"Remember this ring," I muttered hurriedly (assassination now seemed

certain); "it is our poor Bianca's--and if anything happens--you

understand me?"

"No--no--not I--if aught untoward happens, by the blood of San Gennaro!

the colonel shall cross his blade with mine:" and he left me.

Standing now about twelve yards distant from my enemy, I felt not unlike

a recruit when a loaded firelock is first placed in his hands: I knew

not what position to assume, and was only restrained from protesting

against the combat, by dread of the triumph such a course would afford

to Almario. He saw my confusion: his dark eyes glittered with malice

and joy; while my heart burned only with hatred and rage at the prospect

of becoming a victim to an uncompromising guerilla, who deemed himself

sure of easy victory over my inexperience.

With his hat drawn over his eyes, and his arms folded on his breast,

Santugo stood apart, regarding us with a flushed cheek, and a stern, yet

troubled eye; while Andronicus had placed his crucifix against a tree,

and was praying on his knees before it for my success, with all the

energy and devotion of a monk of La Trappe.

The position I assumed, with my hands clenched, my left foot advanced,

and my head well thrown back, was rather that of a boxer, than of a

combatant in such a contest as that in which I figured. My antagonist

bent forward on his left instep, keeping the arm muffled with his cloak

before him as a buckler, while the right hand grasped the upraised

poniard, ready to plunge it, to the hilt, in the first unprotected

place.

After regarding me for a moment with eyes to which bitter animosity lent

unusual vivacity, the colonel rushed upon me like a tiger.

More by chance than skill, I received the blade of the descending

poniard in the thick folds of Zacheo's horse-cloak, and--contrary to all

rule--before he could withdraw it, dealt him a tremendous blow under the

left ear, causing his rattling jaws to clatter like a pair of castanets;

when as if struck by lightning, he measured his length on the turf.

Though given in a moment of confusion, it was a regular knock-down blow,

which would have charmed the English gentlemen of the fancy; but Signor

the Colonel Almario was quite unprepared for such a mode of fighting,

and seemed in no way delighted with it. He lay for a moment motionless

as if dead.

"Glorious!" exclaimed Santugo, while I took the poniard from the relaxed

hand of my adversary, whose long curly ringlets and mustaches fell off

one by one (as we raised him up), and revealed the shaven chin, close

shorn hair, and firm swart features of one well-known to us.

"Now, by all the imps of Etna!" exclaimed Santugo, in a transport of

fury and surprise, letting him fall heavily on the turf, "'tis the

brigand--Francatripa!"

"Al vostro commando, (at your service)"--replied that personage, bowing

with perfect nonchalance.

"Rascal! and you presumed to speak of love to Bianca of Santugo? Carpo

di Baccho! I am half inclined to sabre him where he lies, to teach him

the respect he owes to noble ladies!"

"Aye do, your excellency," cried Andronicus; "slay him--the impostor!

his head is worth its weight in ducats: crush him like a torpedo--gash

him across the throat like a lynx! Where, cattivo! have I left my

knife? Only think, signor--his villains the other night, burned the

village of Amato--plundered the shrine of the Virgin, whose milk is

preserved there in a bottle. O horror he broke off the neck and drank

the contents!"

"Silence, dolt!" exclaimed Francatripa. "You have discovered me,

gentlemen," continued the prostrate robber, whose throat I still

grasped; "and what mean you to do now? I am in your power, and there is

not a syndic or commandant in the Calabrias but would--notwithstanding

that I stand so high in the Queen's favour--give a thousand pieces of

gold for my head. However, as it is of more use to me, they shall not

have it for ten times that number. Maladetto! how it rings after that

crackjaw! Do you mean to make me prisoner?"

"No, Francatripa!" replied the generous Santugo, in a voice which, from

being sternly slow, became soft and kind; "I am one of the Alfieri--thou

knowest me, and knowest too well I would scorn the deed: savage and

bloody though all men term you, I have heard many a good and generous

trait of your character; and the uncompromising hostility you have ever

evinced to France, your high courage and incorruptible patriotism, have

gained my admiration and esteem: although at heart I abhorred the

cruelties perpetrated by your people on our countrymen--defending our

towns gallantly from Regnier to-day, and pillaging them ruthlessly

to-morrow."

The brigand, who expected to be overwhelmed with reproaches and scorn,

was confounded by this unexpected address; and he became still more so

when I assisted him to rise, and restored his poniard, saying--

"Let us be friends, Signor! I have not forgotten how generously you

entertained the Cavaliere di Castelermo and myself last night;

protecting us from the insolence of your band, and the petulence of

their lieutenant. Receive your poniard, and learn to make a better use

of it: or rather not to use it at all. I esteem you as a brave man,

though an erring one; and trust that the blow I gave you will not

occasion you further inconvenience."

"Francatripa!" added Santugo, striking him familiarly on the shoulder,

"seek another path than that which leads through the prison-gate to the

scaffold. Carolina has sent to you, though but a mountain robber, the

same badge of knighthood with which she adorns the noblest breasts in

Naples--the star of St. Constantine. Learn to deserve it and to wear it

with honour. Grow wise in time: become honest as you are brave: lead

your bold followers against the legions of France, instead of the poor

carbonari of our hills, and the peaceful vine-traders of our valleys.

Fight only for Italy and honour, and, corpo di Baccho! you will live in

history and in song, like Marco Sciarra--re della campagna--and lord of

the wilderness!"

The robber seemed deeply affected by our frankness.

"Monsignore Visconte and Signor Capitano," said he, saluting us

gracefully, and retiring a pace; "I am not the hardened villain the evil

tongues of slanderers would make me. God and his blessed Mother, who

read our hearts, know that I have been by stern necessity compelled to

witness--ay, and to participate in--many a deed of blood and horror,

from which my soul shrank with disgust. Yet there was a time, to which

I look back through the long dark vista of many a sinful year" (he spoke

slowly and with sighs)--"a time when, in youth and innocence, I sat by

my mother's knee in our little cot among the wilds of La Syla, and when

she sang to me of the exploits of Sciarra the glorious, Battimello the

treacherous, and Mangone the terrible. Ah! how little did I then dream

of following so closely in their footsteps--of being what I have since

become! Deeply these songs sank in my heart, and more fondly were they

remembered than the Ave Maria and hymn to the little child Jesus, which

the same dear lips taught me to chant every night before the humble

shrine in our cottage. I am not a cold-blooded and deliberate rascal.

No: a combination of circumstances brought me to the unenviable position

in which I now stand; roused all the evil passions of my breast, and

made me an outcast and an enemy to mankind. My wife was false--her

seducer was noble--my knife was sharp as my vengeance--that is my

history. The Barone of Castelguelfo was my evil genius: but he did not

die. I fled to poverty and despair--thence to crime. How easy is the

transition! There was a time--but via! 'tis past: let me recur to it no

more, but forget it; as Francatripa the gentleman is forgotten in

Francatripa the capobandito.

"Remember, excellency, that I sought not the villa D'Alfieri uninvited:

I went there on the pressing invitation of the viscontessa; to whom, in

this disguise, I was introduced by the Bishop of Cosenza, of whom--but

enough! The recollection of what I have been, leads me to love that

society in which I once moved as an equal; but from whose magic circle I

am now proscribed, as if the mark of Cain were upon me. Between us

crime has raised up a mighty barrier, which neither this honoured badge,

the gift of a queen, nor that commission (at which all men laugh as a

burlesque when bestowed on me) can level. And truly, though proud of my

knightly star, I know too well that it shines with diminished lustre on

the breast of a poor Calabrian outlaw."

His voice faltered, and his brow clouded still more; he took his horse

by the bridle, and yet paused as if he had something more to say.

"My lord, beware of our mutual enemy, the Baron Guelfo. My people

lately intercepted a letter from him to the Cavaliere Belcastro,

concerning some Buonapartist plot they were hatching. He has been

enrolling an unusual number of sbirri, and reports are current that he

intends to raise the standard of Joseph on this side of the Calabrian

lines. And, my lord, let the excellent lady, your mother, be more wary

in future, and avoid inviting to her own mansion those gamesters whom

she meets at the palace of the bishop. Would to Heaven, I had never

beheld the Signorina Bianca!--Pardon me, visconte.--Her beauty and

innocence have awakened in my breast old feelings and long-forgotten

sentiments of honour and love, which all the sins and toils of

four-and-twenty years--wretched years of wandering and misery--have not

been able to obliterate from the memory of the hapless, the

crime-hardened, and heart-broken robber of Calabria!"

He turned aside for a moment to conceal the passing emotion, which

caused every muscle and feature of his handsome face to quiver

perceptibly.

"Gentlemen," said he, recovering, "you imagined I was completely at your

mercy, yet you behaved with a noble generosity which I shall never

forget. You might have proposed to slay me at that instant" (he darted

a terrible glance at Andronicus), "or to deliver me up to the nearest

podesta: you betrayed no intention of doing either; but, had you made

the attempt, behold my prevention!"

He placed to his lips a bugle of black buffalo horn, and blew a shrill

signal, which made hill and valley, wood and shore, now growing dark and

grim in the twilight, re-echo to the sound. It acted like the whistle of

Black Roderick in the wilderness. His followers, to the number of twice

five hundred men, sprang up from their concealment among the underwood,

the dark green laurels, the long wavy grass, the rocks and the crumbling

ruins, and crowded around us: a startling swarm of black-browed and

ruffian-like fellows, all clad in the gay brigand's garb, and well armed

with the Calabrian rifle, pouch, and powder-horn; some with the spoil of

the unhappy Frenchmen massacred at La Syla and the villa of Sauveria,

but most of them with good British buff-belts, muskets, bayonets, and

cartridge-boxes, which on our landing we had issued, perhaps rather too

indiscriminately, to the peasantry.

My friend and I confronted this appalling array with firmness; but old

Zacheo grew pale as death: his legs tottered under him, and he sank

humbly on his knees, while the memory of the fatal words by which he had

urged us to despatch Francatripa, caused a cold perspiration to come

over him.

"Signori, behold my followers, those free foresters of St. Eufemio,

whose fame is so terrible through all the Neapolitan territories.

During our whole interview they have been around us; so you were all

more in my power than I could be in yours. Do me the honour to keep the

poniards for my sake; and if ever you are assaulted by a Calabrian

outlaw, show him my cypher on the pommel, and his arm will be powerless

against you, and the passage free. Yes! fallen though he is, the name

of Francatripa finds an echo in every Italian heart; and there is

something glorious in that!"

He vaulted gracefully into his saddle, and assuming all his former

loftiness of manner, made a signal to his band, who immediately moved

off at a running trot towards the forest, led by my old acquaintance the

crookback, who now very ignobly bestrode a paunchy mule.

"Buona notte, Monsignore Visconte; Capitano, santa notte!" cried the

gallant robber, waving his cap, and putting spurs to his horse.

