THE FATE OF THE FREE SWORD.
“No more, there is no more,” he said,
“To lift the sword for now!
For thee my fields were won,
And thou hast perished.”—
They might have chained him as before
That stony form he stood,
For the power was stricken from his arm,
As from his lips the blood.—HEMANS.
Riding recklessly over the dead and dying, Albert Goldsborough rushed
onward, until at the entrance of an old turnpike road he was arrested by
a sight that might have stopped an army in its flight.
In the dust, on the ground, knelt Vittorio Corsoni, the terrible Free
Sword, supporting in his arms the pale form of his beloved wife, and
gazing down on her still face in unutterable anguish and despair. Beside
him lay his hat and plume and his sword, cast off as though useless to
him evermore.
“Dead!” exclaimed Albert Goldsborough, in horror and amazement.
The Free Sword did not reply or look up; he did not even seem to see or
hear the man who addressed him.
The sound of approaching horses’ feet startled Colonel Goldsborough from
his trance of amazement.
“Corsoni! It is no use to sit there and be captured! Up and fly! _all is
lost!_” he exclaimed, putting spurs to his horse and speeding away.
“Yes, _all is lost_!” murmured the Free Sword, without removing his eyes
from the dead face over which he bent.
Another horseman came thundering up in a cloud of dust. It was
Mutchison.
“Fly! fly, Colonel Corsoni! Rosenthal is within a hundred yards of you!
And all is over!” shouted the giant, as he rushed past without drawing
rein.
“Yes, all is over,” muttered the Free Sword, dropping his face down to
the cold face beneath him.
“Up and away! We are dead beat!” shouted another equestrian whirlwind
that rushed past him.
“Dead beat!” echoed the Free Sword, mechanically.
Abershaw was the next who came. He hurriedly dashed up, threw himself
from his saddle, and led his horse up to his chief, hastily exclaiming:
“Colonel Corsoni! For heaven’s sake, fly! There is not a moment to be
lost! Rosenthal is a few yards behind! Here! I have brought you a fresh
horse! Mount and away! Save yourself!”
The Free Sword lifted his despairing eyes to the face of his faithful
follower and pointed in silence to the still form in his arms.
“Madam Corsoni fainted! No wonder, poor lady! Well, I will stay and take
care of her. It does not matter so much if I am captured; I shall be
treated as a prisoner of war. But you, Colonel! oh, you know the doom
that awaits you if you are taken! Mount my horse! Fly and save
yourself!”
“Save myself! From what? The worst has happened that could possibly
befall me. Oh, Abershaw, look here! and tell me if my life is worth the
saving now!” cried Corsoni, in a heart-broken voice, as he pointed to
the dead face of his wife.
“Dead! killed! Oh, Heaven, how did that happen?” exclaimed Abershaw,
overwhelmed by the sight.
“A Minie ball. She saw the murderous rifle aimed, and threw herself
before me, and received in her heart the shot that was intended for my
bosom!” said Corsoni, in a voice of such deep despair that his follower
groaned aloud.
But time pressed, pressed fearfully; a life hung on every minute! And
Abershaw could not leave his chief to indulge in sorrow.
“My Colonel—my brave Free Sword!” he exclaimed, “rouse yourself! A
soldier should not yield to grief any more than to fear.”
Corsoni sadly shook his head.
“Come, come, my chief, look up. Think of all your glorious achievements
in the cause of the young Confederacy—”
“It was for her—for her, and she is gone,” moaned Corsoni.
“Then up and avenge her! Think of all that you have already done, of all
that you may still do for the cause. Think what a career opens before
you. When the Confederacy triumphs—”
Corsoni impatiently waved his hand and shook his head.
“The Confederacy,” said the Free Sword, bitterly. “What do you suppose I
really cared for the Confederacy? I am a foreigner. What are your civil
wars to me? It was for _her_ I drew my sword. She bade me draw it in the
cause of the Confederacy, and I did it, as, if she had bid me draw it in
the cause of the Union, or of the Lord, or of the Devil, I would have
done it. It was for her! for her! and now she is gone!—oh, my pale love!
This was not what I took you from your convent for,” he added, gazing
with infinite sorrow on the still face.
Then he turned to his follower, saying:
“But go and save yourself, Abershaw. You have yet something to live
for.”
“No; I shall stay with you and—her,” firmly replied the man.
Even as Abershaw spoke their pursuers dashed up.
“Ah, here you are, you demon. Yield!” thundered the foremost soldier,
dismounting.
“I yield,” gently replied the Free Sword.
Colonel Rosenthal rode up, attended by his staff, among whom was
Wing—Wing, his adjutant, with the first lieutenant’s straps upon his
shoulders.
“You are a prisoner, Colonel Corsoni. Deliver up your sword,” said
Justin, gravely, as he dismounted.—“My God!”
This last exclamation was struck from his lips by the sight of Alberta’s
dead body in the arms of her heart-broken husband.
And the most inveterate pursuers of the Free Sword were now gathered
around him with looks of pity in their warworn faces.
Colonel Rosenthal lifted his hand, and silently waved these men away.
And all retired except Adjutant Wing.
“I am very sorry for this, Corsoni, very, very sorry,” said Justin
compassionately.
The Free Sword looked up. His youthful face seemed suddenly to have
grown old and haggard with unutterable woe. Then he gently laid down the
form of his wife, and struggled to his feet, and put his hand to his
side for the sword that was no longer there. He looked about to find and
deliver it to his captor. As he did so, the blood suddenly gushed in
torrents from an unsuspected wound in his breast, and his face became
livid.
“You are hurt, Corsoni,” said Justin, in a pitiful voice.
“Am I? I didn’t know,” answered the Free Sword, as he reeled and fell
beside the body of his wife—DEAD.