"What is that to you?" she replied, pettishly. "Cousin, I will love
whom I please."
"You shall not love him."
Dianora, who was now angry in downright earnest, began to sing, and
thrum the strings of her mandolin.
"Me non segni il biondo Dio,
Me con Fille unisca amore--"
"Dianora!" exclaimed the young man, in a voice half mournful and half
ferocious. "By the memory of other days, I conjure you to hear me!
Think how, as children--as orphans--we lived, and played, and grew
together--hear me!" His voice grew thick; but the irritated girl
continued her song.
"E poi sfoghi il suo rigore
Fato rio, nemico ciel."
"Cruel that thou art: thy wish will never be realized!" he exclaimed,
fiercely. Still she continued:--
"Che il desio non mi tormenta,
O----"
"Maledictions on you! Is it thus you treat me?"
Dianora laughed: he gazed intently upon her with fierce glistening eyes;
his white lips were compressed with stern resolution, though agitation
made them quiver--and that quivering was visible even in the moonlight.
"Dianora," said he, "for this time I will leave you; but when again we
meet--_tremble_! Fury! I am not to be treated like a child!"
"Do not be so passionate, signor cousin. Madonna mia! You are quite the
Horazio of Matteo Aliman's novel!"
"Beware," he responded, with a dark and inexplicable scowl, "that your
hand--the hand pledged as mine--is not bestowed upon your lover as
Clarinia's was. Farewell, fickle and cruel Dianora! Misfortune and
love are turning my brain."
"Say rather wine, dice, and debauchery."
"Diavolessa!" he exclaimed, in accents of rage; and springing over the
terrace, disappeared.
Dianora resumed her guitar; but she could sing no more: her assumed
nonchalance quite deserted her. The instrument fell on the floor, and
covering her face with her white hands she wept bitterly: for Giosue's
threats and Oliver's absence terrified her.
The calm moon looked down on the dark forests and the snaky windings of
the river, on whose glassy bosom here and there a red glow marked the
watch-fires of the distant French picquets. No one was ascending the
mountain side. In the villa, in the valley below, and on the hills
around it, the most intense silence prevailed. Eagerly Dianora
listened. Anon there rang through the welkin a shrill whistle--the
whistle of Giosue; a faint cry succeeded: it rose from the river side,
and floated tremulously upward through the still air. Another, and
another followed: they were cries for succour! Her brain reeled--she
sank upon her knees, and raised her hands to Heaven--her heart beat
wildly--she panted rather than breathed. "O, God!" thought she; "if
Oliver encounter the wild comrades of Giosue, what have I not to dread?"
Appalled by her own vivid and fearful thoughts, she sat as if
spell-bound, listening for other sounds, in an agony of suspense; but
none other arose from the dark wooded dell than the murmur of the river,
as its waters rolled on their way to the ocean.
"Joy--joy--he comes at last!" she exclaimed, as the hoofs of a galloping
horse rang on the narrow and rocky pathway, which wound between thickets
of orange and citron trees up the mountain side. "Dear and blessed Lady
of Burello, how I thank thee that he came not sooner! Three paters and
three aves will I say.--I see him now: 'tis he! How bravely he reins up
his roan English horse, with its high head and flowing mane! There is
the dark cloak, and the little cap, beneath which his brown hair curls
so crisply. Oh, well should I know him among a thousand!"
With all the frankness and ardour of an Italian girl she rushed upon the
terrace, and, waving her hand over the balustrade, said playfully, "You
have come at last, Signor mio. Fi! I owe you a severe lecture:
approach, and receive it penitently."
At that moment, the horseman rode close to the wall of the terrace, and
threw an arm around her. Overcome by her recent agitation, Dianora sank
upon his breast, murmuring, in tender accents, "Oliver--dear Oliver."
"The curses of the whole calendar upon thee and Oliver too! Ha! you
greet not him contemptuously with an old scrap of Metastasio. Burning
hell! traitress, I recall your biting taunts, and will revenge me even
as Horazio did. Lo! the hand you pledged unto me shall yet be mine."
A smothered cry burst from Dianora.--Instead of the handsome and flushed
face of Oliver Lascelles, a livid and unearthly visage, distorted by the
most vindictive passions, was close to her cheek; two ferocious eyes
glared upon her, and the strong arm of Giosue was around her.
"Never again wilt thou scorn a lover, Dianora Montecino; and dear will
_that_ taunt cost thee which dictates my revenge."
His long keen acciaro gleamed in the moonlight, as he grasped her
beautiful hand with the grasp of a tiger--instantly the sharp knife
descended upon the slender wrist!
