Francesco was no more able to understand Concetta's conduct than
Ippolito himself. He had expected a very different termination to the
affair, for he knew well enough that if the four peasants had caught him
as Ippolito had, they would very probably have torn him limb from limb,
in the most literal and barbarous sense of the word, in spite of any
sympathy they might have felt for his family until then. He vaguely
understood that Concetta had saved him for his dead brother's sake, and
out of hatred for the Saracinesca; but there was a sort of reckless
self-sacrifice in her act which it was beyond his cowardice and
selfishness to comprehend. He rarely addressed the saints, but he
inwardly thanked them for his safety as he rode round the outskirts of
the village and the back of Taddeo's house. He was still in a tremor of
fear, but he knew that he could easily twist and exaggerate the story of
the ignominious beating he had received, and thereby account for his
pallor and his nervousness. He knew that anything would be believed
against the Saracinesca.
It would be hard to give a single reason for his having chosen to come
up to Santa Vittoria to find a lodging, when he had left Rome in order
to see Aliandra in Randazzo. His timidity might have had something to do
with his decision, making him prefer the village where he was sure of
finding friends, whatever he might do, to the large town where there was
no one upon whom he could count. He had also told Basili, when he had
been to see him, that he had business in Santa Vittoria. Vaguely, too,
he guessed that Tebaldo might know where he was and follow him. But he
had not the slightest intention of doing any harm to the Saracinesca,
of whom, in his heart, he had always been afraid.
As soon as Concetta had spoken, he had known that he was safe, though it
was long before the effect of his fright had passed off. After what she
had said, he knew that no one in Santa Vittoria would believe any
statement which Ippolito might make about the encounter, and he set
himself to enlarge upon the impression she had given so as to show
himself in the most advantageous light possible.
He was not injured, and his bruises, though painful, had not disfigured
him, for Ippolito had struck him on the side of the head. As for his
lip, he told Taddeo that Ippolito had at first picked up a stone and
wounded him in the mouth with it. Taddeo was ready to believe anything,
and so was his brother, the fat sacristan, who had waited for Francesco
in the bridle-path until a late hour, and grievously lamented having
missed the fight, for in spite of his fat and his odd smile and the cast
in his eye, he was fond of fighting for its own sake, and no coward,
except in the presence of what he believed to be supernatural and
therefore irresistible.
Having eaten his supper and refreshed his spirits and nerves with some
of Taddeo's strongest wine, Francesco went to sleep in the great,
old-fashioned trestle bed, in sheets that smelt of lavender, though they
were of coarse linen. And early in the morning he got up, feeling almost
quite himself, and rode down to Randazzo in the early dawn. An
uncomfortable sensation assailed him as he passed the wall of the
cemetery, but he looked away and rode on, thinking of Aliandra Basili,
and concocting the story he should tell her to account for his wounded
lip. Of all things, he desired to make a good impression on her and her
father, for he had come from Rome with the determination to marry her if
he could.
It did not seem impossible, with Tebaldo out of the way, for she liked
him, and Basili himself would think it a good thing for his daughter to
marry a Pagliuca. Francesco's native cowardice had kept him out of the
sort of daring mischief which gives a man a bad character. He did not
gamble, he did not drink, and he could have a title, of course,
according to the southern custom of distributing that sort of social
distinction through all the members of a family. Aliandra might do far
worse, Basili thought; and though he knew that she had made up her mind
to get Tebaldo if she could, he also knew Tebaldo well enough to judge
that, as the head of his family, he would try to make an ambitious and
rich marriage. He frankly told Francesco that he had little influence
with his daughter, but that so far as he himself was concerned, he
approved of the marriage. Francesco had an equal share of the small
family fortune with his brother and sister, and it had been increased by
the addition of Ferdinando's, since the latter had left no will. In
former times Basili had warned his daughter against the brothers, but
their existence had changed since then. They now had a social position,
and friends in Rome, and were altogether much more deserving of
consideration.
Francesco found the notary's broken leg a distinct advantage in his
courtship; for Basili was, of course, helpless to move, in his room
upstairs, and when the young man had paid him a visit, he and Aliandra
had the house to themselves without fear of interruption. Then the two
could stay as long as they pleased in the sitting-room below, with the
blinds half closed and hooked together, and it was a cool and quiet
place just so high above the street that people could not look in as
they passed along outside.
