A Night of Adventure
It will be seen from the events recorded in the last chapter that
Everard, while liking the various members of the Greville family, had
taken a great prejudice against Ernesto Trapani. The fact is that
Everard, brought up with all the insular pride of birth of an English
squire, had a poor opinion of foreigners, and was unwise enough
occasionally to reveal his attitude of British superiority, and to give
himself airs. Ernesto, handsome, clever, and with a long line of Italian
ancestry at his back, considered himself in every way a match for the
young Englishman, and would argue with him on many points, often beating
him by logic, though never convincing him. It annoyed Everard to see
Ernesto on terms of great intimacy with Carmel, and to hear them talk
together in Italian, a language of which, as yet, he knew only a few
sentences.
"I wish you'd speak decent English, instead of that beastly lingo!" he
said to her one day, petulantly.
Carmel flushed crimson.
"Please don't call Italian a beastly lingo! I'm sorry if I've been rude
in speaking it, but I sometimes forget that you don't understand what
we're saying. It comes naturally to me. I'll try to remember."
"Remember you're an Ingleton, and the owner of English property," urged
Everard. "Now you're at Casa Bianca I don't believe you ever give a
thought to the Chase!"
"Yes, I do! Oftener than you suppose. I've grown to love England more
than I believed possible. In summer the country was all green and
beautiful, while here every blade of grass gets burnt up by the blazing
sun. Oh, yes! I'm really very fond of the Chase! I am indeed!"
"Then, which do you like better--England or Sicily?"
But at that question Carmel shook her head.
"My opinions are my own, and I'm not going to tell them to anybody!" she
flashed merrily. "It's a good motto to enjoy yourself wherever you may
happen to be! That's all you'll get out of me, Mr. Everard! And quite
enough, too!"
Though Everard might have private reasons of his own that marred the
pleasure of his visit to Montalesso, his sisters were having the time of
their lives. Lilias, with the help of Mr. Stacey, had taken
enthusiastically to botany, and was making a collection of pressed
Sicilian flowers. She had also begun to sketch under his tuition, and
had finished quite a pretty little water color of the house. Dulcie,
always interested in country life, was thoroughly happy on the estate.
She liked to watch the gathering of the oranges and lemons, the pruning
of the vines; to see the great white bullocks plowing in the fields or
slowly drawing the gaily painted carts. The wealth of flowers delighted
her, and much to Everard's disgust, she frankly acknowledged herself in
love with Sicily, and insisted that she would like to live there.
"I shall ask Aunt Nita to keep me instead of Carmel!" she declared. "You
may all go back to England and leave me behind!"
"What would Mr. Bowden say to that?" asked Cousin Clare. "He has
arranged for you to stay another two years at school!"
"Oh! bother Mr. Bowden! I wish he wasn't my guardian! Can't I swop him,
and have Mr. Greville instead?"
"Unfortunately people can't change their guardians!" laughed Cousin
Clare. "They have to stick to those to whom the law assigns them. Cheer
up! You might have a far sterner one than Mr. Bowden, and a much more
disagreeable school than Chilcombe. You've the summer term to look
forward to when you get back."
"Chilcombe isn't Montalesso!" persisted Dulcie, pulling a face. "No, you
dinky, deary Cousin Clare, you'll never persuade me to like school
again! I shall catch a cold on purpose as soon as I go back, and then
you'll have to bring me over here for the sake of a warmer climate. I'll
bribe the old doctor!"
"Who'll probably send you to Switzerland for open-air treatment among
the snow!" said Cousin Clare, who generally managed to get the last
word.
The Ingletons had now been some weeks at the Casa Bianca, and were
beginning to grow more accustomed to Sicilian ways. In Mr. Greville's
car they had been taken to many of the principal places of interest in
the neighborhood; they had seen the Castello, the old ruined tower which
in bygone days had been the stronghold of brigands, the ancient Greek
amphitheater, with its marble seats still bearing the names of owners
who sat and watched the chariot races in the fourth century B. C., the
beautiful Temple of Neptune, and the Palazzo Salvatore, with its museum
of priceless treasures. There was one local gathering, however, which
Carmel declared they must not on any account miss.