"A long good-bye to Francatripa, and all his company," I replied,

significantly, as he rode away at full gallop: but Luigi, who had also

resumed his hauteur, merely gave him a cold bow, and muttered to me--

"Pshaw! I hate these sentimental ruffians. Yet he is a famous fellow."

I preserved one of the brigand's poniards, as a memorial of that strange

encounter; but my haughtier friend gave the other as a gift to his

servant, who immediately placed it in his leathern girdle. After

watching the disappearance of the brigands, as they retired by one of

those gloomy gorges through which the Calabrian roads generally wind, we

prepared to return to the villa, having now been absent two hours; as we

remembered how great would be the anxiety of the timid Bianca for our

safety.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*ARRIVAL OF THE PHILISTINES.*

It was now night, and the stars were shining in the dark blue sky; the

lights from the tents and huts within the field-work sparkled amid the

deep gloom which involved the lower parts of the shore, and shed red

streaks of uncertain radiance on the black heaving waters of the bay.

The moon, like a gigantic silver shield, began slowly to show its white

disk in the direction of the Lipari Isles, and to throw a brightening

ray of pallid lustre from the level horizon to the shingly beach of St.

Eufemio.

"Excellency," said Andronicus, cantering up to us, "there are armed

horsemen crossing the Amato, and riding straight upon our path. They

may be Castel-guelfo's men: his people are not with the Masse. Shall we

meet them or turn aside?"

"The former of course," replied the imprudent visconte: "why, am I to

turn aside my horse every time a mounted man appears on the road? Let

us once be past yonder post, and we are safe within the bounds of my own

territory."

The Greek made no reply, but reined in his horse, and fell into our rear

again; yet I perceived him unbuttoning the flaps of his holsters. Our

path lay along the skirts of the forest, and we rode unseen under the

deep shadow it cast across the path: but the bright moon revealed the

dark outline of several horsemen, posted at a spot where the road

crossed the river; which glittered like a broad belt of silver in the

dancing beams, when its current, emerging from the depths of the wood,

swept through the illumined plain. The strangers were thirteen in

number, and all well armed with pikes and carbines; except one, who, by

his drawn sabre and the plume in his hat, appeared to be an officer. By

their equipment, we knew them to be a party of the Loyal Calabrese

Masse; and we paused to reconnoitre them before pushing our horses

across the stream.

"Who are you that bar our way in this manner?" demanded Santugo.

"The bearers of a message to his Excellency the visconte; who, I

presume, now addresses me," was the reply.

"A troublesome one, if it requires thirteen men to deliver it. Who

sends it?"

"The most reverend father in God, the Lord Bishop of Cosenza, president

of the grand criminal court at Palermo," was the formal reply.

"Resistance is madness. Surrender your sword, Monsignore."

"To whom?" asked Santugo, with fierce surprise.

"The Barone di Bivona."

"The hereditary bailiff surrender to a mere barone of his province!

Never, by Heaven!" exclaimed the visconte, drawing the sword which, as

an officer of the Free Corps, he wore continually. "Follow me, Claude!

Zacheo, forward and at them. I will not be captured tamely within the

bounds of my own jurisdiction. On! and cut a passage through them."

Although not quite so rash and hot-blooded as my Italian friend, I had

no time for reflection; but, following his example, drew my sabre, and,

despising the Masse as all our army did, we dashed through the Amato,

splashing the sparkling water on every side, while a volley from twelve

carbines whistled about our ears. I lost an epaulette by one shot, and

had my right cheek grazed by another, but luckily no harm was done; and,

charging three abreast, we fell upon them pell-mell. I contented myself

with acting strictly on the defensive, and used my sabre so expertly in

guarding my head, limbs, and body, that I was invulnerable; but Santugo,

whose inherent Italian ferocity now burst forth without control, laid

open the cheek of one poor wretch, threw a second from his horse with a

thrust, and, dealing a sweeping backstroke at them all, pushed forward

at full speed.

Andronicus, who was armed with a heavy couteau-de-chasse, which his sire

had wielded in the wars of the gallant Conte di Leyda, after laying

about him like his namesake at Tyre, followed his master's example;

which I, too, was not slow in imitating.

The skirmish was one which I did not in the least relish, being aware

that I stood an excellent chance of receiving a shot or a pike-thrust,

without gaining an atom of honour; and that a severe reprimand, perhaps

a court-martial, would be the consequence, if our general learned that I

was prowling about like a wandering knight, and brawling with the

constituted authorities, when I should have been riding, post-haste,

with the papers which M'Leod so carefully prepared for his perusal--and

for which our ambassador at Palermo was no doubt waiting with the utmost

impatience.

The provincial horses are famous for their strength and speed, and

Santugo's cattle carried us across the country at a tremendous pace. We

were closely followed by the exasperated troopers of the Masse, who now

and then fired a shot after us, by way of giving us a relish to our

ride.

"Which way, visconte?" cried I.

"To the villa: it is our safest--our only halting-place. The mountains

are too far off."

"By Jupiter! I feel half inclined to turn and show fight, if they

continue to fire at us thus."

"Would to Heaven and San Ugo, that Giacomo and any four of my old sbirri

were here!" exclaimed the visconte, as he fired his pistols at random.

The last shot _told_ (as we say) effectually. A cry was heard: I looked

back for a moment, and saw by the moonlight a man rolling in agony on

the road, while his horse was rushing to the rear at full gallop.

"It is no sinecure being on the staff here, truly," thought I, as we

pulled up in the quadrangle of the villa, after having distanced our

pursuers by two miles.

The gruff clamour of male voices swearing in most guttural Neapolitan,

the shrill cries of women, and the confusion reigning within the

mansion, announced to my friend that the enemies of his peace had

penetrated to the very centre of his household; armed equally with

carnal and legal weapons, warrants of the church and state, and assisted

by the followers of Bivona, who wore the red cockade of the Masse.

"Francesca is lost, and for me nothing now remains but to die! Oh! my

cousin--my love--my wife, I alone am guilty!" exclaimed Santugo, in a

piercing voice, as he leaped from his horse, drew his sword, and rushed

up the marble staircase towards the apartment where the greatest uproar

seemed to reign.

The chamber which had concealed the fugitive from the field of

Benevento, in the days of Charles of Anjou, had not availed his

descendant now. Dragged forth from the vault below the round tower, we

beheld the unhappy Francesca, almost inanimate from terror, in the hands

of two rough-looking fellows who wore the bishop's livery: a kind of

monkish garb, with which their black cross belts and cartridge-boxes,

and flaming scarlet cockades, but ill accorded. Overcome with shame and

horror, the poor girl drooped like a crushed flower in their rude grasp.

Never was I so much struck with her resemblance to Bianca. She had the

same placid brow, the same clear and brilliant eyes, the same

exquisitely gentle expression and classic contour of face, which had

gained these lovely sisters the soubriquet of the three Italian Graces.

But now, alas! her features wore the hue of death, and appeared yet more

ashy when contrasted with the heavy masses of black curls which fell in

disorder over her shoulders; her teeth were set, and her eyes glared

with an unnatural lustre.

With all the tenacious energy of one who struggles for life, she clung

to the satin skirt of the viscontessa, whose right hand yet grasped a

suite of cards, whilst her left was filled with counters. The old lady

was quite paralyzed.

On the other side clung Bianca, almost sinking with terror, and

surveying, with restless and tearful eyes, the fierce group of armed men

who thronged the apartment.

"Heaven!--O Heaven!" exclaimed Francesca, in piercing accents; "save me,

dearest Signora--my aunt--my second mother--save me! Let me not be torn

from my father's house by these frightful men! O misery! what have I

done? O for my father's arm to shield me now! But he died in Apulia.

Luigi, Luigi, save me, or I am lost to you for ever! Luigi, anima mia!"

What a voice she had! Never did that common, but most endearing epithet

of Italian love sound so soft, so thrilling, to my ear. She was free,

almost ere the words had left her pallid lips. Santugo struck down both

the men who held her, and the flashing of their pistols in his face only

served to increase his fury. Bearing her to the other end of the room

he defied them to come on, with a chivalric rashness not often possessed

now by his countrymen.

They were not slow in accepting the invitation: their courage--as usual

with the "swinish multitude"--being increased by their numbers, they

pressed forward with clubbed carbines and fixed bayonets, and a sharp

conflict ensued. Feeling certain that Santugo would be worsted, I

forced a passage to his side, and endeavoured to beat back the

assailants with my sabre; and now came the tug of war.

Francesca had swooned, and hung like a piece of drapery over Luigi's

arm; the viscontessa implored mercy for her, whilst Bianca buried her

face in the bosom of Anina, who lent her powerful voice to swell the

clamour: reviling the intruders, and encouraging us to slay them without

mercy.

The outcries of the assembled household, together with the clank of

heavy boots, the clash of weapons, the snapping of pistols, the groans

and cries of the wounded, and the imprecations of the troopers, and,

added to this, my own voice calling fruitlessly on the assailants to

fall back, to desist, made the lofty chamber seem a very pandemonium.

Sometimes a pistol-shot filled the place with smoke: one ill-directed

ball shattered the chandelier, scattering the wax-lights, and involving

us in comparative darkness; after which, I believe, we all laid about us

at random. Another ball stretched on the floor the venerable

Andronicus, who had just come to our assistance, and was cutting away

among the buskinned shins of the enemy, using his sharp couteau like a

scythe.

For a time I merely used my sabre in defending Luigi and the unhappy

girl, who hung insensible upon him; but finding that our numerous

antagonists were repeatedly having recourse to fire-arms, and that our

safety was, consequently, more endangered, I slashed a few adroitly

across the fingers, cleft a slice from the buffalo-head of a sbirro, and

might have performed many more exploits, had not Castelermo at that

moment burst in amongst us, holding a lamp aloft in one hand, and his

sword in the other.

"Basta! on peril of your lives, hold all your hands, or, by San Ermo, I

will drive my sword through the body of the first who strikes!" cried

this formidable cavalier, with the voice of a stentor. "Croce di Malta!

has hell broken loose, or are ye mad? What! Italians fighting like

wild wolves, while so many Frenchmen are yet on this side of the Alps?

Sheath your sword, Santugo--back Signor Claude: shame upon you all!"

On hearing this determined threat, and beholding the Maltese cross, the

troopers of the Masse shrank back respectfully: but the furious

visconte, whom the protracted conflict, the helpless state of Francesca,

and a wound he had received, had worked up into a perfect frenzy, yet

defied them once more to the encounter; and fear of abandoning his

charge, even for a moment, alone restrained him from rushing upon them.

"Anathema! a curse upon ye, cowards!" he exclaimed; "away from my house,

or abide the consequences! Corpo di Caio Mario! O that the thrice

villainous Bishop of Cosenza, or his contemptible minion di Bivona were

here, to receive at my hands the reward of all this outrage!"

"I am here, excellency," cried the tough old barone, bursting through

the throng, and confronting the fiery Santugo.