* * * * *
Let me throw a veil over the horrors that ensued.
The French sentinels on the windings of the lonely river, the wolf in
the distant woods and the eagle on the rocks of Battaglia, must have
been alike startled by the agonizing shrieks of Dianora. Fearful they
were; but of short duration. A moan succeeded--a moan of terrible
import. Then rang the hoofs of a horse as if spurred madly down the
steep roadway. A turn of the dell hid the wild horseman, and then all
became still.
Her right hand severed at the wrist, her nose cut off, and her face
seamed with the most frightful gashes, Dianora was found by the alarmed
household of the bishop, stretched on the marble terrace, bleeding and
senseless--mutilated--dying. She was borne away: convulsions succeeded,
and that night the unhappy Dianora died.
She expired in the arms of the venerable bishop, whose grief and horror
rendered him almost distracted.
*CHAPTER XV.*
*THE MONASTERY.*
To return to Scylla.--The hour of parade passed: Lascelles had not yet
returned, and I could no longer withstand my anxiety for his safety.
Accompanied by my intelligent countryman, Gask, a bugler, and twenty
soldiers in light marching order, each with sixty rounds of ammunition,
I departed in the direction of Fiumara, on the almost hopeless errand of
endeavouring to discover him. I now reproached myself bitterly, and
really thought I had been much to blame in not restricting my rash
friend, even at the chance of a quarrel: it could not have been of long
duration.
Leaving Scylla as quietly as possible, we marched towards Fiumara by the
most lonely and unfrequented route, through gorges and thickets,
expecting every instant to hear the musket of our advanced file
discharged, as a signal that a patrol of French cavalry, or some such
interruption, was in sight.
It was a beautiful morning: the rays of the bright sun streamed aslant
between the peaks of Mylae, and the white dewy vapour curled from the
dells like a gauze screen, mellowing the dark green of the pine thickets
and the blue of the gleaming ocean, which shone at times between the
openings of the high and broken shore. The morning hymn to the Virgin,
and the tolling of the matin bell, floated through the still air from
the dark old walls of St. Battaglia; a monastery perched on a rock, by
the base of which the pathway wound. On we hurried; and soon Fiumara,
its houses shining in the sun, the red smoky fires of the French camp,
and their chain of out-picquets near the river, appeared before us.
At the bottom of the hill on which the Villa of Montecino was situated,
just as we were striking into the narrow path that wound up its wooded
side, our advanced file, (who was about fifty paces in front), halted,
and waved his hand.
"Keep together, men! fix bayonets!--look to your priming--forward!" I
exclaimed, and we rushed towards him. There was no immediate cause for
alarm; but on a level spot of green sward we discovered sufficient
evidence that some deed of violence and atrocity had been perpetrated,
and I trembled for my poor friend Oliver! On the grass lay his gilded
gorget, with its white silk ribbon rent in two; near it lay a buff
military glove, covered with blood; a little further on we found his
riding switch, with his crest graven on its gold embossed head. All
around, the trampled state of the grass, the marks of feet (some of
which had evidently been shoeless), the deep indents of horse-hoofs,
and, worst of all, a pool of coagulated blood on the pathway, led us to
anticipate some terrible catastrophe. Loud and deep were the threats
and execrations of the soldiers.
At an accelerated pace we pushed up the hill towards the house of
Montecino, passing on our left the mouldering ruins of a castelletto, or
little fortalice; the broken ramparts of which were almost hidden under
heavy masses of dark green ivy and luxuriant weeds.
Entering the bishop's disordered mansion without ceremony, I halted the
soldiers in the vestibule, and desired a servant, who appeared, to
conduct me to her master. The woman vouchsafed me no other reply than a
motion to follow her: she was very pale, and her eyes were red from
recent weeping. Opening a door, she ushered me into a little darkened
oratory; where, on a bier before the altar surrounded by tapers,
shedding "a dim, religious light," lay the sad remains of the hapless
Dianora. They were covered with a white shroud; and so completely, that
I beheld not the frightful ravages committed by the knife of the
assassin. Beside the body--his white vestments soiled with blood, his
thin grey hairs dishevelled, his aspect wild and haggard--knelt Piero
Montecino, the aged Bishop of Nicastro; his attenuated hands clasped and
holding a crucifix, on which, at times, he bowed down his reverend head.
His wonted spiritual resignation, priestly dignity, and stateliness of
aspect were gone: his spirit was crushed and broken. How changed was
his whole appearance since the day when, with Bianca, I stood before the
altar in the church of his bishoprick!
