the house, and passed immediately into the little parlor of the
inn where the ceremony had just been performed, little anticipating
the startling scene that there awaited him. The astonishment of
Carlton at beholding Florinda there, surrounded by the servants
endeavoring to resuscitate her, with Petro and his uncle, Signor
Latrezzi, can better be imagined than described. Twice did he dash
his hand across his eyes, as if to assure himself that he was not
dreaming; then thrusting them recklessly aside, he was about to
raise her in his arms, when Petro, who was taken completely by
surprise, recognized him and, drawing his stiletto, struck fiercely
at his heart.
Carlton received the blow partly upon the arm, where it inflicted a
flesh wound only. Turning upon the Italian, with one blow of his
muscular arm, he threw him prostrate upon the floor; and half way
across the apartment; then drawing from the ample pocket of his
riding-coat a pistol, he presented it at the infuriated Petro,
bidding him to stand back, or his life should pay the forfeit.
"By this light, one step in advance and you die!"
Carlton was in earnest, and Petro could read the determination of
his spirit flashing from his eye, and he quailed before it. He felt
that he was in the wrong; that the manly interference of Carlton had
right to back it; and this consciousness, while it unnerved his own
arm, nerved that of the artist's. Carlton paused for a moment, as if
to consider what to do; he was amazed and confounded, and his arm
sunk by his side.
Petro and his uncle drawing together, exchanged a few hasty words,
while Carlton stood there mute, as though struck dumb.
"We are two to one," whispered Petro, "let us upon him."
"Nay, he has a pistol; we have only our swords."
All this passed in one instant of time; but the next chapter must
describe the close, of the scene which had assumed so tragic a
character and such a fearful aspect.