He was a thickset, hard-featured man, and wore the scarlet cockade and

scarf of the Masse, with a military sword and buff belt; though

otherwise he was attired as a civilian. His gray hairs glistened in the

light; he bent his keen, hollow eye on Santugo with a stern careworn

aspect, and his sword flashed as he stood on his guard with the air of a

perfect fencer. With eyes absolutely blazing with animosity, the

visconte was rushing upon him; but faint with loss of blood, he reeled,

fell upon the floor, and lay still, without signs of life. His mother

uttered a piercing cry: Bianca covered her face, and knelt beside him.

I, too, thought him dead: his classic features expressed all that

combination of mental and corporeal agony, stiffening into rigidity,

which the pencil of Guido Reni has so powerfully portrayed in some of

his works.

In the confusion which the visconte's fall occasioned, the bishop's

officials easily possessed themselves of the inanimate Francesca, and

bore her away in a close carriage. I was disposed to interfere, but

Castelermo grasped my hand.

"Signor Claude," said he, "I honour the sentiment which prompts you to

defend this unhappy lady; but contending in her favour is to fight

against the Church, whose cause is ever the most popular in Italy. The

consecrated bride of God, sworn to Heaven at the blessed altar,

D'Alfieri cannot make her his either by force or fraud. For the bosom

of a lover she has left that of the Church, and back to it she must

return; to be chastened and mortified, but I trust not abandoned in the

flesh! No, the days when that dread phrase was used have passed away.

Had Santugo been more religious and less rash, her vows would have been

dispensed with in the usual manner, and she might have been his happy

bride; but _now_, alas! after all that has passed, they must part to

meet no more. The dungeons of the castle of Cosenza, or the still more

horrible vaults of Canne, must close over her, and, perhaps, for ever.

Madonna, be merciful to her soul!"

The voice of Castelermo faltered, as he deplored the miseries to which

the wretched Francesca would be subjected by his bigoted and

superstitious countrymen. With these miseries I was then unacquainted,

as I knew not the secret horrors those living tombs of Canne were yet to

unfold to me, and was ignorant of the cruelties which were too often

practised within the walls of continental convents; where a system of

domestic persecution had replaced the greater terrors of that mighty

engine of ecclesiastical tyranny, the Holy Office, whose punishments for

broken vows were founded on those to which the Roman vestals were

sentenced by the law of Tarquinius Priscus.

The bishop's followers having departed, the Barone di Bivona collected

his horsemen and withdrew; threatening, however, to call the visconte to

a severe reckoning on some future day: indeed, his dangerous wound and

Castelermo's intervention, alone prevented his being carried off

prisoner, as the bishop's warrant included him in the charge of

sacrilege; but events which soon after occurred prevented that prelate

from troubling him again about the matter.

Bivona had been despatched with thirty horsemen from the army of the

Masse, in pursuit of two fugitives suspected of treason and of tampering

with the enemy; and as he passed southward had been requested by the

bishop to assist in the capture of Francesca, whom for certain reasons,

yet to be explained, that pious prelate was most eager to have in his

power. The baron departed for Jacurso in pursuit of the runaways; but

our unlucky acquaintance with him ended not that night.

The visconte's senses returned on his wounds being bound up; but he

nearly suffered a relapse on discovering that Francesca was away, and in

the power of the bishop's people. In his ravings he cursed us all; he

called for his horse, his sword and pistols, and before day dawned he

was in a raging fever, which brought him to the brink of the grave.

Alarmed at his danger, dreadfully agitated by the scene acted before

them, and in excessive sorrow for the fate of Francesca, his mother and

Bianca were scarcely less ill; so the whole household was in a state of

disorder.

Mistrusting the skill of the neighbouring physicians, I despatched a

note to the camp for Dr. Duncan Macnesia of ours, who was still with the

medical staff. He arrived in a short time, and the visconte was

committed to his care. Remembering my encounter with Francatripa, and

knowing well how little a brigand's word could be relied on, I applied

to the commandant at St. Eufemio for a guard to protect the villa till

quieter times. Early next morning, a Serjeant and fourteen rank and

file of De Watteville's corps arrived. After seeing them quartered, and

giving a few orders relative to the posting of sentinels, &c.,

accompanied by my cicerone, I once more set out, very unwillingly, on my

mission to Scylla; congratulating myself, however, that my opportune

return to the villa had freed it from a dangerous personage, and Bianca

from a suitor so unworthy of her.

The visconte was too ill and too indignant to bid us adieu; but he sent

word by Macnesia that we should never be forgiven for having permitted

his cousin to be carried off, and that he would call us out the moment

he recovered. He said he had sworn by Madonna, by the body of Bacchus,

and of Caius Marius to boot, that I must think no more of Bianca; who

parted with me in tears, and promised, with her aunt's permission, to

answer my letters, notwithstanding his threats. Thus ended my

long-wished-for visit to the villa; and the event left me full of doubt

and anxiety for the future.

It was evening before we were again in our saddles and _en route_. We

hired a goat-herd to conduct us by a short, though unfrequented, road to

Francavilla; but it proved a long journey to us: the rogue led us the

wrong way, and absconded about nightfall, leaving us among the mountain

forests near Squillaci, on the Adriatic side of this land of brawl and

uproar.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*ADVENTURE AT THE CENTAUR.*

By the way-side we met a poor and aged priest, travelling on foot; he

was exhausted with toil, and his gray hair and tattered cope were

covered with the dust of a long journey; he had sandals on his feet, a

wallet on his back, and a long staff in his hand. I could not ride past

him: I, who was young, stout, and active; so dismounting, I marched on

foot for six miles, while the thankful canon rode my caparisoned grey to

Squillaci. He was a Greek priest, travelling from Rossano, where there

were several monasteries of the order of St. Basil; all afterwards

suppressed by Murat.

My kindness was repaid by his superior, the old Abate of the Basilians;

to whom he reported our arrival in the decayed and solitary town, which

was then involved in the gloom and obscurity of night. We heard no

sound as we entered, save that of our horse's hoofs ringing on the old

Roman road, and the distant roar of the Ionian sea, as it rolled on the

reverberating shores of the gulf--the Scylletic gulf of classical

antiquity, famous for the shipwreck of "wise Ulysses;" who, as tradition

asserts, with the survivors of his disaster, founded the city.

We were hospitably received by the Abate, who was a true Calabrian and

staunch royalist; and he made the purple wines of the province flow like

water, in honour of Ferdinand and Carolina of Naples--"il Cavaliere

Stuardo, and the brave soldiers of his Britannic Majesty--Evoe, viva!"

As we had ridden our horses at an easy pace, they held out admirably;

but seventy miles of such miserable roads as those we had

travelled--ways suited only for mules, goats, and buffaloes--were equal

to a hundred on level ground. By the war-like operations of the French,

the Masse, and the brigands, the rustic bridges were everywhere broken

down, and the roads trenched and cut up to hinder the passage of cannon

and waggons; so we had to make many a weary detour among the hills,

following sheep-tracks, at one time at the summit, at another at the

bottom of a precipice: too often we had no better road than the dry

channel of a mountain stream afforded; and on such a path it required

the utmost powers of spur and bridle, and all the rider's skill, to

prevent the horse breaking his knees by slipping on the wave-worn

pebbles.

On quitting the monastery next morning, we beheld the ceremony of a

military salutation of the consecrated host, by a party of the Sicilian

volunteers belonging to Kempt's brigade, then lying there in cantonment.

The host was borne aloft through the streets by the venerable Abate,

followed in solemn procession by his Greek basilians, carrying crosses,

banners, relics of saints and martyrs, smoking censers and lighted

tapers, which filled the air with perfume. They moved to the sound of a

low chant; and the whole population knelt bare-headed on each side, as

they passed. The Sicilian infantry formed a lane, with the ranks facing

inwards--the commanding officer kneeling in front, while the arms were

presented--the colours levelled to the dust, and the drums beat a march

on the flanks. Castelermo dismounted, and knelt on the pavement; but I,

like a heretical presbyterian, kept my saddle: yet the sour looks of the

watchful fathers softened when I uncovered my head; for I was well aware

that it would have been gross disrespect not to have done so, on an

occasion so solemn.

Turning our horses eastward to regain our lost ground, we passed through

the village of Jacurso, and the town of Francavilla, crossed the stream

of Angistola, and ascended towards Monteleone; whose castled height, and

groves of oak, burst at once upon our view, as we turned an angle of the

mountain path. At our feet spread the Tyrrhene sea, calmly rolling, and

stretching like a vast blue mirror from St. Eufemio to Castello di

Bivona; whilst its waves flashed golden in the sun, as they broke on the

distant promontory of Tropea--the Portus Hercules of the Romans.

Further westward, the dim but sunny horizon was streaked by the light

smoke ascending from the peak of Stromboli, nearly fifty miles distant.

Around us the country was like a beautiful garden: the maple, the

vallonia oak, the dark sepulchral cypress, the wild acacia, the towering

pine, the pistachio, the sweet-chestnut, and the walnut-trees, all

displayed their varying foliage on the lowlands; while the quivering

aspen and evergreen oleander waved their leafy branches from the sandy

rocks. Sheltered by graceful weeping-willows and lofty Judas'-trees,

little cottages peeped out on the green hill sides; whilst the ruddy

orange, the golden-apple, the pomegranate, the almond, the grape, and

the plum, were flourishing around in glorious luxuriance beneath the

warm light of an unclouded sun.

Spangled with myriads of flowers, the green and lofty hills reared their

verdant or wooded summits to the azure sky; numerous flocks browsed on

their sides, beneath the shepherd's care, and the cawing rooks wheeled

in airy circles around them. We were always greeted with a wave of the

hat by the guardians of this modern Arcadia; who lay basking on the

grassy sward, or sat beneath the brow of an ivy-clad rock, or a shadowy

tree, where they had slept away the night in their rough tabarri. Each

had by him his keen-eyed wolf-dog, courageous in spirit, strong,

muscular, and beautiful in form, with bushy tail and long hairy coat

whiter than snow. These dogs watched alternately the browsing herds,

the twittering birds, and the dark eyes of their indolent masters; who

spent their solitary hours in smoking home-made cigars, sucking

liquorice root, carving cudgels, scraping reeds for the zampogna, or

improvising their mistresses on the three-stringed guitar.

The breeze from the Tyrrhene Sea swept over the fertile shore, making

the morning air delightfully cool and agreeable; but when noon

approached, we were glad to halt at Monteleone, until its fierce glow

and suffocating closeness had passed away.

Monteleone (a marquisate which Buonaparte had bestowed on one of the

most famous and favoured of his officers) lies close to the base of

lofty mountains, which are covered with the richest foliage during the

greater part of the year: they form a part of that mighty chain which

runs through the centre of all Italy. Its regular streets and handsome

houses, built in the picturesque style of the country, were securely

enclosed by a fortified wall, where the bayonets of our sentinels were

gleaming through loop and embrasure. On the towers of its castle, which

were half-hidden amid a wood of lordly oaks and pines, the standard of

Naples drooped listlessly; every breath of wind had died away, and the

air was hot and still: profound silence reigned in the streets, and the

white sunny pavement appeared new and strange to us, after riding so

long on the green velvet turf of the country. Both piazza and street

were lonely and deserted; the citizens were enjoying their forenoon nap,

and the sentinels kept close within their boxes.