"I'm so glad you will here for the fair at Targia Vecchia!" she said.
"It's really the event of the whole year. You'll see more Sicilian
customs there than anywhere else I know. The peasants come down from the
mountains for miles round. You'll just love it!"
Such a spectacle was, of course, a great attraction to the Ingletons, so
a select party was made up to visit the famous fair. Signora Greville,
nervous about infection, would not allow her younger children to go, for
fear they might catch measles among the motley crowd, and the same
cautious care was extended over the children of the other families, but
Douglas and Aimée joined the expedition, and Ernesto and Vittore,
somewhat to Everard's disgust, had a special holiday from Palermo in
order to be present. They all set off on foot, and followed the winding
road that led down the hill-side from Montalesso to the little harbor of
Targia Vecchia.
For once the country-side seemed alive with people. Down every mountain
path descended donkeys, on which were seated girls or women in their
best gala garments, striped skirts, bright aprons, lace on their velvet
bodices, gay kerchiefs on their heads, and large gold ear-rings in their
ears. The men who led the donkeys were dressed in equally picturesque
fashion. Many wore black velvet jackets and scarlet Neapolitan caps, or
long brown cloaks with hoods over their heads; their legs bound with
rough puttees, and their feet thrust into sandals of hide with the hair
left on. Everybody seemed to carry a large cotton umbrella, either of
bright green or magenta.
"They think it looks grand," explained Carmel. "Every peasant brings his
umbrella to the fair, to show that he has one!"
"Except the brigands," added Vittore. "You can always tell a brigand
because he never carries an umbrella."
"Are there any brigands?" asked Dulcie anxiously.
"Oh, yes!" replied Vittore, winking secretly at Ernesto. "There are
quite a number still in the neighborhood."
"I was talking to one only the other day!" admitted Ernesto.
"Not really?"
"It's quite a profession still in Sicily."
"Do they catch people and hold them to ransom?" Dulcie's face was a
study.
"Certainly they do, and chop their fingers off if their relations don't
pay up. It's quite an ordinary little trick of theirs."
"O-o-oh! Is it safe to go to the fair, do you think? That man in front
hasn't any umbrella!"
"Don't be a scared rabbit, Dulcie! You little silly, can't you see
they're ragging you?" put in Everard impatiently. "There are no brigands
left in Sicily now!"
"Aren't there, indeed?" said Ernesto. "Ah! That shows how much you know
about it! Only last week the Count Rozallo was taken prisoner on the
road to Catania, and carried off into the mountains. He's there yet,
till he pays a ransom of 25,000 lire."
"Pooh! I expect he's done it to evade his creditors, if the story is
true. I'll believe in brigands when I meet them, and not before!"
scoffed Everard.
"And I shall be frightened of every man who doesn't carry a big red or
green umbrella!" declared Dulcie, hanging on to the arm which Douglas
gallantly offered for her protection. "What do you think about it,
Carmel?"
"I think I'm quite safe, for the brigands are generally very chivalrous
to women, and only run away with gentlemen and chop off their fingers!"
laughed Carmel.
By this time they had descended the road, and were entering the
picturesque little town. Generally Targia Vecchia was the quietest of
places, but to-day it was _en fête_. The fair was held all along the
main street, in a large square opposite the church, and also on the
beach. Everywhere there were stalls, selling every commodity that can be
imagined. On the sweet-stall was sugared bread in the shape of hearts or
rings, covered with gold and silver tinsel; there were sugar images,
fruits, little baskets, carriages, birds, animals, all made in sugar,
and apparently much in request among the juvenile population. There were
cheap toys, bright handkerchiefs, Venetian shoes, tambourines, lengths
of gay dress materials, dates, figs, and oranges, and the inevitable red
and green cotton umbrellas. The small shops, following an ancient custom
which dates back so many centuries B. C., had hung out signs to signify
the nature of their wares to those peasants who could not read. Over the
baker's doorway dangled a loaf, the shoemaker had a large boot, and the
wine shops still showed the garlands of ivy once dedicated to Bacchus. A
gaily-garbed chattering crew of people moved from stall to stall,
laughing, gesticulating, and bargaining, and evidently enjoying
themselves. A pretty girl was trying ear-rings, and looking at the
effect in a mirror held by the vendor, while older folks flocked round a
quack medicine dealer, who was loudly proclaiming the virtues of the
various bottles.