Aliandra had been flattered by the young man's pursuit, as was natural,
but she had by no means given up the idea of marrying Tebaldo. She would
have preferred that Francesco should not come all the way down from
Santa Vittoria every day, but she could not refuse to see him when he
came. She had temporarily returned, with a good deal of pleasure and
amusement, to the primitive social state in which she had been brought
up, and she was no longer able to tell a servant to say that she was not
at home. Gesualda, the maid of all work, would not have understood any
such order. Besides, Francesco always made a pretence of having come to
see how Basili was doing, and invariably went upstairs to the latter's
room, as soon as he entered the house. In the middle of the day he went
to the inn for his dinner, because Aliandra dined with her father, but
an hour later he returned and stayed until it was time for him to ride
away in order to reach Santa Vittoria before dark. It was a long ride,
and as he rode the same horse every day he saved his animal's strength
as much as possible.
To-day, everything happened as usual. At the accustomed hour he
appeared, put up his horse in Basili's stable beside the notary's brown
mare, flicked the dust from his boots and gaiters, and went in to see
Aliandra and her father. The stable was in a little yard on one side of
the house, entered by a wooden gate from the street, and accessible also
from the house itself by a side door which led down three or four steps.
The notary was in a good humour, for the doctor said that he was doing
well, and hoped to get him on his feet again in a shorter time than had
at first been expected. He was beginning to like Francesco because the
young man took some pains to amuse him, having an object to gain, and
treated him with even more deference than the principal notary of a
provincial town had a right to expect. It was amusing to be told about
Rome, and to hear a great many things explained which had always been
more or less a mystery to one who had never left the island. It was
pleasant, too, to hear of his daughter's triumphs from one who had
assisted at them all, and who now spoke with the authority of a man of
the world, representing the opinion of the Roman aristocracy.
Now and then, when Francesco spoke of some especial passage in an opera
by which Aliandra had raised a storm of enthusiasm, Basili would ask her
what the music was like; and then, without effort or affectation, as
though it was a pleasure to her, her splendid voice burst out, true and
clear and fresh, and sang what the old man wished to hear. Then the
peasants and people passing through the street would stop to listen, and
even the ugly Gesualda, peeling potatoes or shelling peas in the
kitchen, paused in her work and had a vision of something beautiful and
far above her poor comprehension.
On this morning, Francesco did his best to be agreeable, though his head
ached and his lip was swollen. He refused to say much about the latter.
Aliandra was sure to hear, in a day or two, the story which the peasants
would tell each other about the affair, and which would certainly
redound to his credit. He said that he had met with a slight accident in
going home, and when Aliandra pressed him for an account of it, he said
that it was nothing worth mentioning and turned the subject quickly. He
did not wish to let her know that he had been worsted by a Saracinesca.
The peasants would be sure to concoct a story of treachery, much more to
his own glory than anything he could put together, and which would
probably contain a number of details that might not agree with those of
his own invention.
Aliandra did not ask any more questions about it, even after they had
gone downstairs and sat talking in the front room as usual. Her feeling
for him had not changed at all. She was not in love with him any more
than before she had left Rome, but he still attracted her in the same
rather unaccountable way, and she never felt quite sure of what he might
do or say when they were alone together. Yet she felt safer in being
with him in her father's house than she had felt in Rome, even under the
protection of the Signora Barbuzzi.
He pressed her to marry him, at every meeting. Sometimes she laughed at
him, sometimes she gave reasons why she could not accept him, sometimes
she refused to listen altogether, and told him that he must go away if
he could not talk more reasonably. But he was not easily discouraged; he
knew how to make love better than Tebaldo, and after all she liked him.
Tebaldo, when with her, was apt to be either cross-tempered, or
over-elated, and almost too much at his ease, for he was far too much
moved by her mere presence, and by the atmosphere that surrounded her,
to have control of his words and his looks, as he had when he was with
Miss Slayback. He was often abrupt with Aliandra, and there are few
outward faults which a woman dislikes more in a possible husband than
abruptness. Yet Aliandra perpetually did her best to please Tebaldo.
Francesco, on the other hand, used every means in his power to please
her. It was no wonder that she liked him better than his brother. He had
many of the ways which appeal to all women, and he was clever at hiding
those weaknesses which they despise quite as heartily as men can. A born
coward not only fears danger, but fears, above all things, to show that
he is afraid, and is keenly aware of anything, even in conversation,
which can show him in his true light. If he is skilful, as well as
cowardly, he will often succeed in deceiving brave men, who are the
least suspicious, into the belief that he is as fearless as they. He
finds it far easier to deceive women, who always attach much more
importance to mere words than men do.