We put up at an inn, or hotel, over the arched portal of which projected

a hideous centaur, holding loft a sign-board, on which a long string of

verses informed us that Andrea da Fossi gave the best entertainment in

Italy for man and horse. Beneath this peeped out a coat armorial, cut in

stone, time-worn and decayed; but the collar that surrounded it bore the

Order of the Crescent, instituted by Rendler of Anjou on his conquering

Sicily. Above this was the coronet of the Princes of Squillaci, to

whom, in happier times, the edifice had been a palace; and, though

partly ruined, altered, and transmogrified, it still bore traces of its

ancient grandeur.

"We shall be well quartered here," said Castelermo, with a sigh of

weariness, as we dismounted; both feeling inactive enough after our long

morning ride: "but if Signor da Fossi promises more than he can perform,

why, then, basta! my riding-rod shall cultivate acquaintance with his

shoulders. We gentlemen of Malta like not to be trifled with."

The ostlers received our horses, and with much ceremony we were ushered

up-stairs by mine host himself (who, indeed, was seldom troubled with

visitors), and led into a magnificent room of the old palace: the

cushions of the sofas and chairs were of scarlet silk, figured with

gold; the hangings were of crimson velvet, edged with the same costly

material; the ceiling was in fresco, and the floor of fancy tiles; while

the tables were slabs of white or yellow marble, on columns of gilded

wood. Above a sideboard, stood a little Madonna in a niche, with a lamp

before it, before which, on entering, Castelermo made a most profound

genuflexion: we afterwards found it very convenient for our cigars.

Wine and iced water were the first refreshments we summoned; then

throwing open the windows, which faced the west, to admit the cool

breeze from the distant sea, we drew the dark thick curtains to elude

the glaring sun, and each threw himself upon a sofa, overcome with

fatigue and lassitude. What a relief I experienced when divested of my

sash and belt, and its heavy appurtenances the sword and sabre-tache;

and when I exchanged for a light shell-jacket, the tight regimentals: in

which it was no joke to be harnessed and buttoned from waist to chin in

a climate so sultry.

Among novelists and narrators, an inn has always been famous as a place

of introduction, a starting point, or the casual scene of unexpected

rencontres and adventures; and so "Il Centauro" proved to us: we had not

been two hours beneath its roof before we became involved in a very

heart-stirring affair.

The waiter had cleared away a hasty luncheon, and the glittering

decanters of well-iced champagne and gioja, the salvers of cool,

refreshing grapes, and little maccaroons sweet as sugar and almonds

could make them, were all receiving due justice from myself and

cicerone. The sun was verging westward, the air grew more cool, and we

were beginning to breathe again; when a bustle was heard at the gate of

the inn-yard, and an elderly man, armed like an officer of the Loyal

Masse, and dressed in a suit of light green, bare-headed and with his

long white hair streaming behind him, dashed through the archway on a

swift and powerful horse--one of the true Barbary breed, clean-legged,

compact, black as jet, and full of blood and fire. It was covered with

foam, and seemed to have been ridden far and fast; for no sooner did the

fierce rider pull impetuously up, than the noble horse staggered back

upon its haunches, threw up its head wildly, and then rolled in the dust

beneath the weight of its double burden: for a young girl was seated

across the holsters. She clung to the officer with a degree of terror

and affection, which at once excited our interest and curiosity; and

uttering a cry of despair, as their last hope, the brave horse, sank

beneath them, she fainted: but the old cavalier, disengaging himself

from the falling steed, bore her up harmless, and in a manner so

graceful and adroit, that Marco clapped his hands and muttered "Basta!"

The days of the Barbary courser were ended: stretching out his long yet

slender legs, he beat the gravel with quivering hoof, and protruded a

dry white tongue; a spasm convulsed his form, the dark blood gushed in a

torrent from his dilated nostrils, and the brave horse moved no more.

"Horses, fresh horses for Scylla," cried the cavalier. "Quick! as you

value life--fresh horses!"

"Maladetto," muttered Andrea da Fossi, nonplussed, "we have not had such

a thing these three years as relays of horses. When Signor the Marchese

di Monteleone----"

"Enough--the old story. Are there British troops in the town?"

"In the castle, signor."

"Blessed be Madonna, then we are saved! Farewell! my faithful Barbary,

that has borne me through the hot perils of many a dangerous day: thou

hast failed me now!" said the old officer, turning to his dead horse,

and gazing wistfully upon it. A tear shone in his eye: it was the

feeling of a moment; other and weightier cares pressed close upon him,

and he advanced to the inn-door with the inanimate lady.

The burly Andrea seemed rather unwilling to admit guests who came in

such a questionable manner; but Castelermo and I cut the matter short by

conducting the strangers into our apartment; while their horse-furniture

was pounced upon by the innkeeper, to make sure amends so far for any

trouble or expense he might be put to on their account. His wife and

the female part of the household, used all means to restore the

inanimate girl; after which I had leisure to observe her companion. He

was a fine-looking old man, somewhere about sixty, with all the

_beau-ideal_ of the gentlemanly old soldier in his figure, aspect, and

address; his thin hair and moustaches were silvered with age, and his

cheek had been well tanned by the fourteen years' campaigning of the

French invasion; his coat was laced with silver and girt with a scarlet

sash, after the fashion of the Masse, and he wore a heavy sabre of

Eastern fashion, which, when he laid it on a side-table, Andrea da Fossi

also secured unobserved. So deep was his anxiety, so vivid his

excitement, while the young girl slowly revived, that he had not as yet

addressed us; but kept his face closely bent over her.

We became deeply interested in their fortunes.

"'Tis some wild love-adventure, like poor Luigi's," whispered

Castelermo: "may it end less fatally! The cavalier is none of the

youngest; but this pretty donzella has quite won my friendship."

At that moment the heavy velvet curtains were withdrawn, the bright

light of the setting sun poured into the room, and the stranger turned

towards us.

"Major Gismondo!" we both exclaimed, now recognising him, for the first

time, through the dust which powdered his altered features.

"The same, signori," said he, with a grave bow, and, grasping our hands.

"Thank God you are here: we are safe, then: Signor Dundas can protect

us--my daughter is saved!" He covered his face with his handkerchief,

while Marco handed him wine.

"Poor little Luisa!" said Castelermo. "Claude, saw you ever a girl so

beautifully fair? But, in Heaven's name, what has happened?--speak,

Signor Gismondo."

"You shall hear, when these people are gone--when Luisa recovers. My

tongue can scarcely articulate: patience--but a minute!"

He was dreadfully exhausted and agitated. Castelermo might well term

Luisa fair: one excepted, her face appeared to me the most enchanting I

had yet seen in Calabria. Though less showy and stately than the three

sisters D'Alfieri, her beauty was, perhaps, more touching and girlish.

A tight satin vest, with sleeves that reached only to the elbow,

displayed the full outline of her bust; whose whole proportions were

equally just and delicate. The thick white lace which edged her

boddice, and fell in folds from her short sleeves, could not rival in

whiteness the snowy arms and swelling bosom; of which her disordered

attire revealed rather more than usual. Her complexion was remarkably

pale for an Italian girl: but the arch of her brown eyebrows, the length

of her lashes, and the delicate little lids they fringed were perfectly

beautiful; her cheeks were full and round, almost imperceptibly tinged

with red, and, as Marco said of her mouth, so pretty and pouting, it

"seemed formed only for kisses." The girl was a very Hebe! and not more

than sixteen. The glossy ringlets of her long hair streamed in the

sunlight, like a golden shower, over the shoulder of the old man on

whose arm she rested, and who hung over her with all the tenderness and

anxiety she merited. After a time she sighed deeply, disclosing a row

of little white teeth, pure as those of an infant, and opening her eyes

she became at once alive to the scene around her. The vivacity which

sparkled in those bright blue orbs, together with the crimson blush

which overspread her face and polished neck, made her appear a thousand

times more attractive than before. "It was the hectic of a moment:" it

died away. Alas! the poor girl was utterly exhausted, and almost

speechless.

"My daughter! have I saved you only to see you perish from fatigue?"

said Gismondo, in a faltering voice. "Luisa, look up--'tis your poor

father who speaks! Hear me, little one!"

She embraced him closely and burst into tears.

"Luisa!"

"Caro padre, are they near us yet?"

"About three leagues in the rear, perhaps," he replied in a troubled

voice.

"And these gentlemen?"

"Our friends, and I trust our saviours! You remember the Signor di

Castelermo?"

"O yes; and Signor Claude," she added, in a faint voice.

"May their timely presence and intervention avert that most dread

catastrophe, of which even the contemplation is horror."

"You may depend upon us--ay, to the death!" said we both at once.

"You are pursued, I have reason to believe;" added the Maltese knight.

"Yes, and wish to continue our journey."

"Where to, signor?"

"Anywhere to safety: but my poor daughter would certainly expire with

fatigue if we rode a league further. We have travelled seventy miles on

the spur without drawing bridle once; save when Luisa's horse fell

beneath her in the wilderness of La Syla, when I was compelled to take

her on the saddle of my own gallant Barbary. Often since then have we

been in deadly peril: when lynxes shrieked, and herds of forest wolves

howled behind us--when rivers foamed in front, and the mountain robbers

showered their bullets from the rocks--I trembled and I prayed: but only

for my daughter; and God--good and merciful--has spared her. Cavalieri!

I am very unfortunate: I throw myself upon your generosity; and when did

one soldier implore in vain the generosity of another? I trust that,

like honourable men, you will stand by me in the coming peril: not for

my sake, but for that of this poor sufferer; whom the Mother of Mercy

preserve from the fury of those who are tracking her with horse and

horn, as if she were some wild boar of Abruzzi, instead of the adorable

girl she is. Perdition--let them come! The cowards shall find that

Battista Gismondo has a willing heart and able hand, to defend the child

that God has given, and the last that war and man have left him." He

pressed the trembling girl to his breast: she sobbed convulsively, and

nearly relapsed into unconsciousness.

"O my father!" exclaimed she, in piercing accents; "padre mia, my lips

refuse to utter what my heart would bid them say: I can only hang upon

your neck and sob like a little child, and kiss your cheek and weep. My

father, I have destroyed you."

"Say rather, Luisa, that by casting temptation in your way, I have been

the destroyer of you. Peace, peace little heart! Ah! how it beats and

flutters!" he added, half playfully, pressing his fingers on her bosom.

"There are those at hand who may soon make it cease to beat for ever,"

said she, in a faint voice; and, sinking backwards on the sofa, her eyes

closed, and the pallor of her hue increased.

