A MAIDEN’S MIND DISTURBED.—AN EASY WAY OF PROMOTING COMFORT OF
CONSCIENCE.—THE MONK.
The spot was deserted, and no soul came near; but the body lay, with
its ghastly wound, all sopping in its gore. It was a fitting place
for such a scene as this; no sound was heard, and the lazy hours
turned slowly over, till the shades of evening came on apace; the
light grew dim, and darkness increased; but there the dead body of the
tall, remarkable-looking stranger lay, without motion. It was cold
and bloodless—death had long since deprived it of its last spark of
animation.
• • • • •
Jose and Fiametta quitted the neighbourhood of the deed of darkness as
quickly as they could, and it was many minutes before either of them
spoke, so filled were their minds with the reflections natural to, and
consequent upon, the strange occurrence that had just before fallen
upon them.
At length Fiametta broke silence, by saying,—
“Oh, Jose, what a dreadful thing has happened!”
“Truly, it had like to have been a dreadful affair; but it don’t
matter now, he’s settled, I believe.”
“Yes; but you have killed a man.”
“Truly, my dear Fiametta, I have killed a man, or devil, I don’t yet
know which; but that man would have killed me if I had not done so.”
“Yes, he would; but how dreadful.”
“So that being the case, it is, in my opinion, a very good job he is
dead; a very good job, indeed; he will be safe where he is:”
“But still,” said Fiametta, crossing herself, “how dreadful it must be
to be slain thus; with all one’s sins upon one’s head.”
“What would have been my fate?”
“As bad, and to me it would have been worse by far; but still it is
really dreadful to think that there should be a soul thus sent to
heaven without so much as the good offices of a priest.”
“He would have killed me without giving me time for repentance. He
would have forced me to leave a world in which I have all happiness yet
to know; a world which I am by no means prepared to quit.”
“Truly no, Jose, nor I; but what a state for this man to be in; he is
so much the worse prepared than even you, because his end was bad; now,
you had no evil intention.”
“None—none.”
“You did not know even that you were in danger from him.”
“I did not. Fiametta, else I had never brought you there. I cannot
understand what brought him there—what he wanted, or why it was he made
such a desperate attack upon me; my life was aimed at.”
“It was, Jose; but have you no private enemy, whom you believe capable
of such a deed as this? Surely—surely it cannot be done, save from some
motive.”
“That is the thing that most puzzles me; I cannot understand the
motive. I know him not; I have no enemy who would hire an assassin; but
there let him and his deed lie buried in oblivion.”
“He has no burial.”
“He deserves none,” said Jose.
“But, dear Jose, do you not think we ought to give him one.”
“Are we his executors or heirs?”
“God forbid!—but we saw him die, and not for his sake, but for the sake
of human nature, do not let us leave him unburied like a dog. He may
not deserve it, but he has answered all his offence.”
“Yes, yes; I admit he has been punished—he paid to the uttermost all he
owed me, and I gave him a receipt in full. He will never make another
demand upon me; we have quite done with each other, I believe.”
“I shall never forget the horrible sight; it will haunt me day and
night; I shall not be able to banish the terrible features from my
mind. I shall, in truth, pass a sad life; I wish this had never
happened.”
“Why, so do I, dear Fiametta; but, surely, you do not accuse me of
wrong, in having, to save my life, killed this man. I was compelled,
forced to do it; it was either his life or mine; and, the truth to
tell, I never was in such peril, from any single sword, in all my life,
and but for the lucky accident that laid him open, I had not been here
with you, but where he now is.”
“Thank God for your deliverance, Jose; but—but what a revolting thing
to remember, that in the wood Del Notti, there lies a corrupting mass
of humanity, over which loathsome insects crawl; a thing that had once
been a living soul like ourselves; but now, alas! what is he?”
“But, Fiametta, your grief appears misplaced; you mourn this stranger
as if he was near and dear to you. Do you know him?”
“Not I,” said Fiametta, sorrowfully.
“Then what have you to grieve about, Fiametta? Tell me truly. You have
nothing to blame yourself with. I do not feel I have acted wrongly. Say
what it is that causes you so much sorrow.”
“I grieve to think that the body of that sinful and wicked man lies
unburied, and that no masses have been said for the repose of his soul.”
“If that be all you require to set your mind at rest—though the villain
deserves it not—I will see that he is buried and masses said for him.”
“Will you, indeed, Jose?”
“Upon my conscience, I will see your desire executed.”
“Well, then, Jose, yonder lives a holy monk. He is a pious and good
man, and will, I am sure, do all that is required—watch and pray by the
body till midnight, and continue there until the sun shall illumine the
wood.”
“Be it so, my dear Fiametta—be it so. We will go to the holy man and
tell him of our distress, and will reward him; and then I will see you
in safety, and return to conduct him to the spot where you know we
left the body. I would the villain had come by a less noble death than
falling by the sword.”