It was a warm and sultry afternoon, for the wind was from the south-east
and had in it something of the suffocating fumes of the volcano over
which it blew. The blinds were drawn together and hooked, in the Italian
way, so as to let in plenty of air and little light. Aliandra had
established herself on the stiff, old-fashioned sofa, putting up her
feet, to be more at her ease, and Francesco sat beside her, close to the
window, smoking and talking to her. It was very quiet. Now and then
footsteps passed along the street outside, and sometimes the sound of
peasants' voices was heard, discussing prices or some bit of local
gossip. Francesco had eaten his dinner at the inn and had come back,
Basili was dozing upstairs on his couch, and Gesualda, the maid of all
work, was probably eating oranges in the kitchen, or asleep in her
chair, with the cat on her knees. There is nothing so peaceful in the
whole world as the calm that descends on all things in the far south
after the midday meal.
'This is better than Rome,' observed Francesco, looking at Aliandra's
handsome profile.
'For a change--yes,' answered the singer, idly. 'I should not care for
it always.'
'I can imagine that it might be dull, if I were alone.'
Aliandra turned her head slowly and looked at him gravely for a moment.
Then she smiled.
'If you were alone here,' she said, 'you would not have the excitement
of taking care of a father with a broken leg, as I have.'
'Excitement!' Francesco laughed. 'Yes. I imagined what your existence
would be like, so I came all the way from Rome to help you pass the
time.'
'How merciful! But I am grateful, for though I love my father dearly, a
broken leg as a subject of conversation, morning, noon, and night,
leaves something to be desired.'
'I suppose the old gentleman is anxious about himself and talks about
his leg all the time.'
'When you are not there, he generally does. You do him good, I am sure.'
'And so you are grateful to me for coming? Really?'
'Yes. What did you expect?'
'I would rather have less gratitude and more--what shall I say?'
'Anything you like--within certain limits!' Aliandra laughed softly.
'I might say too much, and that might offend you. Or too little, and
that would certainly bore you.'
'Could you not say just enough? Sometimes you say it very well. You can
be tactful when you like.'
'If I say that I should like more love, you will think it too much. If I
say affection, it is too little, and must seem ridiculous.'
Aliandra looked away from him, and rested her head against the hard back
of the sofa for a moment.
'Why do you wish to marry me?' she asked suddenly, without turning to
him. 'You could do much better, I am sure.'
'A man cannot do better than marry the woman he loves,' said Francesco,
softly.
'He can marry a woman who loves him,' suggested Aliandra, laughing
again.
'You cannot be serious very long,' he retorted. 'That is one reason why
I love you. I hate serious people.'
'I know you do, and that makes me doubt whether you can ever possibly be
serious yourself. Now, to marry a man who is not serious--'
'Or a woman who is not,' interrupted the young man.
'Is folly,' said Aliandra, completing her sentence.
'Then neither you nor I should ever marry at all. That is the
conclusion, evidently. But you began by asking me why I wish to marry
you. I answered you. It is simple. I love you, and I have loved you
almost since you were a child. You know something about my life in Rome,
do you not? Have you ever heard that I cared for any other woman?'
'How should I hear? I am not of your world, and though you know how I
live, I know nothing of what you do when you are not with me. How should
I? Have I allowed any of the men in society to make my acquaintance? You
speak as though I had friends who might be friends of yours, yet you
know that I have none. What you say may be quite true, but I have no
means of knowing.'
'There is Tebaldo,' said Francesco. 'He knows all about me, and would
not be likely to attribute to me any virtue which I do not possess. Has
he ever told you that I was making love to anyone else?'
'No,' answered Aliandra, thoughtfully. 'That is true.'
'And he hates me,' observed Francesco. 'He would not lose a chance of
abusing me, I am sure.'
Aliandra made no answer at first, for what he said was quite true,
though she did not care to admit it.
'You two are antipathetic to each other,' she said at last, using the
phrase because it was vague and implied no fault on either side. 'You
will never agree. I am sorry.'
'Why should you care, whether we agree or not?'
'Because I like you both. I should wish you to be good friends.'
'I am glad you include us both in one category,' said Francesco. 'You
say that you like us both.'
'Well--what of that?'
'There is a beautiful indifference about the expression. If Tebaldo is
satisfied, I suppose that I should be. But I am not. I am made of
different stuff. I cannot say, "I love you" in one breath, and "I will
not marry you" in the next.'
Aliandra started perceptibly and looked at him. He had a well-affected
air of righteous contempt.
'I am in earnest,' he continued, as she said nothing. 'I do not know
whether I could do better for myself, as you say, or not. I suppose you
mean that I might marry the daughter of some Roman prince, with a dowry
and sixteen quarterings. Perhaps I might, for I have a good name of my
own and an equal share of the property. I do not know and I do not
care, and I shall certainly never try to make any such marriage, because
I will either marry you or no one. I will not, I could not--nothing
could induce me, neither fortune, nor position, nor anything else in the
world.'