"Madonna, preserve my child!" exclaimed the old cavalier, beating his

breast, while his eyes gleamed with fear and distraction; for at that

moment the noise of advancing hoofs was heard on the hard dusty road

that wound down from the mountains. Though the inn stood within the

Porto Nuovo of the town, we could hear the din of the pursuers: but it

sounded faint and distant.

"Major Gismondo, I implore you to tell us the meaning of all this," said

I.

"They come:" replied he, turning round to look for his sabre, "they

come; and with renewed vigour, too, to judge by the trampling hoofs.

Perdition! all the powers in Italy, or in hell below it, shall not

separate us while hand and hilt can hold together: but, O San Gennaro,

what has my poor child done to be persecuted thus? I had hopes of

reaching the British fleet; when, perhaps, we should have found safety;

but I trust that with you, Captain Dundas, I shall find that protection

which your countrymen never refuse to the unfortunate." I bowed, but

understood him not.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*LOVE AND WAR.*

"Gentlemen," he continued, when the room had been cleared of Fossi and

his household, who were all in an agony of curiosity; "you know me well:

I am Battista Gismondo, a major of the loyal Masse, and this is my

daughter, Luisa. After the events of these few hours past I can

scarcely deem myself the same person: I am bewildered. Luisa is the

last of a once numerous family; but my sons--my sons!--they have all

gone before me to God: one perished on the walls of Andria, one in the

breach of Altamurra, and three in the hands of the French; cruelly and

savagely shot as rebels by the Marchese di Monteleone,--whom Madonna

forgive! for I never can.

"When that unrelenting commander was attacked by our patriots at La

Syla,--where all perished save himself and his aide-de-camp--from the

rocks above that hideous gorge I beheld the work of death. It was a

scene of thrilling horror. Within that narrow space, hemmed in on every

hand--in front, in rear, on each side, and above--the rifles poured down

volleys of leaden hail: miserable was the slaughter of the unhappy

Frenchmen.

"The whole vale was enveloped in smoke, and its dark rocks were

illuminated by the flashing musketry; the shrieks and yells of

vengeance, of despair and death, and the roar of the fire-arms

reverberated among the echoing hills; mingled with the crash of enormous

stones, which, rent from the solid mountains, and urged by strong

revengeful hands, fell thundering on the foe beneath. Few have looked

upon such a scene: but I thought only of my sons, and laughed scornfully

as the cries of agony--the last agony of many a parting soul--arose from

the smoky gulf below me. The measure of revenge was full. Of all that

gallant band, the Marchese and his aide-de-camp alone escaped. Brave,

resolute, and maddened, he forced his gallant horse up the walls of

basaltic rock (which on every hand enclose the valley, so that it seems

like a vast pit or well) and, missed by a thousand bullets, he dashed

down the mountains unhurt, and disappeared.

"His aide-de-camp, a French officer, young, and equally brave, strove to

imitate his example: spurring his horse up the rocks, he rushed from the

gloomy dell and emerged suddenly, almost at my feet. How terrible was

his aspect! at this moment I can behold him: the panting horse, with

starting eyes, erect mane, and snorting nostrils; the breathless rider,

bareheaded and pale--his face streaked with blood--his broken sabre

gleaming in his hand.

"'France! France!--vive l'Empereur!" cried he, and was dashing on, when

a stray bullet struck his horse; it plunged wildly forward and rolled

dead on the turf, hurling its rider at my feet. The next moment my knee

was upon his breast, and my sabre at his throat: his sword arm was

broken--he was powerless.

"'Ruffian!' he exclaimed, 'would you slay me in cold blood?'

"'As your countrymen slew my sons,' was my fierce rejoinder: he saw but

little mercy in my aspect at that moment.

"'Old man,' said he, with a faltering voice, 'if you are indeed a

father, spare me for my father's sake, if you will not for my own!'

"'So pleaded my sons, perhaps--but no! they would have scorned to ask

mercy of a Frenchman. Enough, young man; with me you are safe: like

yourself, I am an officer, and will do nothing that is unworthy of a

gentleman.' I assisted him to rise. 'Your name, signor?'

"'Phillipe Regnier, a lieutenant of the First Regiment--the favourite

corps of Napoleon.'

"'Would you had some other name than that of our accursed persecutor.'

"'Beware, sir!' exclaimed the other haughtily; 'if you mean Regnier,

Chevalier of the Iron Crown, and general of division under the

Emperor--he is my father.'

"'It is enough,' I replied. 'Young man, he is our deadly enemy: yet I

will say nought to which his son may not listen with an unruffled brow;

but, as you value life, utter not his name in the hearing of an Italian.

You must be aware of the necessity for this.'

"He bowed. To preserve him from the fury of the followers of

Francatripa, I conveyed him to my house, which was not far distant.

Night had descended on the unfinished work of death, and we retired

unseen. The poor French youth was deeply grateful for my care: he

suffered acutely from his broken arm and a wound on the head, where a

ball had laid bare the temple; fever ensued, he grew worse daily, and

was brought almost to the brink of the grave: yet I dared not bring him

any medical assistance. Had the secret of his dwelling at my house been

noised abroad, his doom had been sealed as a Frenchman, and mine as a

traitor: my house would have been levelled to the ground. He had no

other nurse or attendant than my poor little daughter.--Signori, spare

the tears and blushes of my dear Luisa, by imagining the rest. Both

were young, handsome, and ardent: too much so to be thrown so entirely

together, and left so much in each other's society; as our secluded

habitation, and my long and frequent absences, compelled them to be.

"I discovered their passion at last: but I could blame neither; having

long anticipated and dreaded it as an evil not to be averted. I could

not leave the poor French lad to perish on the mountains, and to none

save my daughter, in these times of peril, could I with safety and

honour to myself have imparted the secret of his escape and existence.

Yet I could not restrain a stern reproof.

"'By Heaven, Signor Phillipe,' said I, 'you have not acted well in

smiting the hand that spared your life on the battle-field, and has

since fostered you so tenderly: by indulging in this passion, which with

you is fleeting--thought of but for a moment--you have stung the heart

that warmly cherished and saved you from the just vengeance of our

incensed people. In so doing, I have placed in imminent jeopardy my

life, my honour, and the high reputation of my family for patriotism and

loyalty; and this is my reward: you gain the love of my daughter, on

whom you can never bestow your hand--the difference of clime, of

manners, and above all your political position, forbid it, and raise up

a mighty barrier between you. I honour you as a brave youth, but of an

accursed nation; I wish you well, and shall ever do so--yet in the name

of Madonna, recover your health and rejoin your father's army.'

"'And wherefore, my dear Monsieur Gismondo, is the barrier so

insuperable?' said he, starting from the sofa on which he reclined, and

taking my hand in one of his; whilst the other held that of Luisa, who

hid her blushing face, as she hides it now, behind her silken

tresses.--'Better times--Oh, yes! better and happier times are in store

for both France and Italy; on whose united throne now sits our Emperor,

crowned by the hand of Ruffo, raised by the valour of his soldiers, and

blessed by the favour of God.'

"'To the young all things seem possible,' said I, coldly: 'to me, whose

heart is seared, whose beard is gray, whose head the hand of time has

bared, the future can never be so bright as the past. Believe me,

Phillipe, I esteem you highly, and know none on whom I would more

willingly bestow this fair bud--the last of my race!--than on thee.'

"Perhaps this was too honest? an avowal--too great a concession; but,

ere I could retract it, Phillipe exclaimed:--

"'Oh! joy, my dear major; you know not how happy you make me--us--ah!

let me say us,' he added, drawing Luisa towards him. 'Promise me, good

Monsieur Gismondo, that when peace comes: as come it soon must, when we

have tossed all the enemies of Joseph into the sea at Scylla, and when

France and Italy have become one--and one they shall be; for the Emperor

has so willed it--promise me that mademoiselle shall be mine. Oh! good

sir, complete the joy of this hour by giving a promise, which I know you

will rather die than break.'

"Their upturned faces blushed with youth and love; their eyes beamed

with delight and hope; and the fair golden curls of my daughter almost

mingled with the raven hair of the Frenchman. It was a picture of beauty

and happiness that I had not the heart to destroy: I promised, and

signed the cross above them.

"'I will redeem my pledge when France and Italy are _one_,' said

I;--'but _when_ will that day come to pass?' I added, mentally, on

turning away and leaving the happy lovers together. 'Yes, ere that time

comes, Charybdis shall give up its wrecks, and Etna vomit water in lieu

of flame.'

"In truth I loved the lad, because I had saved his life: for which he

seemed sincerely grateful to me; and I could not but admire his courage

and heroic enthusiasm, though in the cause of that bad and renegade

emperor, whose name is enough to make the blood boil in every Italian

heart. At that time I saw little prospect of M. Regnier being united to

my daughter: but, as it was impossible to foresee what turn the tide of

war might take, I thought it well that Luisa had in the French camp so

powerful a friend as the general's son. These ideas might be selfish;

but I knew that care and the hand of time were beginning to lie heavier

on me; that I was exposed to the innumerable dangers of continual

strife; and that, when God called upon me, my poor little daughter would

be alone in the world."

The old officer stopped; he sobbed audibly, and I saw the heavy tears

which oozed from his gray eye-lashes, falling on the fair forehead and

sunny hair of his daughter. It was a picture. Alas! he heard not, as

we did, the distant clang of advancing horses; so much was he absorbed

in his story.

"To be brief," he continued, "M. Regnier departed next day, disguised as

a buffalo-herd. I conducted him in safety to his father's camp at

Maida; where, two days after, the British obtained that victory so

glorious to themselves, and so auspicious to Italy. Their foes retired

with precipitation, and the bright future which Luisa and her lover had

so fondly anticipated, became enveloped in gloom and obscurity.

Phillipe escaped unhurt, but lost the standard of his regiment in that

desperate single combat with you, Captain Dundas.

"I belonged to one of those battalions of the Masse which so closely

invested General Regnier's entrenched camp at Cassano. Luisa was with

me; and, from my tent, she could daily see the sentinels in the blue

uniform of Phillipe's regiment, almost within musket-shot. Hourly we

were engaged in skirmishes with the enemy, who were soon driven to the

utmost extremity. Being joined by Fra Diavolo, Mammone, and some of the

loyalist brigands, and hearing that Marshal Massena was rapidly

advancing, the chiefs of the Masse directed that, an hour after Ave

Maria on the night before last, a general and grand assault would be

made on the French encampment; and an order was circulated strictly

forbidding quarter to be shown to any of the enemy. For three days

there had been a cessation of hostilities, and our false leaders

resolved to fall upon our foes at a moment when an attack was least

expected.

"A rocket sent up from the mountains was to be our signal--VENGIANZA!

our watchword: but traitors were amongst us; and, fully acquainted with

the plotting of our treacherous chiefs, Regnier resolved to anticipate

the attack, and overwhelm them with confusion and dismay.