"O, Dianora! my daughter--my child!" he exclaimed, in accents of the
deepest grief: "O, madonna, have mercy upon me! Holy Trinity, have
mercy upon me! Dianora, my blessed one! Saint Euphemio, pray for her!
Saint Magdalene, pray for her! Sweet lady of Burello!--beatified
Rosalia!--thrice blessed lady of Loretto, mother of mercy! hear me, and
pray for her!" Heavy sobs succeeded.
The touching tones of his voice, and the passionate fervour of his
devout appeals, deeply moved me. So intense was his sorrow, that it
almost warranted the suspicion of a nearer relationship to Dianora than
his vows and character as a Catholic churchman permitted; but no such
ungenerous thought occurred to me then: my heart felt only the deepest
and most sincere compassion for the bereaved old man. He was so besotted
with woe, that I saw it was next to impossible to obtain from him the
least intelligence or advice; and, withdrawing softly, I left the villa
immediately.
When descending the hill towards the spot where we had found the relics
of our missing comrade, we met a peasant, who, with a long ox-goad, was
urging a pair of lazy buffaloes towards Scylla. I desired my soldiers
to bring him before me, in the desperate hope of obtaining some
information concerning poor Lascelles; and, strange to say, we could not
have had a luckier rencontre, or better intelligencer.
"Hollo, Signor Campagnuolo!" said I to the cattle driver; "from whence
have you come this morning--Fiumara, eh?"
"No, Signor."
"Where, then?"
"From the monastery of Battaglia, down the mountains yonder," he
answered somewhat reservedly; and, endeavouring to pass, he added, "a
holy day to you, Signor."
"Any movement taking place among the French lately?--are any of their
patrols out?"
"I have not heard, excellency; but a fugitive, chased by a party of
them, took refuge at the monastery this morning, and is said to have
confessed to the Padre Abate a horrible crime."
"Ha! and is he now in the sanctuary?" I demanded, eagerly.
"Prostrate on the steps of the altar: his penitence is great. Madonna
intercede for him!"
"Thanks," said I, permitting the uneasy rustic to pass on his way.
"Advance, soldiers--trail arms--forward, double quick! We have got on
the right scent at last, perhaps; and there is not a moment to be lost."
With right good will the soldiers moved forward towards the monastery;
their arms glancing and pouches clanking as they rushed down the steep
hill side. The place of our destination, a confused mass of irregular
buildings, stood near the river before-mentioned, about a mile distant.
It was a monastery of great antiquity; a high wall of grey stone girdled
it round, and above that rose its campanile, a square tower, surmounted
by a flat tiled roof. From the outer wall, the rocks on which the
edifice was perched sloped precipitously down on all sides; especially
towards the south, where they descended in one unbroken line to the deep
dark waters of the still but rapid stream, which wound through a chasm
below.
As we began to ascend the steep and devious path cut in the hard
volcanic rock, and leading directly to the monastery, we saw the monks
appearing and disappearing like black crows on their high outer wall;
and the arched gateway was hurriedly closed: the fathers were evidently
in a state of consternation, and making all fast; fearing that we might
disregard the immunities of the holy sanctuary. All the friars had
vanished by the time we reached the iron-studded door in the outer wall;
over which the evergreen, ivy, and long rank grass were waving in
profusion.
We knocked loudly. No answer was given.
"Sound!" said I, to the bugle-boy; and a loud blast from his instrument
made the old walls, the echoing chapel, the bosky woods and splintered
rocks ring far and near. Still the summons was unheeded, and the
impatient soldiers thundered at the gateway with the butts of their
muskets. The reverend fathers no doubt suspected our purpose.
"What want ye?" said an old vinegar-visaged friar, appearing on the top
of the wall, which he had surmounted by the assistance of a ladder.
"Are you all asleep within there?" I answered, angrily. "We want a
fugitive, to whom you have given refuge. Call you this civility, padre?
and to us whose swords are drawn in the cause of your country."
"Beware, Signori Inglesi! dare you violate the rights of the blessed
sanctuary?"
"You will soon learn whether we will not, you old scarecrow!" I replied,
with increased impatience. "Aprite la porta, Signor Canonico, or by
Heaven! we will beat it down in a twinkling!"
"Patience, capitano--patience, until I confer with the reverend
Superior."
"Be quick, then! We must see instantly this rascal who has obtained
sanctuary. The enemy are so near, that we have not a moment to lose."