He had a very convincing way of speaking when he chose, and for the
first time, perhaps, Aliandra hesitated and thought that she might do
worse than accept him for a husband. She thought him handsome as he sat
beside her, leaning forward a little and speaking earnestly, and she
mistook his masculine vitality for real manliness, which is a common
mistake with young women of little experience. Besides, he made no
reservations, and Tebaldo made many. Yet it was hard to give up her
dream of being a real princess, the wife of the head of an old family,
for she was very ambitious in more ways than one. Francesco had said
very much the same things before now, it was true, so that there was no
novelty in them for her. But his importunity was beginning to make an
impression upon her, as contrasted with his brother's determined
avoidance of the question of marriage.
Still she said nothing, but her face betrayed her hesitation. He bent
nearer to her, and spoke still more earnestly. There was no affectation
in his speech now, for though his passions were evanescent, they had all
the heat of his vital temperament as long as they lasted. The fact that
he had carefully weighed the advantage to be got by marrying an artist
who had youth, beauty, honesty, a small but solid inheritance to expect,
and very possibly fame and fortune in the near future, did not make him
cold nor calculating when he was close beside that beauty and youth
which had at first attracted him. Her eyes softened dreamily from time
to time as he spoke, and she made no attempt to withdraw the hand of
which he had taken possession.
He spoke quickly, warmly, eloquently, and without reserve, for he had
nothing to conceal, and nothing to fear but her refusal. The words were
not carefully chosen, nor the phrases very carefully turned, but they
had the accent of sincerity, for his whole being was moved as he spoke.
They had also the merit of not being too few nor too short; for that is
often a merit in women's eyes. A woman loves to hear the whole tale of
love, from the beginning to the end, and feels herself somehow cheated
by the short and broken sentences which are often all that a strong man
can command, though his hand trembles and his lips are white with
emotion which the weak never feel.
In the tender shadow of the half-darkened room, his eyes filled hers
till she could not look away, and his speech grew softer and was broken
by little silences. Aliandra was falling under the spell of his voice,
of the hour, of her own warm youth, and of his abundant vitality.
The blinds, hooked together against the bars, shook a little, perhaps
with the sultry afternoon breeze, and all at once there was less light
in the room. Aliandra moved a little, realising that she was falling
under the man's influence.
'But Tebaldo!' she exclaimed. 'Tebaldo!' she repeated, still clinging to
her long-cherished hope, as though she owed it a sort of allegiance for
its own sake.
Francesco laughed softly, and pressed the hand he held.
'Tebaldo is going to marry the American girl with the great fortune,' he
said quietly. 'You need not think of Tebaldo any more.'
Again the blind creaked a little on its hinges. But Aliandra started at
what Francesco said, and did not hear the window. She sat upright on the
sofa.
'What American girl?' she asked. 'I never heard of her. Has this been
going on a long time?'
'About two months--' The blind creaked a third time as he spoke.
'There is someone under the window!' cried Aliandra, lowering her voice
and looking round.
'It is the wind,' said Francesco, indifferently. 'The south-east wind
blows up the street and shakes the blinds.'
Aliandra leaned back again, and he took her hand once more.
'It is quite well known in Rome,' he continued. 'The engagement is not
actually announced, but it will be very soon. They say she has many
millions, and she is very pretty--insignificant, fair with blue eyes,
but pretty. He has done very well for himself.'
Aliandra was silent. The news meant the absolute destruction of a
project she had long hoped to realise, and with which she had grown
familiar. But she knew, as it fell to pieces before her eyes, that she
had never firmly believed in its success, and there was a sort of relief
in feeling that she was freed from the task set her by her own ambition,
while at the same time she was hurt by the disappointment of failure,
and a sudden keen resentment against Tebaldo prompted her to yield to
Francesco's entreaties on his own behalf. He held her hand and waited
for her to speak.
The silence lasted long, for the notary's daughter was afraid of herself
and of making up her mind hastily. The blind creaked again, more loudly
than before, and she turned her head nervously.
'I am sure there is someone under the window!' she said. 'I wish you
would look!'
'I assure you it is only the wind,' answered Francesco, as before.
'I know, but please look. I am nervous. The scirocco always makes me
nervous.'
'It is not the weather, Aliandra,' he said softly, and smiling, with his
eyes in hers. 'You are not nervous, either. It is--it is--' he bent
nearer to her face. 'Do you know what it is?'
Though he was so near, forcing her with his eyes, he had no power over
her now. She could not help looking anxiously over his shoulder at the
hooked blinds. She was not listening to him.