The scene on the shore was even more picturesque than that in the town.
The beach, which was covered with pebbly sand, commanded a beautiful
view of hills clad with prickly pear, of the bright blue sea, the
distant Calabrian coast, and mountains tipped with snow. Gaudily painted
carts were drawn up, while their owners bought and sold, and rows of
donkeys, with smart trappings and saddle-bags, were tied to posts. On
the sand were numbers of animals for sale--oxen, cows, calves, goats,
kids, great black hogs covered with bristles like wild boars, and tiny
pigs which, when bought, were popped into bags with their heads and the
two front feet peeping out. The noise was indescribable. Cattle lowed,
pigs squealed and grunted, men shouted, children cried, and musicians
sang and rattled tambourines. Beggars of all descriptions, the blind,
the halt, and the maimed were there, clamoring for alms, and calling
attention to their deficiencies, often thrusting a withered hand or the
stump of an arm under the very noses of strangers, to demand sympathy
and money from them.
Lilias and Dulcie began to understand why Signora Greville had not
allowed the younger children to come to the fair. They were almost
frightened by the dirt and impudence of the beggars, and each clung to
the arm of a masculine protector to pilot her through the crowd. They
were, indeed, glad to move away from the rather rough element on the
beach, and turn back through the town, where the peasants were now
taking lunch of maccaroni and omelettes at tables spread in the streets.
They bought a few curiosities and souvenirs at the stalls, stopped to
listen to a band of musicians, then turned up the hill-side again, and
made their way back to Montalesso, leaving Targia Vecchia to continue
its merry-making.
"I should think the fair must be a wonderful sight at night!" said
Everard that afternoon at the Casa Bianca.
"Rather," agreed Ernesto. "The people will be dancing down the streets
by torch light and singing at the pitch of their voices."
"I'd give anything to see it!"
"I shouldn't go, my boy, if I were you," put in Mr. Greville quietly.
"You'd find it a rowdy place, and not at all to your liking. The wine
shops will have been very busy all day."
"And the people aren't over gentle with strangers when their blood's
up," added Vittore. "They've no use for a nice young Englishman down in
Targia Vecchia! Best stay safe at home."
Vittore, who had waited till his uncle was out of earshot, spoke
tauntingly. Everard colored crimson.
"I'm not afraid of a few Sicilian peasants!" he remarked.
Vittore's sneer had aroused his opposition, and made him determined to
go, more particularly as Carmel had expressed great regret at not having
bought a certain necklace which she had seen on a stall, and wished to
add to a collection she was making of Sicilian peasant jewelry. It
would be a triumph to walk down alone to the fair, buy the necklace, and
show these young foreigners that Englishmen knew how to take care of
themselves. He did not mention his intention to Mr. Stacey or to Mr.
Greville, but waiting till it was almost dark he avoided the family,
dashed into the garden, and set off along the road to Targia Vecchia.
As Mr. Greville had prophesied, he found the little town in a decidedly
lively condition. Barrels of wine were being broached in the streets by
the light of flaring torches, and most of the men were in an excited
condition. The Cheap Jacks were still doing a brisk trade, and at the
jewelry stall Everard was able to buy the souvenir he wanted for Carmel.
It was the last of the sort left, so he considered himself in luck. He
put the small parcel in his pocket and turned away, rather disgusted
with the riot of the town, and glad to leave the noise and glare behind
him. He tramped up the steep country road with a sense of relief.
It was a beautiful calm night, and a half moon hung silver in the sky.
