THE MURDER IN THE WOOD DEL NOTTI.—A NEAPOLITAN SCENE.
There had been a great heat during the day, even for the sunny shore of
Naples. Not a cloud had been seen all day, not a breath of air had been
stirring; all was golden sunshine—all was fair; the very sea glittered
like molten gold, and the heat was oppressive in the extreme—so much so
that even the Neapolitans themselves stirred not out of doors, but sank
listless and sleepy on the couch, fanning themselves, and endeavouring
to create an air that would give some slight refreshment.
Even the sea was calm—the very waves lashed the shore lazily, and
appeared to partake of the general weariness that came over all
nature—all things that moved.
There was no soul stirring in the villas that were seen dotted about
the environs of Naples, most of them like palaces, surrounded on every
side by gardens and fountains, walled in, and secure from the intrusion
of a stranger.
There was one of great magnificence adjoining the small wood Del Notti,
that reared its stately structure on a slope looking towards the sea,
though at a mile or two’s distance, but close adjoining the wood.
The gardens were extensive, and abutted on the wood, which was a cool
and shady spot at most times, and if such a one were now to be found,
it would certainly be found in the wood Del Notti.
The trees grew tall, and spread their branches out until they
interlaced each other so completely, that when the foliage was on them
the light rarely found its way to the earth, save in a dim and diluted
form.
Here there might now and then be found some of those who had been
overtaken by the heat of the day, or who from choice preferred the
coolness of the woods to the walls of their houses. Here, then,
reposing beneath the great trees, might occasionally be found a few
individuals who slept in coolness and shade.
Near the wall of the villa where the wood ran were some tall black
trees, mostly fir and cedar; there beneath one of the latter lay a
tall, gaunt-looking man, who, notwithstanding the weather, was wrapped
up in a cloak of large dimensions, and sable colour.
There was something strange in that man’s appearance; above all, the
cloak which he wore was a thing so much out of place, that none other
than himself could or would have worn it. What was his motive none
could divine, were it not for the concealment of his person, which
seemed likely enough.
His slouched hat was bent over his eyes; his face was scarcely
distinguishable between the collar of the cloak and the hat, though he
lay on his back motionless, and without heeding aught that neared him.
It was true, there did not exist any reason why he should take any
heed, seeing that at that point no one ever came. It was a spot that
was not frequented, having a bad name, which usually deters people from
trusting themselves in such a place.
However, the stranger lay motionless, and apparently without fear.
Perhaps it was the long two-edged sword he wore, that gave him
his security; at all events, he lay there in silence, and almost
motionless—quite and entirely so, save the motion in breathing; and his
eye now and then turned in a particular direction.
The hours rolled by, and no one approached, till the sun sunk towards
the ocean, there to bury himself till another morrow appeared.
The heat of the high noon was past, and the shadows of the trees
reduced the light in the wood to a twilight; and the stranger arose
and stood beneath the shadow of a tall one, while he appeared to
be listening for some sound which he appeared to expect from some
particular quarter of the wood.
The hour of noon is some hours past; and with it a gentle sea breeze
begins to fan the heated shores, and here and there might be seen some
of the inhabitants creeping about in the shady places.
The stranger listened, and from the quarter to which he appeared most
to direct his attention, he heard sounds proceed. These were those made
by persons walking over the dried leaves and sticks which lay scattered
about from the effects of the storms that sometimes visit even these
pleasant shores.
“She comes!” he muttered, and his eye glanced round, and he grasped the
hilt of his sword. “She comes! but does she come alone?”
He paused, and again listened.
“She comes not alone—another is with her; but no matter; she shall
come. I have the means of security here. But, above all, I need _her_.”
He paused again, and listened, but quietly drew his sword, which was
long and sharp, and stood beneath the tree, while the voices and
sounds slowly approached, until they came quite distinct and audible.
“And so,” said a man’s voice, but in a low key, “the marchese is not
well.”
“She is quite indisposed.”
“I was about to say I could hardly feel it in my heart to regret it.”
“And why could you be so unfeeling?”
“Because, by dear Fiametta, had she been well, you would scarce have
got away from her this evening, and I should have had but little of
your sweet company.”
“I admit that; but were you not selfish in desiring it?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And are you not ashamed to say so?”
“No, I am not, Fiametta. I can acknowledge anything that concerns
myself and you; for I must admit a great deal of selfishness in this
matter. I love you tenderly, and that puts all the world beside us. I
think nothing of any one save you, and for you I would sacrifice the
whole world.”
“I am fearful of you.”
“And wherefore should you be fearful of me, fair one? Am I not willing
and ready to fight and die for you? I would not fear the summons of
death this moment, if I knew that I could save you but one hour’s pang.”
“I hope,” said Fiametta, leaning on her lover’s arm, “I hope that you
will never be called upon for so sad a sacrifice. I am sure I should
never know an hour’s happiness if I thought there was a possibility of
it.”
“I do not think there is any possibility of that happening. But,
Fiametta, when do you hope for an end to this slavery? Can’t you leave
the old marchese?—she is anything but kind to you, and would marry you
to one of her poor relatives; and unless you marry with her consent,
you will never be rewarded for the many listless hours you have passed,
night after night, at her bedside.”
“But she will reward me when she dies.”
“What an age to wait!”
“Surely you cannot grudge her life!”