'It is love,' he said, and his red lips gave the word a sensuous sound,
as they came nearer to her face.
She did not hear him. The rich colour in her face faded all at once, and
then with a sharp cry she stood upright, pushing him away from her.
'I saw a hand on the window sill!' she exclaimed. 'It is gone again.'
Francesco rose also. He was annoyed at the untoward interruption, for he
fancied that the hand must have belonged to some boy in the street,
playing outside and climbing up a little way to jump down again, as boys
do.
'It is ridiculous!' he said in a tone of irritation, and going to the
window.
He looked down between the blinds that were ajar, expecting to see a
peasant boy. Instead, there was Tebaldo Pagliuca's face, yellow in the
sun, as though he had a fever, and Tebaldo's bloodshot eyes looking up
to his, and the thin, twisted lips smiling dangerously.
'Come outside,' said Tebaldo, in an odd voice. 'I want to speak with
you.'
But Francesco only heard the first words. His abject terror of his
brother overcame him in an instant, and he almost ran into Aliandra's
arms as he sprang back.
'It is Tebaldo!' he whispered. 'Let him in. Keep him here, while I go
away through the stable-yard!'
And before she could answer or realise exactly what he meant, he had
left her standing alone in the middle of the room. In ten seconds he had
made sure that the gate of the stable-yard was fast inside, and he was
saddling his horse. It was done in less than a minute somehow. Then he
listened, coming close to the gate. He heard Aliandra speaking with
Tebaldo at the open window, a moment later he heard the street door open
and close, and he knew that Tebaldo was in the house.
Very softly and quickly he unbolted the yard gate. He swung it wide,
reckless of the noise it made, and in an instant he was in the saddle
and galloping for his life up the deserted street. It was well that he
had known the house thoroughly, and that Aliandra had obeyed him and
admitted Tebaldo at once.
She was braver than Francesco, by many degrees, though she was no
heroine; but she was scared by the look in the man's face, as he entered
without a word, and looked round the room slowly for his brother.
'Where is he?' he asked.
Before Aliandra could find any answer, the loud noise of clattering
hoofs filled the room. Tebaldo was at the window almost before the sound
had passed, and the thrust of his open hand smashed the fastenings so
that the blinds flew wide open. He looked out and saw his brother
galloping away.
He knew the house too, for he had been in it many times, and he knew
also that Basili's brown mare was a good beast, for the notary was a
heavy man and often had to ride far. Without even glancing at Aliandra
he turned to the door. But she was there before him, and held it closed,
though she was frightened now.
'You shall not go,' she tried to say.
'Shall not?' he laughed harshly, as his hands caught her.
He did not hurt her, for he loved her in his way, but a moment later she
found herself turned round like a leaf in a storm, and the door had
closed behind him. It seemed to her but a second more, and she had not
been able to think what she should do, when the sound of flying hoofs
passed the window again. She ran to look out, and she saw the brown mare
already far up the street. Tebaldo could ride, and he had not wasted
time in saddling. Bareback he rode the mare with her halter for a
bridle, as he had found her. Aliandra realised that he had no rifle. At
all events he would have to overtake his brother in order to kill him,
and Francesco had the start of him by several minutes.
He knew it, but he guessed what Tebaldo would do, and he kept his horse
at full speed as the road began to wind upward to the black lands. He
glanced behind him just before each turning, expecting to see his
pursuer. But a clear start of four minutes meant a mile, at the pace he
had ridden out of the town. He kept the horse to it, for he was riding
for the wager of his life. But the animal had been put to it too
suddenly after his feed, without as much as a preliminary walk or trot
to the foot of the hill, and even in his terror Francesco saw that it
would be impossible to keep the pace much longer. But he could save
distance, if he must slacken speed, if he followed the footpath by which
the peasants had made short cuts between each bend of the road and the
next. They were hard and safe in the heat, and his horse could trot
along them fairly well, and even canter here and there. And then, when
he was forced to take the high-road for a few hundred yards, he could
break once more into a stretching gallop. If he could but reach that
turn, just beyond the high hill, where Ferdinando's friend had once
waited for San Giacinto, he believed that he could elude Tebaldo in the
black lands.
It was a terrible half-hour, and he gasped and sweated with fear, as he
urged his horse up that last long stretch of the road which could not be
avoided. His heart beat with the hoof-falls, and the sweat ran down upon
his velvet coat, while he felt his hands so cold that it was an effort
not to drop the reins. But the beast had got his wind at last, and
galloped steadily up the hill.