"Ave-Maria passed; one by one the stars began to glimmer in the

darkening sky: silently our troops began to muster in their ranks, and

many an eye was bent to the gloomy mountains, awaiting the red burst of

the rocket. I was bidding a hasty and sorrowful adieu to my daughter,

who was doubly agitated with anxiety for the fate of both her father and

lover, when the roar of the French artillery opening on our field works

from every part of their entrenchments, the clang of their galloping

cavalry, and the shout of 'Vive l'Empereur!' as their whole light troops

made a desperate sortie, equally furious and unexpected, made me grasp

my sabre, and rush from the presence of Luisa.

"Led by Regnier in person, the French burst headlong on our trenches,

and both horse and foot scoured all the approaches; from which the Masse

fled with precipitation. Three of our chiefs, many cavaliers of

distinction, and a thousand Italian soldiers perished in the slaughter;

after which the French retired leisurely within their defences, without

the loss of a man."

"Basta! and all this took place but two nights ago?" exclaimed

Castelermo.

"But the worst remains to be told. Not Dante's self could describe the

fierce longing for reprisals--the wrath, the horror of our people at

daybreak. They beat their breasts and tore their hair: they raved like

maniacs: they called on the chiefs to lead them against the foe: the air

was laden with their shout--it was '_Vengianza!_'

"Anon, there rose a universal cry of treason! and every man looked with

dark scrutiny in the face of his comrade. In the midst of this, whilst

seated with Luisa in my tent, I was surprised by seeing a hand raise the

canvass wall and throw in a piece of paper; on which was written:--

"'If you value the lives of yourself and daughter, fly! A letter from

the son of General Regnier, and addressed to the Signora Luisa, was last

night found in your tent, and is now lying before the chiefs in council.

They are at this moment deliberating on the mode of her death, whether

by the cord or bullet: she is supposed to have acquainted the French

with the projected assault of last night--there is not a moment to be

lost--away! _A Friend to the Major Gismondo_.'

"I felt crushed and broken to the earth: for a time my mind was a chaos;

then it was wrung with the bitterest anguish, while my cheek glowed with

indignation and shame. Had I been alone, to have rushed to our nobles

and repelled with scorn the insinuation would have been the thought and

deed of a moment; but my child made a coward of me: the wild shouts of

our lawless soldiery were ringing around us, and our stern chiefs were

sitting in council, deciding upon the death of my daughter--my poor

innocent Luisa.

"We stole from the camp, procured horses, and fled; but not unperceived:

we have been pursued fiercely and hotly, and have passed through

innumerable toils and horrors. Our only chance of safety lay in getting

on board the British fleet; or under your friendly flag, Signor Dundas.

Thank Heaven! it waves over Monteleone; and I trust our pursuers will

respect it: but deadly, indeed, must be the purpose of those who have

followed us so rapidly, and so far, without drawing bridle."

*CHAPTER IX.*

*POOR LUISA!*

Dusk had set in ere his relation concluded, and the exhausted girl had

fallen into a deep slumber on his breast. Just as the waiter--who,

probably, had heard the whole story through the keyhole--brought in

lights, a party of armed horsemen galloped through the Porto Nuovo, and

halted.

"Which way, said you?" asked one.

"The Centauro, monsignore," replied a voice: it was that of Da Fossi,

our villanous host; and the same party of irregular cavalry we had

encountered at the Villa D'Alfieri, wheeled into the inn-yard.

"They come! O, my father--O, my God!" cried the unhappy girl, embracing

her parent. "O, Signor Claude!--O, Cavaliere di Castelermo, protect us!"

"My daughter!" gasped the old man. "Ah! the agony of this moment!

Signor," he added, addressing me, "intercede for us. As a British

officer you may do much: my daughter, she may yet be saved--spared to

cheer the little time that is left me."

"On my honour! major, we will stand by you to the last," I replied,

while my heart melted at the old man's passionate entreaties. "Let us

close up and barricade the door, while a message is despatched to the

castle for the inlying piquet."

"Thanks, thanks, Madonna bless you! you may do much--and yet for what

can I hope?" he muttered, with an air of distraction, as he laid his

half lifeless daughter on the sofa, and looked round him for his sabre.

"Signor Claude," whispered Marco, in an agitated manner; "I can only

contemplate with horror the probable issue of this affair. Be wary of

using your sword," he observed, as I buckled it on. "Innocent as the

signorina may be, appearances are against her; and the Masse carry

matters with a high hand."

Ere I could reply, we heard the following orders by the leader of the

party:--

"Surround the house, and shoot all who attempt to escape. Unsling

carbines!" He at the same time leaped from his horse, and rushed up the

staircase. A trampling of heavy boots, a jangling of steel spurs and

scabbards succeeded--the door of our apartment was thrown open by our

half-frightened, half-officious landlord, bowing humbly, with a candle

in each hand; and our acquaintance of the preceding evening, the stern

old Barone of Castello di Bivona pressed forward, followed by fifteen or

twenty well-armed, but motley garbed troopers.

"Traitress! a devil of a chase you have given us," said he, striking his

sword on the floor.

"Ahi! protect me, my father! they are come--those enemies of our

peace--of my innocent love. Save me! or kiss me and let me die."

"Die!" reiterated her father, in a dreadful tone.

"Surrender all here, in the name of the king!" said the baron, in a loud

voice; "in the name of Ferdinand of Naples and Sicily."

"How now, my lord," I inquired, throwing myself forward; "this is a

private apartment, and by what right do you make this intrusion?"

"In right of the name I have mentioned. But who are you that assume

this air of authority?" he asked, with a frown of surprise.

"What my uniform proclaims: I am one whom you would do well in

addressing more politely."

"And your friend is a cavalier of Malta?"

Marco bowed.

"Well, gentlemen, I am a Neapolitan barone, a chief of the Masse, and

commandant of Irregular Cavalry; empowered to capture this unfortunate

fugitive, and execute upon her a sentence decreed by the chiefs in

council at Cassano: the reward due to treason, and leaguing with the

enemy. Signori, well aware as you must be of the utter futility of

resisting the authority with which I am vested, it will be wiser to

restrain the sorrow of this unhappy parent, than to attempt to defeat

the views of justice. The girl must _die_! As for _you_, signor," he

added, addressing me particularly--perhaps because I did not seem to

care much for his "authority"--"we have met before; and if my followers

are again obstructed, a formal complaint shall be sent to General Sir

John Stuart, and you must abide the consequence. The edicts of the

chiefs of the Masse, are, just now, the laws of the land. Seize the

woman!"

The soldiers advanced, the poor father threw himself before his

daughter; I started; but Marco grasped my arm, and I observed that his

dark cheek was turning pale: he bit his nether lip, and said:--

"Resistance is indeed vain."

"Monsignore Barone," cried the old major, in a trembling voice; "for the

love of the blessed Madonna, spare my daughter! By the head of the

Pope!--by the bones of the Saints!--by God himself!--I swear to you she

is innocent. The child that is unborn--yea, the beatified Mary herself

was not more pure. 'T is my daughter," he added, in a bewildered

manner; "O, the little creature I have nurtured from infancy--and to

perish thus! 'T is my daughter--my child--the last of them--she--pity

me, Signor Barone--you are very good--her mother was slain by a

cannon-ball at Altamurra--my arms were around her when her soul went up

to her Redeemer. My daughter is pure--innocent--innocent as Madonna!"

"Poor man! you blaspheme," said the barone.

"Spare her, signor illustrissimo--have mercy: it is good to do so, and

pleasant to the eye of Heaven. Think how you may one day crave it at

the throne of grace, when the deeds of this hour will stand recorded

against you in letters of fire. Spare her, for my sake! Remember all I

have endured and done for my country. Behold these scars gained when

Macdonald was driven from Terracina: her brothers have all followed

their mother; they have gone before me to heaven--they died for Italy!

Remember, monsignore, when Ettore Caraffa, the Count of Ruvo, took

Andria by storm, and reduced it to ruins and ashes--remember how I saved

your life at the risk of my own; how my boy, my dark-haired Battista--O,

my God! the last of five--fought for you, and fell at your feet covered

with wounds. I dragged you from the press, through flames and balls and

bayonets--ha! ha!--you were then wounded, faint, and bleeding; but you

promised, in a burst of gratitude, that if ever you could serve me you

would do it, even to the peril of your life. _Yours_ I seek not; but

the life that I gave--the life of my daughter." Gismondo uttered

another sepulchral laugh. "The hour is now come, Signor Barone, and I

call upon you to redeem the given promise--the life of my daughter."

"Sancto Gennaro!" muttered the old barone, in a troubled voice, as he

smote his forehead, "what an hour of shame and agony is this! Give me

back the lives of two sons now lying dead in the trenches of Cassano,

slain by the treachery of your daughter--hear you that, Maggiore

Gismondo?--by her leaguing with the enemy!--Away with her to the

verandah, and knot a halter, some of you. Povero voi! entreat me not,

vile traitress!" he exclaimed, roughly shaking off the horror-stricken

girl, who clasped his knees. "Most unhappily for thee, I remember, at

this moment, but too poignantly the loss of my gallant sons. Forward,

some of you: seize this unfortunate father; he must not see that which

is to ensue. Away with him, and secure the daughter! I would to Heaven,

some other than Di Bivona had been sent on this cursed hangman's

errand!"

"My sabre! my sabre!" cried Gismondo, wildly rushing round the room, and

dashing the chairs and tables right and left in his frenzy.

Seized by many powerful hands, the parent and child were torn asunder:

the former was borne away, almost senseless, to a neighbouring

monastery; happily for herself, the latter lay in a deep swoon.

"Quick!" cried Bivona; "for Heaven's sake! get this affair over as soon

as possible."

"Would monsignore wait till she recovers a little, to pray?" said

Baptistello Varro, whom I now recognised as one of the troopers, and who

alone seemed to recoil with disgust from the task imposed. "Ah! signor,

permit her a little time to pray?"

"No, no, Varro; that would be cruelty: we have not a moment to spare for

tears and entreaties. Diavolo! if once she opens these blue eyes of

hers, we may be bewitched: there is that in their glance--'tis the

mal-occhio!--And you, gentlemen," he addressed us, "will do me the

favour to remain where you are, or interfere at your peril."

Gladly would we have resisted, to save this poor victim from those stern

and unrelenting patriots; but, as our efforts would have been perfectly

futile, and a serious compromise of our own safety, we were compelled to

become spectators of the horrible scene which ensued--one, of which I

willingly give but a hurried description.

From one of the rafters of a covered verandah, or gallery, which

projected on rough wooden columns round three sides of the court or

quadrangle of the inn, Baptistello suspended a strong cord with a noose:

two red torches, streaming in the night wind, were held aloft, and cast

their fitful glare around. The picturesque facade of the old palace,

with the rude alterations made by Da Fossi--its broad eaves, its gloomy

galleries, vine-clad columns and gleaming casements; the motley group of

wild-looking volunteers, with their Calabrian troop horses, and glancing

buckles and weapons; the dark visages of those who bore the poor girl to

the place of death; and the beautiful victim herself, with her pale

cheek and paler bosom, and the dishevelled tresses of her long bright

hair, which the old man loved to stroke, were illumined by the strong

red light poured from the torches, whilst a dusky gloom enveloped the

background: the whole scene would have formed a striking subject for the

pencil of a Salvator Rosa.