The stars, far brighter than they ever appear in England, twinkled in
the blue firmament, behind the mighty peak of Etna. It was not really
dark, and it was quite possible to see the main outlines of most of the
features of the landscape. Everard walked along cheerily. So far he had
met with no hindrance. The people at the fair had indeed looked at him
with much curiosity, and had even spoken to him, but certainly nobody
had offered in any way to molest him. The dangers of Targia Vecchia at
nightfall had evidently been grossly exaggerated. So confident was
Everard that he even whistled a tune as he walked, and planned how he
would stroll into the drawing-room on his return to Casa Bianca, slip
the necklace from his pocket, and casually mention where he had been. In
his preoccupation he did not give any particular heed to the road, or
see movement among the dark shadows of a group of prickly pears that
overhung a sharp corner.
Without the slightest warning a pistol shot suddenly rang out, and three
figures, springing from the shelter of the prickly pears, flung
themselves upon him. For a second he had a vision of cloaks and masked
faces, and hit out pluckily, but they were three to one, and in a few
moments they had secured him, bound his hands behind his back, and tied
a bandage over his eyes. Almost stunned at first by the suddenness of
the attack, Everard, as soon as he recovered his speech, protested
indignantly, and demanded of his assailants what they wanted. They spoke
together in rapid Italian, which he did not understand, then one of
them replied in very broken English:
"Signore, it is our order to take you to our captain."
"And who is your captain?"
"That I not tell."
"And what does your captain want with me?"
"He ask ransom. You rich Inglese. Property in your own country. You give
many thousand lire ransom."
"Indeed I can't!" protested Everard. "You've made a big mistake. I don't
own any property, and I'm not rich at all. You'd better let me go, or
there'll be trouble in store for you when my friends hear of it."
The brigands, if such they were, made no reply. Possibly they did not
understand him. They were busy, moreover, searching his pockets, and
were appropriating his watch, money, and other valuables with short
grunts of satisfaction. Bound hand and foot, Everard could offer no
physical resistance, though his bold spirit was raging. At length his
captors, having rifled all they wanted, untied his legs, and, taking him
by the arms, hauled him along between them. Blindfold as he was, he had
no notion in what direction he was going, though they seemed to leave
the main road, and to be taking a cross-country journey over fields and
rough ground. Were they taking him to the Castello, he wondered? It had
been a noted haunt of brigands in bygone days, and its inaccessible
position would make it a safe hiding-place. He asked himself what was
going to happen. How soon would he be missed at the Casa Bianca? Would a
search be made for him, and with what success? These fellows were often
very crafty in their places of concealment, and had evidently got hold
of some false idea of his rank and fortune. In that half-hour, Everard
went through very severe mental as well as physical discomfort. His
captors were not too gentle, and hurried him along anyhow. They refused
to answer any more of his questions, and, except for an occasional
hoarse remark to one another in Italian, kept a rigid silence.
After what seemed to him an interminable distance, they apparently
reached their destination, for he was dragged up a flight of steps into
some building, whether prison, castle, or private dwelling he was unable
to guess. A door was flung open, for a moment he heard an echo of
voices, then all was silent.
He was alone, though in what sort of apartment he had no means of
judging. The floor felt smooth to his feet, as if made of tiles, and the
walls also were smooth. His captors had not untied his hands, but he
kept straining at the rope in the hope of freeing himself. Escape was
the uppermost notion in his mind. He had indeed so far succeeded in
loosening his bonds that he could almost slip one hand out. At that
crisis, however, the door opened, and he was once more led forth.
"Where are you taking me now?" he demanded angrily.
"To our captain," replied the same foreign voice which had given him his
former information, while two strong pairs of arms pushed him along.
Though his bandage was very thick, he could tell that he was passing
from comparative darkness into a brilliantly lighted room. He had a
strong sense that it was full of people. He even thought he heard a
murmur of sympathy, which was, however, instantly suppressed. Everard's
was not a nature to be cowed by any circumstances, however appalling. He
meant to show this rascally crew that an Englishman never loses his
pluck, and, in spite of the ropes that bound him, he stepped forward
with all the courage and pride of a true Ingleton.