It was growing suddenly dark, and there was a feverish yellow light in
the hot air. A vast thunderstorm was rolling over Etna, and another had
risen to meet it from the west, hiding the lowering sun. Only overhead
the air was calm and clear. The first clap of the thunder broke in the
distance, and went rolling and echoing away from the volcano to the
inland mountains. As he reached the top of the hill, Francesco felt the
big drops of rain in his face like a refreshment, though they were warm.
The thunder pealed out again from the mountain's side with a deafening
explosion. He turned in his saddle and looked back.
The road was straight and long, and he could see far. Tebaldo was in
sight at last, almost lying on the mare's bare back as she breasted the
hills, his hand along her neck, his voice near her ear while she
stretched her long brown body out at every stride.
Francesco's teeth chattered as he spurred his horse for another wild
effort. He could break from the road now, just before the wide curve it
made to the left, and he knew the bridle-paths and all the short cuts
and byways through the black lands, as few men knew them except that one
man, his brother, who was behind him. In his haste to escape he had left
his rifle in Basili's hall. It was so much the less weight for his horse
to carry, but it left him defenceless, and he knew that Tebaldo must be
armed.
The storm broke and the rain came down in torrents. His horse almost
slipped in jumping the ditch to get off the main road, but recovered
himself cleverly, and long before Tebaldo had reached the top of the
hill Francesco was out of sight. He might have felt safe then, from
almost any other pursuer. But he knew Tebaldo, and now and then his
teeth chattered. He told himself that he was chilled by the drenching
rain, but in his heart he knew it was fear. Death was behind him,
gaining on him, overtaking him, and he felt a terrible weakness in all
his bones, as though they were softened and limp like a skeleton made of
ropes.
It was hard to think, and yet he had to ease his mind. Tebaldo was
lighter than he, and he rode without saddle or bridle. To take the
shortest way through the black lands was to be surely overtaken in the
long run. It might be best to take the longest, and perhaps Tebaldo
might get before him, and give him a chance to turn back to Randazzo.
But as he looked down at the path his heart sank. The heavy rain had
already softened the ground in places and his horse's hoofs made fresh
tracks. There was no mistaking them. There was only one way, then, and
it must be a race, for only speed could save him. Whichever way he might
turn in and out of the fissures and little hollows, he must leave a
trail in the wet, black ashes, which anyone could follow.
Don Taddeo's best horse was one of the best horses in that part of the
country, as Francesco knew, and more than a match for the notary's brown
mare, had other things been alike. But there was the difference of
weight against him, and, moreover, Tebaldo was the better rider.
There was less than three-quarters of a mile between them now, but if he
could keep the pace, that would do. He followed the shortest path, which
was also the best, because it was naturally the one most used by
travellers. The rain fell in torrents, and the air was dusky and lurid.
Again and again the great forked lightnings flashed down the side of the
mountain, and almost at the instant the terrible thunder crashed through
the hissing rain. Francesco felt as though each peal struck him bodily
in the back, between the shoulders, and his knees shook with terror as
he tried to press them to the saddle, and he bent down as if to avoid a
shot or a blow, while his ears strained unnaturally for the dreaded
sound of hoofs behind. Yet he scarcely dared to turn and look back, lest
while he looked his horse might hesitate, or turn aside to another path
through the black wilderness. Under the lurid light the yellow spurge
had a horribly vivid glow, growing everywhere in big bunches among the
black stones and out of the blacker soil. It almost dazzled him, as he
rode on, always watching the path lest he should make a mistake and be
lost.
Then the wind changed in a moment and came up behind him in gusts, and
brought to his ears the sound of terror, the irregular beat of a horse's
hoofs, cantering, pacing, trotting, according to the ground. It was
fearfully near, he thought. He had just then his choice of taking to the
road again for half a mile or more, or of following the bridle-path that
turned off amongst the spurge and the stones. There was a broad, deep
ditch, and the rain had made the edges slippery and there was a drop of
several feet, and little space to take off. It was a dangerous leap, but
the greater fear devoured the less, and Francesco did not hesitate, but
put the good horse at it. It would be a relief to get a stretching
gallop along the road again.
The horse cleared it well, and thundered up the highway, as glad as his
rider to be out of the intricate paths again. Francesco breathed more
freely, and presently turned in his saddle as he galloped, and looked
back. He could see nothing, but every now and then a gust of wind
brought the sound of hoofs to him. Just as he neared the end of the
half-mile stretch he distinctly saw Tebaldo come up to the leap. The
rain had ceased for a moment, and in the grey air he could see tolerably
well how the brown mare took off. For an instant he gazed, absolutely
breathless. Horse and rider disappeared into the ditch together, for the
mare had not cleared it. She might be injured, she might be killed, and
Tebaldo with her. With a wild welling up of hope Francesco galloped
along the road, already half sure that the race was won and that he
could reach a safe place in time.