Revived by the cool night wind, the lips of Luisa were beginning to

move: she sighed deeply. Ah! it was agony to contemplate that beautiful

bosom, now throbbing almost for the last time!--She opened her eyes, but

closed them instantly, as a torch close by flashed full upon her face;

consciousness was just returning as the detestable cord was placed round

her pure and slender throat.

"Madonna--Madonna receive her!" exclaimed Castelermo, as he held his

crucifix aloft to heaven. "Mother of mercy, look on her!--O, gran Dio!"

he ejaculated, as she was tossed over the balcony.

There was a horrid jerking and cracking sound, as the cord strained with

her weight: her blue eyes opened--oh! frightful was their aspect, as the

light of the sputtering torches fell on them; and still more frightful

were the distortions of that enchanting form--but for a moment only.

There it swung round vibrating, then hung still and motionless; the fair

head drooped heavily forward, and the long bright ringlets floated in

disorder on the passing wind.

"To horse, and away!" cried Di Bivona; and ere his party had clattered

through the Porto Nuovo, Marco and I returned to our apartment,

sickening with disgust and horror.

"Basta! let us quit this accursed den, and seek some place of

amusement," said the knight. "There is surely some gaming-house or merry

cantina in Monteleone. Let us go."

"With all my soul," said I. "Some of the Corsican Rangers are in

garrison here. I had a brother amongst them once, and know the corps

well, having many friends in it."

"Buono: we shall be sure to fall in with the officers somewhere, at the

cafes or the promenade."

We left the inn about the same time that two men of the Campagnia di

Morti bore away the remains of Luisa Gismondo in a shell, covered by a

pall; around it walked six others, carrying torches, and completely

enveloped in sackcloth, having even their faces covered by a black hood,

which descended to the chin. They formed a grim and mysterious group,

as they wound, by the light of their links, through a dark and narrow

alley, to the entrance of some obscure and ghastly charnel-house.

"And Luisa was the bosom friend of Bianca!" thought I, as their

monotonous chant died away. "What a tale of horror I have to tell the

family of Alfieri!"

Of the Major Gismondo I shall have to relate more hereafter.

*CHAPTER X.*

*THE SIEGE OF SCYLLA.*

Next evening we arrived at Scylla: the Scylla of classical antiquity,

hoary and worn with the storms of ages, dark with the lapse of years;

the stronghold, successively, of the Greek, the Roman, the fair-haired

Goth, the swarthy Saracen, the mail-clad Norman knight, the proud

Italian prince, the prouder Spaniard, and, lastly, the grasping Gaul. As

we approached it, Castelermo bade me remark the roar of the ocean in the

caverns beneath the rock; which rises perpendicularly from the water,

and is still of considerable danger to mariners. To the ancients it was

terrible, on account of its real and fabled dangers, which occupy so

prominent a place in the heroic poems of Homer, Ovid, and others; and

famous for the loves of Glaucus, and the magic art of Circe, the

daughter of the sun (who transformed the beautiful nymph Scylla into

that tall rock, which "bulged the pride of famed Ulysses' fleet") and

the roar of whose dogs was so terrible to AEneas and his followers.

Opposite rose the fair and fruitful coast of Sicily, the spires of

Messina, and the green ridge of the Neptunian hills; behind which sank

the setting sun, whose last rays changed the hue of the ocean from blue

to purple: the Straits were studded with craft of every description,

from the stately British line-of-battle ship, to the little scampavia,

with its red and yellow latteen sail. As we pulled up our horses beside

Monte Jaci, to view the splendid prospect, the old tradition came to my

remembrance:--

"The Italian shore

And fair Sicilia's coast were _one_, before

An earthquake caused the flaw: the roaring tides

The passage broke, that land from land divides;

And, where the lands retired, the rushing ocean rides."

_AEneas_, iii.

The roaring of the sea in the cavern of Dragara caused our horses to

snort and rear; and the sound was not unlike the cry of some "tremendous

pest," or monster, such as Scylla was fabled by the poets of old. But,

enough; or the reader will suspect me of that "dull pedantry which finds

everything ancient necessarily sublime."

The whole coast bore traces of that dreadful visitation, the earthquake

of 1783; when vast masses of the shore fell into the sea, burying

gardens, fields, dwellings: at the base of Monte Jaci lay a mighty piece

of rock, which had been hurled from its summit to the margin of the

Mediterranean.

"On that night of horrors," said Castelermo, "when all Calabria was

trembling with the internal convulsions of the world; when the sea

exhaled brimstone, and the whole face of the land became changed; when

rivers were choked up by the fall of the mountains, or rolled back upon

their source; when cities, engulfed in yawning earth, were lost for

ever; when hills became lakes, and the last day of dread and judgment

seemed at hand;--the ocean heaved up its waters to the height of twenty

feet; and, rushing on the coast for the distance of three miles, swept

back into the abyss two thousand four hundred and seventy human beings,

who had fled to the shore for safety from the crumbling cliffs and

falling mountains. The heavens seemed all in flames, and the ocean

rolled on, wearing the red tint which the light reflected on it; the

promontory of Campala fell into the waves, and not a fragment of it

remained: Scylla was split to its foundations, and the solid towers of

its castle flung from the rock upon the town below. The eagles screamed

and grovelled panting on the ground; whilst the wolves howled with

affright in the recesses of the woods. All nature seemed convulsed,

paralyzed, and trembling on the brink of destruction."

The castle was the property of Castelermo's uncle, the Cardinal Ruffo,

Prince of the ancient house of RufFo Sciglio, and a man of political and

military celebrity: it was his principal residence, until ruined and

dismantled on his defection; but the skill of French engineers had

restored it to more than its former strength and glory. On the south

side lay the snug little town, terminated by the castle rock; the cliff

descending sheer down to the sea, which rolls two hundred feet below.

An ample tri-colour waved heavily over the dark grey keep; and the

glittering arms of the sentinels flashed in the setting sun, over the

ramparts and embrasures, through which protruded the muzzles of heavy

cannon: their fire, during the siege, had scared away all the

inhabitants of the town below.

Evening deepened around, as we advanced; and we soon saw the light in

the Pharo di Messina shed its tremulous rays across the rushing and now

dark waters of the Strait.

The garrison of the French marquis was completely invested, on the land

side, by the brigade of my countryman, Colonel (latterly

Lieutenant-General Sir John) Oswald; who, at the head of the 20th and

58th Regiments, with five companies of De Watteville's corps, and two

four-pound field-pieces, had marched to this part of Lower Calabria,

immediately after our victory at Maida. Two days after the battle, he

captured the town and castle of Monteleone, took three hundred Frenchmen

prisoners, seized all the depot there, and, pushing on by forced

marches, laid siege to Scylla; which, at the time of my arrival, had

been closely blockaded for nearly twenty days.

The twilight of eve had given place to the more sombre shadow of night,

when we entered the town; but no chant of vespers arose from the ruined

chapels of its deserted convents: soldiers alone crowded its streets and

terraces; where the shattered houses, roofless and desolate, and strewn

with broken furniture, exploded shells, splinters, and cannon-shot, gave

evidence of the daily work of strife.

The quarters of the general were in an old mansion, the gloomy and

antique aspect of which, with its vicinity to a church, declared it to

have been once the residence of an ecclesiastic of rank. The jagged

archivolts, twisted columns, and grotesque decorations, all displayed

the peculiar taste of the Saraceno-Norman architect, who raised the

massive walls of the building; which Sir John found a very comfortable

shelter from the shot of the enemy's batteries.

Leaving our horses with the quarter guard, who occupied the lower part

of the building, we were ushered up a narrow wheel-staircase to a

vaulted room, where we found Sir John and Colonel Oswald seated by a

black oak-table, studying a plan of Scylla; which divided their

attention with an imposing jar of wine and a case of cigars.

"Welcome, Dundas," they exclaimed. "Good news, I hope? Crotona--"

"Surrendered on last Wednesday evening."

"Glorious fellow, Macleod!"

"We have taken six hundred prisoners, forty pieces of cannon, and all

their stores."

"Excellent!" said the general, rubbing his hands; "and your friend--he

belongs to the Free Corps, I presume?"

"Santugo's battalion. Allow me to introduce the Cavaliere di

Castelermo, of the military order of Malta, who has accompanied me

hither from Crotona: no easy journey, Sir John, in such a land as this.

The signor is now lord of Scylla and its castle, since the defection and

consequent forfeiture of his uncle, the cardinal."

The knight and general bowed.

"We must drink your health as captain," said Oswald, filling the glasses

from the grey-beard, and pushing the cigars towards us; "we must also

invite some of the brigade and christen your commission--eh, Dundas!

Some of the cardinal's wine this--plenty more in the cellars

below--(this was the house of his steward)--capital stuff, is it not?"

"And I have to congratulate the general on the rank he has obtained:

long may he enjoy it!" said I, alluding to Sir John's recent elevation

to the title of Count of Maida, bestowed on him by Ferdinand of Naples.

Muttering an excuse, he tore open the covers, and hastily conned over

the despatches of Macleod.

"Capitulated--honours of war--prisoners--um, um--I am afraid we shall

not get possession of Scylla so easily. Here we have been for twenty

days before this place--a mere tower with outworks--and are not nearer

possession than we were at the first hour of our arrival; we have lost

many valuable officers and men, and without having gained any advantage

to compensate the service for their loss. Massena may advance to

relieve the fortress, if the besieged do not soon yield; and Monteleone,

the commandant, appears a most determined fellow: in answer to a flag of

truce, he sent me his pledged word that he would fight to the last, and

then blow up the place; but never surrender it."

"And this man," I observed, "is said to be a countryman of our own."

"You must not say that, Dundas," replied the general; "it is a mere

rumour, I suppose."

"He is resolved to die game," said Oswald: "but Dundas, as you have some

notion of these things, just look over this plan, will you, and say

which you think the weakest point?"

"We were planning an assault," continued the general, "you may examine

the features of the place to-morrow; but it is rather dangerous work to

reconnoitre within range of their long nines and twenty-four pounders.

This is a plan of the fort, sent to me by Francatripa, who found it in

the baggage of a French officer killed in the massacre of Sauveria: it

appears to represent the place very correctly. Here is the drawbridge,

there the _tete-du-pont_ and fosse. You will observe, Claude, that the

castle is built on the extreme verge of the cliff of Scylla, which forms

the termination of a promontory washed on three sides by the sea. Our

friend, the Cavaliere Marco, no doubt, knows the interior well: massive

walls encompass the keep, flanked by strong towers, defended by heavy

cannon and mortars."

"The curtains are well loopholed for musketry, which will sweep the

ditches in every direction," said Castelermo.