"Am I speaking to the captain?" he said in a calm clear tone. "Then,
Signore, I wish to inform you that you have made a mistake. I am no
wealthy English landowner, as you can very soon find out for yourselves,
and I may add that, if I were, I'd stay here to all eternity sooner than
give you a penny of ransom!"
"Hurrah!" came from a voice close behind him, a voice which sounded so
familiar that Everard, forgetting his bandage, turned in much
perplexity.
"The Signore Inglese had better humble himself to our captain," murmured
his guide. "Remember that here he has the power of life and death!"
"I'll humble myself to nobody!" thundered Everard, as angry as a lion at
bay. "Untie my hands, you cowards, and I'll fight for my life! If you've
an ounce of pluck among you, you'll give me a sporting chance!"
"Ecco! E giusto!" said a fresh voice, presumably that of the captain.
"Signore, you shall have your will!"
At this a knife was passed rapidly through the ropes that bound him, and
at the same moment a hand snatched the bandage from his eyes. Dazed with
the sudden light, Everard stared round as one in a dream. He had
expected to find himself in some rough hall surrounded by brigands, and,
lo and behold, he was in the drawing-room at the Casa Bianca, in the
midst of the united family!
"Forgive our rough joke, Everard!" exclaimed Mr. Greville, clapping him
heartily on the shoulder. "I had never intended to let it go so far. I
thought a fight on the road would do you no harm, for there _are_
dangers in Sicily to reckless young strangers who like to run risks,
and you might easily have found yourself in greater trouble than you
imagine at Targia Vecchia, if I had not sent Tomaso to shadow you. The
people down there know his reputation with a revolver, and don't care to
interfere. Never mind, lad! You came very well out of it! You certainly
showed us what you were made of, just now. On the whole, I think you
turned the tables on us!"
Everard was still standing gazing round the room, at Ernesto and
Vittore, who had been his captors, at Mr. Greville, at Aimée and
Rosalia, who were laughing at the joke. He turned white and red with
passion, and for the moment looked capable of knocking down Ernesto as
he had threatened to treat the supposed brigands. A glance from Mr.
Stacey, however, steadied him. Above everything Everard was a gentleman.
By a supreme effort he controlled himself.
"I think it's an abominable shame!" declared Carmel, turning upon
Ernesto with blazing eyes. "Daddy never meant you to bind him and bring
him up here like that--only to frighten him for a minute on the road.
You know he did! I'll never forgive you, Ernesto! _Never!_ If this is a
specimen of our Sicilian hospitality, Everard won't want to come to the
Casa Bianca again! My cousins didn't treat me to practical jokes at the
Chase! They gave me an English welcome!"
"Let me make peace!" said Signora Greville, coming forward and taking
Everard's hand in her pretty Italian fashion. "Our guest knows, I hope,
that we meant no discourtesy to him. For all he has suffered we claim
his pardon. Is it not so, Ernesto and Vittore? He has, indeed, shown us
how a brave Englishman can behave in a position of danger, and we admire
his courage. I think we ought to congratulate him on the splendid way he
has taken a joke which certainly went much farther than was intended."
At that, everybody crowded round Everard, making pretty speeches, for
all realized that the mock adventure had been real enough to him at the
time.
"I should faint if I thought I were taken by a brigand!" shivered Aimée.
"I should die outright!" declared Rosalia.
"Your property is back in your pocket with my sincere apologies,"
murmured Vittore, restoring the watch and other valuables.
It was not until the next morning that Everard had an opportunity to
give Carmel the peasant necklace for which he had ventured down to
Targia Vecchia. Her delight was immense.
"Why, it's the very one I wanted!" she exclaimed. "It will be the gem of
my whole collection. I shall always call it the Brigand Necklace, after
this. You went through a great deal to bring it back, Everard!"
"Oh, never mind! That's all over and finished with now. I'm going to
forget it!"
"You may forget it, but I shan't! I shall always remember how you called
them cowards, and asked for a sporting chance. I must say I like men to
be able to take care of themselves. As for Signor Ernesto, I haven't
forgiven him yet, and on the whole I'm not altogether quite sure that I
ever shall!"