The highway was level now for two or three miles over the high yoke,
below which, on the other side, Camaldoli lay among the trees. He
settled down once more to a long and steady gallop, and the going was
fairly good, for the volcanic stuff used in making the road drank up the
rain thirstily and was just softened by it without turning to mud. His
terror was subsiding a little.
But all at once from far behind came the regular galloping, tramping
tread of the horse his brother was riding. He turned as though he had
been struck, and there, a mile behind him, was a dark moving thing on
the road. They had not been injured, they had not been killed, they were
up and after him again. And again his teeth chattered and his hands grew
cold on the reins.
The entrance to the avenue of Camaldoli was in sight, and he set his
teeth to keep them still in his head. It was half a mile from the
entrance to the house, and little more than that to Santa Vittoria. But
if he turned into the entrance Tebaldo would cut across the fields and
might catch him under the trees, caring little who might be there to
see. It was safer to make for Santa Vittoria.
He passed the turn of the road at a round pace, and the good horse
breasted the hill bravely. But on the smooth highway the difference in
weight began to tell very soon. Tebaldo was clearly in sight again now,
stretching himself along the mare's body, his head on her neck, his
voice close to her ear, riding like vengeance in a whirlwind, gaining at
every stride.
Francesco's horse was almost spent, and he knew it. He had spurs and
used them cruelly, and the poor beast struggled to gallop still, while
the lean brown mare gained on him. The sun was low among the lurid
clouds, and sent a pale level glare across the desolate land.
Before the cemetery gate, her black clothes and her black shawl drenched
with the thunderstorm and clinging to her, Concetta sat in her
accustomed place, bent low. Francesco scarcely saw her as he rode up the
last stretch for his life. But, as he passed her, his horse stumbled a
little. Francesco thought he shied at the black figure, but it was not
that. Four, five, six strides more, and the brave beast stumbled again,
staggered as Francesco sprang to the ground, and then rolled over, stone
dead, in the middle of the road.
Francesco did not glance at him as he lay there, but ran like a deer up
the last few yards of the hill. The little church was just on the other
side, and it might be open. Tebaldo was not two hundred yards behind
him, and had seen all and was ready, and the lean mare came tearing on.
She took the dead horse's body in her desperate stride, just as
Francesco burst into the church.
With all his strength he tried to force the bolt of the lock across the
door inside, for the key was outside where Ippolito had left it when he
had entered. He could not move it, and he heard the thunder of hoofs
without. If Tebaldo had not seen him enter, the mare would gallop past
the closed door to the gate of the town. In wild fear he waited the ten
seconds that seemed an age. The clattering ceased suddenly, and some one
was forcing the door in behind him. Francesco's lips moved, but he could
not cry out. He ran from the door up the aisle.
When Tebaldo had killed him, on the steps of the altar, he sheathed the
big knife, with which he had done the deed at one blow, and instantly
dropped it through the old gilded grating under the altar itself, behind
which the bones of the saint lay in a glass casket. No one would ever
look for it there.
As though the fever that had burned him were suddenly quenched in the
terrible satisfaction of murder, the natural colour returned to his face
for a moment, and he grew cold. Then all at once he realised what he had
done, and he knew that he must escape from the church before any one
surprised him. He turned away from the altar and found himself face to
face with Ippolito Saracinesca, who had been at work at the back of the
organ, while he was waiting for the fat sacristan as usual, and had come
down the winding stairs as soon as he had heard the noise of running
feet, without even going to the front of the loft to see who was there.
Tebaldo stood stock-still, facing the priest while one might have
counted a score. He knew him well and was known to Ippolito. But
Ippolito could not see who it was that lay dead across the steps, for
the face was downwards. Tebaldo looked at the churchman's calm and
fearless eyes and knew that he was lost, if he could not silence him.
Before Ippolito spoke, for he was too much surprised and horror-struck
to find anything to say, and was rather thinking of what he ought to do,
the Sicilian was on his knees, grasping his sleeve with one hand and
crossing himself with the other.
He began the words of the Confession. A moment more and he was
confessing to Ippolito as to a priest, and under the sacred seal of
silence, the crime of having slain his brother. Ippolito could not stop
him, for he had a scruple. He could not know that the man did not at
once truly repent of what he had done, and in that case, as a priest, he
was bound to hear and to keep silence for ever. Tebaldo knew that, and
went to the end, and said the last Latin words even while getting on his
feet again.