"The casemates are vaulted with solid masonry," added Oswald, removing

his cigar: "they are in the flanks of the bastions, and capable of

containing a company each. No joke to get into a ditch, exposed to such

annoyances as these, eh? They have six thirty-twos to sweep the

exterior slope of the advanced fosse; in endeavouring to cross which

Colonel Ross has lost some of the bravest fellows in the ranks of the

20th. The place is victualled amply, and watered by a cistern, and its

garrison are resolute as their leader. So now what say you to all this?

It has baffled the bravery of _my_ brigade, and the skill of M. Navarro,

our Italian engineer; though he comes of a stock which has achieved

great things in its day."

Here the colonel pointed to a little man, clad in the scarlet Neapolitan

uniform, who had hitherto sat quietly smoking a cigar behind the shadow

of a column, unseen by us.

"Yes, Signor Colonello," said he, coming forward, and placing a finger

on the plan. "I am of opinion still, that there is nothing so effectual

as a mine under that part of the wall nearest the town: I myself will

volunteer to fire the saucisson."

"The place you speak of, is protected by a battery of thirty-two

pounders," replied the general: "you are zealous and brave, Signor

Navarro, and we thank you; but a party of workmen could never form

chambers in a place so rocky and exposed."

"Signor Count of Maida," retorted the Italian, "I think I have served

long enough to know something of mines, their capabilities and nature.

My ancestor, Pietro Navarro, first introduced the noble art of springing

mines, when chief engineer to the Genoese, at the siege of Serezenella

in Florence; and they gained the town by means of this branch of the art

military, which is as useful as it is wonderful to behold. He also took

the castle of the Egg at Naples, when serving with the Spaniards; and I

hold the Castel del'Ova to be stronger than the Castello di Sciglio."

"Perhaps so: but our friend the marquis will take care that we do not

undermine any part of his premises. Tell me, Claude, what is your

opinion?"

Having a little smattering of engineering, I examined the plan

attentively, and found that it was almost impossible to execute

Navarro's project of a mine: but by using the compasses and scale, and

by an observation made when approaching the place, I discovered that the

fortress was completely commanded by a neighbouring hill; by carrying

guns to the scarp of which, the outer and inner defences would be easily

battered, and a breach effected. It gave me no great opinion of

Navarro's skill, that he had not discovered this very simple and obvious

method before.

The general gave an exclamation of delight when I proposed and explained

my mode of attack; but the eyes of the little Italian, of course,

gleamed with malice and anger: which, for the present, he chose to

conceal, although he pulled fiercely at his cigar, and kicked with his

heels against the column behind him.

"Now, then, Sir John, what ordnance have you?"

"Two curricle guns, four pounders only: they are of little use; but Sir

Sidney Smith has lent us eight thirty-sixes from his frigate, for the

especial behoof of the marquis and his garrison. To drag them to the

scarp of the hill is no easy task: but it shall be done, and this night

too! Scylla must be ours, at all risks. Its position at the gorge of

the Strait renders it of the greatest importance as a defence against

shipping."

"A little Gibraltar," said Castelermo.

"And ours it shall be, if it costs us as much trouble as ever old Gib.

did," replied Stuart. "Hallo, Pierce!"

His orderly appeared.

"Give my compliments to Gascoigne, the brigade-major; tell him to get

three officers and one hundred and fifty privates from each regiment, to

drag the frigate's guns to the top of the hill yonder, where they must

be in a position to open at daybreak; and desire him--or stay--I had

better give you a note, perhaps."

He scribbled one hastily on the back of a guard-report, or some such

valuable document; and Pierce, who had stood erect as a ramrod, raised

his hand to his forehead, wheeled sharply round as if upon a pivot, and

withdrew. Immediately afterwards a bugle sounded, and in the course of

ten minutes the parties went off at a rapid pace with pickaxes,

crow-bars, shovels, and ropes; the former to clear the way, and the

latter to drag the cannon up the rocky, rough, and steep hill-side.

"Finish the contents of the jar, gentlemen," said Sir John, filling

Castelermo's glass, and passing the ample graybeard; "mend the fire,

somebody."

Oswald gave the smoky fire-pan a kick, causing its contents to blaze up

and diffuse a very little heat, and a great deal of smoke through the

apartment; which, like most in Italy, being without fire-place or

chimney, was warmed by a panful of burning olive-husks, impregnating the

atmosphere with a disagreeable odour.

"O, for the coal fires of old England!" said the general.

"Or the snug parlour of Dunnikeir!" chimed in Oswald; thinking,

doubtless, of his comfortable mansion in the east neuk of Fife.

After half an hour's conversation, maintained principally by myself, in

describing the journey from Crotona, we adjourned to the scene of

operations; where four hundred and fifty soldiers were toiling along a

narrow and rugged road, dragging the heavy guns from the beach towards

the mountain.

"Beware of that little fellow Navarro!" said Castelermo, tapping me on

the shoulder; "he regards you with no friendly eye, for the _expose_ you

made of his ignorance. He is Sicilian bred, and the Sicilians are

slippery dogs."

A party provided with hatchets, pickaxes, and spades, moved in front,

and cleared the way by cutting down trees and hedges, levelling walls

and fences, and removing all obstacles to the progress of those who

brought the cannon; some pulling the ropes attached to the clumsy

ship-carriages, whilst others urged the little creaking wheels by

applying crow-bars behind. It was a task equally slow and laborious;

but the officers, with proper zeal, set an example to the soldiers, by

sharing in the toil, and working among them without their coats. On the

hill all traces of road or track had disappeared, and thickets of

olives, wild vines, ruined walls, masses of sandstone, ruts, and gorges,

obstructed the way so much, that the hour of two in the morning arrived

ere the guns were posted and ready for service.

Our little party of artillery, assisted by some of the infantry of the

line, had them loaded, depressed, and prepared to open fire, the instant

day began to brighten the Straits of Messina.

Meanwhile, the marquis and his garrison were not idle: by the noise in

the town below, they became aware that something unusual was going on;

and blue balls were burned on every battlement and pinnacle, until all

Scylla seemed wrapped in livid flames: a ghastly glare lighted up the

ocean to the west, and the mountains to the east; the clouds above us

floated in sulphury blue; and even the spires of Fiumara and Messina

glimmered in the cold, unearthly lustre shed from those lofty ramparts.

The castle was so distinctly revealed, that we could have counted every

stone in the massive keep, and every bar in the grated windows; but the

night was so dark as effectually to conceal our operations. They fired

a few rounds of shot and shell at random, killing a few of the guards

who blocked up the avenues of the place, but otherwise without effect;

and I have no doubt they were a little disconcerted, when dawning day

revealed to them eight thirty-sixes on the mountain-side, and opposed to

the weakest part of their works. A commotion was immediately observable

among them; and a still greater one when, on firing our first salvo, a

mass of the outer bastion, above the cordon, fell into the ditch below.

Encouraged by this, our artillerymen plied the cannon with might and

main, working in their shirt-sleeves (it was a broiling morning); but

after an hour's firing, the carronades became heated, and began to

"kick" and recoil so much, that they were compelled to cease operations

for a time, and permit them to cool: a process which the French usually

facilitate by introducing sponges steeped in vinegar, when it can be

had; which is not often, on service.

The gallant garrison strove hard to interrupt these successful

operations; but as we were rather beyond the range of musketry, and

their battery-guns could not be pointed to such an elevation as that on

which we were situated, they had recourse to mortars: these, however,

were so ill-managed that the bombs generally fell short, and either sank

into the turf or rolled down the hill to the sea-shore and exploded

among the breakers.

When again our battery opened, we heard the French band playing the old

republican carmagnole--a piece of mere gasconade.

"I will bet a dozen of wine we change their tune in an hour," said the

general, who was watching the operations through his telescope. "We will

humble them yet."

"Ha! what can that be?" I exclaimed; "a sortie?"

"No; but the devil seems to have jumped over the castle-wall into the

town below," said Oswald. An unusual bustle took place amongst our

soldiers, who were seen running through the streets in confusion, and

exposed to the enemy's musketry, which instantly opened on them.

An enormous carcass, 230-pounds weight, had been blown from a mortar

into Scylla; with the intention of setting it on fire. The combustibles

which compose this amiable engine of modern warfare, are pitch, tallow,

powder, saltpetre, oil, broken barrels of muskets, loaded grenades, bars

of iron, chains, and broken bottles, all hooped together in one globular

mass; through these, fuse-holes are bored, and to which lighted matches

are applied the moment before the bomb is shot forth.

This ponderous affair descended through the roof of the general's

temporary quarter; where, luckily, there was no wood-work to burn: but

the house was shattered to its foundations, unroofed, and blown to ruins

in a moment.

"Basta!" exclaimed Cavaliere Marco, as the carcass exploded, without

doing further harm; "a rare fellow is this marchese! He will fight to

the death-gasp, I warrant; and Scylla will never fall while his hand can

hold a sabre."

"Then we will leave the castle in a worse predicament than the

earthquake left it," replied Sir John, closing his telescope sharply.

"You may blow it into the sea, for aught that I care, gentlemen," said

the Italian; "its late lord, my uncle, was ever a niggard of his ducats

to me, and I have no great love for his old house. Many an unhappy

heretic and infidel has perished in the obscurity of its dungeons. I

know something of them. Will you believe it, Signor Claude? the old

bashaw once lodged me in them for a week, because I interfered with his

friendship for a certain fair damsel of Reggio: cardinals are not to be

trifled with!"

"Well, sir," said the general, "you may join the assault to-night, if

the breach is practicable." The eyes of the brave cavalier sparkled.

"With heart and hand, excellency! I bear as much hatred to our foes in

Scylla, as a Christian man may bear to others. They are the false,

tyrannical, and oppressive French! I have not forgotten that when

Napoleon's fleet appeared off Malta, the knights of Provence, Auvergne,

and all the French langue, abandoned the banner of the order, instead of

fighting like L'Isle Adam of old, as long as stone wall and steel blade

remained true to them."

The general bowed, and smiled slightly at the Italian's enthusiasm.

"Thank Heaven, the carcass did no more damage," said he: "the effect of

one, properly shot, is indeed tremendous. I saw one fired when Moore

took the Mozzello fort. Ah! Dundas, it was your poor brother, Frank,

and I who led on the stormers there: he was a brave and dashing fellow,

and would have been a glory to his profession but for that dog of a

German--Kranz."

Before sunset a tolerable breach was effected in that part of the

bastions next the town; and by way of filling up the interval of time

till dusk, our battery played on the keep with such success that a great

part of the wall repaired by the French fell down, and thus weakened the

fort considerably. But the marchese kept his soldiers steadily at work

the whole day, although exposed to our fire; and, with billets and

facines, endeavoured, in the usual manner, to repair the breaches: they,

however, were reported fully practicable by the officer in charge of the

battery, and at eleven o'clock that night an assault was ordered to take

place.

*CHAPTER XI.*

*THE FORLORN-HOPE.*