“I do not, only so long as it is a term of imprisonment for you. If
you would leave her, and come back with me, I will make you happy. You
shall have a happy home, and form new ties, and new affections.”
“I have not got so tired of the old, that it is necessary to change
them; but I cannot leave the marchese. She is almost alone—no one goes
near her to do her a good office, and I am her only friend.”
“And yet she won’t give you liberty.”
“She says I am too young, and, if you must know all, she says I am too
pretty to be trusted in everybody’s company.”
“I must admit there is much of truth in that, and yet I cannot see its
application in this instance, as far as I am concerned.”
“No; that is not to be expected from you, you know; but this must be
admitted, that she speaks of men in general. Besides, she says, if I
have patience to await her death, she will handsomely endow me.”
“Upon my word, I think the old woman only wants to lease her life a few
years longer, or, I should say, wishes to live forever.”
“How can you make that appear?”
“Thus—when you are waiting for people’s deaths, you never do succeed
in hearing of their dying within any reasonable space. It gives them
new life, and the spirit of opposition and obstinacy is created within
them, and they won’t die.”
“For shame.”
“Nay, you will find, Fiametta, that we shall both grow grey-headed
in waiting for the happy moment when you and I are man and wife. Do
not stay, then, any longer, leave here, and come with me; we shall be
happy, and defy the world.”
“But look what a dowry I shall lose.”
“Never mind about that. Such a dowry would not make you young again,
nor would it recall many years of past service and attendance upon her.
You must know how very precarious such a life must be. It may so happen
that you may forfeit all you have deserved through some fancy of this
old woman. She may take it into her head to insist upon your marrying
her poor cousin there. You know, if you were to displease her, she
might very easily leave you nothing for your pains.”
“I admit all that; but it amounts to nothing, because she has said as
much that she would never force me, only she wished me to marry him, as
being a worthy man and one who would act justly to me through life.”
“Justly through life! What a sound! It sounds but little of love.
Justly, indeed! I would I could act no otherwise to others, but to you,
Fiametta, I should as soon think of forgetting you as merely acting
justly. I love you; I would, at this moment, lay down my life for you.”
At that moment they neared the stranger, who was standing silently and
motionless, with his sword concealed beneath his cloak, but eagerly
watching them, and devouring every word they uttered; and, by degrees,
they drew nearer and nearer.
“I am sure it will be wise to wait awhile. I am sure the poor old
marchese will not live long. She cannot eat and drink, save with great
difficulty. I am sure we shall not have long to wait.”
“I am willing to abide by your wishes, Fiametta; but it cannot be well
to wait for an age—it cannot be well to wait till we are old.”
“I know that; but——”
Fiametta screamed, as her eye fell upon the stranger, who rushed out
upon them, with his sword drawn. This gave her male companion time to
defend himself, by, in the first instance, jumping aside.
“Mercy! mercy!” screamed Fiametta.
Her lover drew his sword, and put himself upon his defence, saying, as
he parried the first thrust of his enemy,—
“Villain! what mean you? Is it robbery you would attempt, or murder
alone? Will nothing but shedding blood satisfy you?”
The stranger made no reply, but pressed on furiously, and with great
strength and skill, for two or three minutes, when Fiametta’s lover, by
changing his ground, contrived to elude so desperate an assault upon
his life.
Fiametta, however, believed her lover was getting the worst of it. She
screamed out for help several times, but none came. However, it caused
the stranger to press his adversary more quickly, and to hasten his own
movements, for he was quite desperate and furious; but this laid him
open to the assaults of the other. But, so fierce was the attack, and
such was the strength exhibited, that Fiametta’s lover was compelled to
give ground.
“What is your object, villain?—speak!”
But the stranger spoke not, but furiously threw himself upon him, and
endeavoured to beat down his guard, which his great strength and height
almost enabled him to do; but as the other gave ground he was obliged
to follow him, and then his foot caught against some of the tangled
roots that grew out of the earth, and threw him forward; and his
adversary, not slow to profit by it, and rid himself of so dangerous an
enemy, stepped forward and received him upon the point of his sword.
“A good deliverance,” said the lover, drawing his sword out of the body
as it fell to the earth—“a timely deliverance, truly.”
He wiped his forehead, for the perspiration streamed down his face; the
day was warm, and his exertion great.
“Oh, Jose,” exclaimed Fiametta, “what a horrid man!”
“A brigand, I suppose.”
“But he said nothing—he asked nothing.”
“No, he meant murder; there is no doubt of it, now, in the world; but I
never saw such an ill-looking wretch before.”
As Jose spoke, he kicked the hat and cloak off which the brigand wore,
and which remained partially on. There was a ghastly wound in his
breast where Jose’s sword entered and let out the life of the stranger.
He was very tall, but thin and emaciated; his features remarkable, and
he wore some straight, straggling hair, that was disordered, and fell
over his forehead and face of more than marble paleness.
“Well, I never met with such an encounter before, and I never met with
such an ill-looking villain,” said Jose. “Come away, Fiametta; we need
not say anything to any one about the affair. I will not come here
again, though it may be needless to take the precaution, seeing that
none could be brought to match this fellow in villainy and ugliness; at
least, it is so to my mind. Come away.”
Wiping his sword on the cloak of the fallen man, and sheathing it, he
took the hand of Fiametta, and drawing it through his arm, left the
spot.