'I cannot give you absolution,' said the young priest. 'The case is too
grave for that. But your confession is safe with me.'
Tebaldo nodded, and turned away. He walked firmly and quickly to the
door, went out and closed it behind him. He had already made up his mind
what to do. He met the fat sacristan less than twenty paces from the
church. He had known him all his life, and he stopped him, asking him
where he was going. The man explained.
'Don Ippolito will not need you to blow the organ to-day,' said Tebaldo,
gravely. 'He has just killed my brother in the church. I have turned the
key on him, and am going to fetch the carabineers.'
The fearful lie was spoken with perfect directness and clearness. The
man started, stared at Tebaldo, and grew pale with excitement, but he
could not believe his ears till Tebaldo had repeated the words. Then he
spoke.
'We thought he had killed him yesterday afternoon by the cemetery,' he
said. 'And now he has really done it! Madonna! Madonna! And another of
them killed Don Ferdinando!'
'What is that about the cemetery?' asked Tebaldo. 'Tell me as we go, for
I am in a hurry.'
'It is better that I stay,' said the man. 'He knows the lock and he may
be able to slip the bolt from the inside, for he is very strong. He
almost killed Don Francesco last night with his hands and only a stone
he picked up.'
He told Tebaldo in a few words the story which the peasants had already
invented.
'I am glad you have told me,' said Tebaldo. 'It explains this horrible
murder. I will go for the carabineers at once. There is no more time to
be lost. Stay here and watch the door.'
He knew he could trust the man to do his worst against a Roman, and he
walked rapidly into the town.
Ippolito watched Tebaldo until the door closed behind him. He was a very
honourable as well as a very good man, and though as a priest he felt
that he must give the murderer the benefit of a doubt, he felt as a man
that the doubt could not really exist, and that Tebaldo had
intentionally put him under the seal of confession in order to destroy
his power of testifying in the case. The clever treachery was revolting
to him.
He turned to look at the dead man, suddenly hoping that there might be
some life left in him after all. He went and knelt beside him on the
step of the altar and turned his body over so that it lay on its back.
He felt the sort of pitying repulsion for anything dead which every
sensitively organised man or woman feels, but he told himself that it
was his duty to make sure that Francesco was not alive.
There was no doubt about that. Even he, in his inexperience, could not
mistake the look in the wide-open, sightless eyes. He shuddered when he
remembered how only twenty-four hours ago he had struck the poor dead
head again and again with all his might, and he thanked Heaven that he
had not struck harder and more often. He looked for the wound. It was on
the left side low down in the breast, and must have gone to the heart at
once. There was blood on both his hands, but very little had run down
upon the steps.
He got his handkerchief from the side pocket of his cassock, and started
as he felt there the sheathed knife which Orsino had made him carry.
There was no water in the church, except a little holy water, and he
could not defile that, so he wiped his hands as well as he could on his
handkerchief, and put the latter back into his pocket.
Suddenly he realised that he ought to be doing something, and he stood
up, and looked about in hesitation. He asked himself how far the secret
of confession bound him, and whether it could be regarded as a betrayal
to call the authorities at once. Someone might have seen Tebaldo leave
the church, and to give the alarm at once might be to fasten suspicion
upon him. The rule about the secrecy of confession is very strict.
The sacristan might be expected to appear at any moment, too. Ippolito
looked at his watch and wondered why the man had not come already. He
was in great difficulty, for the case was urgent. Being alone, too, he
did not like to shut up the church, leaving the dead man there alone.
But he was sure that the sacristan would come in a few moments. It was
more than half an hour since he had sent the lame boy to find him. It
was wiser to wait for him and send him for the doctor and the
carabineers.
He paced up and down before the altar rail rather nervously, glancing
every now and then at the dead man. But the sacristan did not come. He
thought it would be charitable to straighten out the lifeless limbs and
cross the hands upon the breast, and he went up the steps and did so.
When it was finished, he found more blood on his hands, and again rubbed
away as much as he could with his handkerchief. Once more he paced the
stone floor. Then he remembered that in his excitement he had not even
said a prayer, and he knelt awhile by the rail, repeating some of the
psalms for the dead in a low voice.
He rose and walked again, and his eyes fell on the queer words in worn,
raised letters on the slab in the floor--'Esca Pagliuca pesca
Saracen'--and again he was struck by the way in which his own name, or
something very like it, could be made out of the letters.
He walked down the church, intending to look out and see whether the
sacristan were coming. He was surprised to find the door locked. Then,
all at once, he heard the sound of many voices, speaking loudly and
coming nearer. He could distinguish his own name, spoken again and again
in angry tones by someone with a loud voice.