“It will be a danger that will never be forgotten by me,” said Fiametta.
“Nor by me,” replied Jose. “What that man meant I cannot conceive. But
then there can be but one answer to the question—he meant robbery;
nothing else could have tempted him to draw his sword upon me.”
“But why did he not demand your money at once?”
“Because he might meet with what he has met; and he took me at a
disadvantage, and, of course, gave him a better chance of killing me,
and running less danger in doing so. I am not, therefore, surprised at
it.”
“Here is the holy father’s residence. He is poor—very poor; but,
withal, he is very good. He is a holy man.”
“Then he will serve our turn the better; for it would, in my opinion,
take something more than a saint to pray out of purgatory such a soul
as his must be. It must wing its way through space very much like a
bat.”
“Hush, Jose—hush! Not a word about that. Here is the holy man’s abode.
Shall I enter with you?”
“If you will, Fiametta—if you will.”
Fiametta stood by her lover’s side while he knocked at the holy man’s
door, and, after a pause of about a minute, a deep voice said,—
“Who is it that knocks at my door?”
“’Tis one who needs your service, good father.”
“Enter,” said the monk, and a bolt was withdrawn. The door opened,
and Fiametta followed her lover into a hovel, or rather a bare room,
in which was nothing, save some straw in one corner, and some few
clothes; besides which there were one or two articles of necessary use
and convenience, but they were very few indeed.
“Well, my son, what wouldst thou? Dost thou require mine aid to bind
thee to this maiden, and she to thee?”
“I do indeed wish so much, but she is not willing.”
“Not willing! Then wherefore dost thou come to me?”
“You see, holy father, as we were walking in the wood Del Notti, which
I dare say you well enough know——”
“I do, my son.”
“Well, I was talking to my companion, heedless of danger, nor dreaming
any could be at hand, when my attention was attracted to a spot on the
right of me whence a man rushed out upon me, with a drawn sword, and
attacked me.”
“I should not have had time to see him, much less time to draw and
defend myself, but for the scream of her who was by my side. I looked
where I saw her look, and saw him advancing, and had time to spring
back and draw.”
“Did you kill your opponent?”
“As it fell out, good father, I did. He rushed on and pressed me so
hard, that I had no alternative. My life was in great danger, and I
could not rid myself of my enemy, or preserve my own life, except at
the expense of his.”
“Did you slay him?”
“I did.”
“Another soul ushered into eternity,” said the monk, gloomily. “How
long will it be before the wickedness of men shall cease to bear such
fruits?”
“But, holy father, I did but act lawfully in saving my life. It was
only the law that nature has implanted in us, and can hardly be called
wickedness, since Heaven itself gives us the power and impulse.”
“Hold thy peace, my son, thou knowest nothing of these matters;
therefore I say hold thy peace, and let me know what it is you desire
of me.”
“That you will say masses for the repose of his soul, and give
him Christian burial. I do not like—we do not like such a portion
of humanity to remain where it is; we would it were not entirely
neglected, or deprived of burial rites.”
“It is but just of thee, my son; but I have known many who would
have neglected it altogether, and permitted the body of one of God’s
creatures to lie and rot like a dog. My son, you have done well, and I
will, for your sake, do mine office.”
“Nay, holy father, I cannot permit thee to do it wholly without giving
the church some due, and here in this purse you will find all I have.”
“I take it, my son, not for my own sake, but for that of the church, to
whom belongs all that is offered her.”
“And this, too, holy father,” said Fiametta, giving a small purse;
“take that, and for my sake do what may be done by those on earth for
those who have departed from it by a violent and sudden death.”
“I will, daughter.”
“And now, holy father,” said Jose, “if you will, I am ready to take you
to the spot where fell this man.”
“I will follow, my son,” said the monk, concealing his two gifts
beneath his garments, but rising at the same time—“I’ll follow thee.”
They all left the place, but went a circuitous route, to enable Jose to
leave Fiametta in safety at the marquise’s villa, where she resided in
half dependence, being a distant relative of her’s.
Jose led on the monk until he came to the spot where the stranger fell,
and where he yet lay just as he had fallen—a ghastly corpse.
“Here, holy father, you see the caitiff, a treacherous villain, who has
now been paid for his villainy—for, perhaps, a life of villainy.”
“Perhaps so, my son. He does not appear to have been formed by nature
when in one of her most kindly moods; but yet it might have been she
impressed his character upon his features as a warning to the rest of
mankind.”
“It was so, most likely; but you see he is slain. Fiametta would never
have known peace again unless the body was watched through the night by
some holy man, and prayed for. That is what is desired, holy father;
and now I will leave you to your task, bidding you adieu, and wishing
your office a prosperous one, and a pleasant night to watch by.”