The monk disappeared. I directed Gask, with six soldiers, to watch the
walls, and capture or wound any man attempting to escape; but not to
kill--if possible. I was most anxious to learn with certainty the fate
of Lascelles: whether he had been assassinated; or was lying perishing
and mutilated in some solitary place; or had been delivered up to the
French. Indeed, I should have been relieved from a load of anxiety, and
felt overjoyed to learn that his fate was only the last. Gask was as
well aware as I how jealous the continental monks were of the ancient
right of sanctuary, and he knew that they would rather favour the escape
of the vilest criminal than deliver him up to offended justice. Of
their obstinacy in this respect, I know of several instances: one I will
mention in particular. It occurred at Malta.
A soldier of ours, when passing one day through a street of Valetta, was
run against and thrown down by a provoking brute of a pig. Exasperated
at having his gay uniform soiled by the dusty street, he gave the
grunting porker a hearty kick; upon which the villainous macellajo, to
whom it belonged, drew his poniard and stabbed him to the heart. The
poor soldier fell dead on the pavement; the murderer fled to the great
church of St. John, and obtained sanctuary. Respecting the popular
prejudices of the Maltese (who regard with the greatest veneration that
sacred edifice, which contains the sepulchres of innumerable brave
knights of the Isle,) the general commanding permitted the hot-blooded
ruffian to remain some time in sanctuary, before he applied to the
bishop for the exertion of his authority to have him delivered up to the
civil magistrates. The prelate delayed, equivocated; and the reverend
fathers, foreseeing the violation of their famous place of refuge,
facilitated the escape of the assassin, and so defeated the ends of
justice.
I was determined that the priests of St. Battaglia should not cheat me
so in this affair; and, after desiring Gask with his party to keep on
the alert, I was about to have the door blown to pieces by a volley of
musketry, when the bars were withdrawn, and it slowly revolved on its
creaking hinges. The soldiers were about to rush in; but the sight they
beheld arrested them: all paused, mute, and turned inquiringly to me for
instructions.
*CHAPTER XVI.*
*THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED.*
The portal of the edifice slowly unfolded, disclosing the whole array of
priests, who, clad in their floating vestments, advanced chaunting from
the oratory, with tapers burning, censers smoking, and two emblazoned
banners waving: one of white silk, bearing a large crimson cross,
surmounted by the sacred charge of St. Peter--the keys of heaven; the
other, the symbolical banner of St. Battaglia, surrounded by all the
imaginary odour and glory of sanctity. The spectacle was very imposing:
the tapers of scented wax, and the silver censers filled with lavender
flowers, diffused through the air a fragrant perfume; while the pale
curling smoke that encircled the gilded crosses and elevated images
rendered--
"----Indistinct the pageant proud,
As fancy forms of midnight cloud,
When flings the moon upon her shroud
A wavering tinge of flame."
The misty vapour, the flickering lights, and the flowing garments of the
fathers; the dark walls of the old cloisters which rang to the solemn
and sonorous chaunt of twenty male voices; the distant organ swelling
aloud, and then dying away in the hollow recesses of the arched oratory,
together produced a striking effect. The abbot, an aged priest of
venerable aspect, with a beard white as the new fallen snow (then an
unusual appendage to a canon's chin), appeared at their head. They
halted beneath the ivy-crowned archway; the chaunt ceased, the soldiers
drew back, and all were silent: save the magnificent strains of the
organ reverberating in the vaulted chapel and the rustle of the
consecrated standards, all was still. The abbot, who no doubt expected
that this religious display would impress us with a feeling of awe, then
addressed me.
"Your purpose, signor?" he asked, mildly, but firmly.
"Reverend abate," I responded, lowering my sword respectfully, "I demand
the person, of a vile assassin, whom I have learned, from unquestionable
authority, you have concealed within these walls!"
"He whom you seek is under the protection of God. Know, signor, that he
who puts forth a hand in anger against one who seeketh and findeth
sanctuary in the church, is guilty of the most atrocious sacrilege!"
"On my own head be the guilt of the sacrilege, Padre Abate. Excuse us:
the French are in your immediate vicinity, and we run the imminent risk
of being all taken prisoners. One of our comrades, a young officer of
distinction, is missing; and a frightful assassination has been
committed at the villa Montecino: we have every reason to believe that
your favoured fugitive is implicated in both these mysterious
occurrences. I cannot parley with you, reverend signor: I demand an
interview with the criminal; and if he is not instantly brought forth, I
have to acquaint you that I will search the monastery by force; and, if
need be, drag him from the very altar at the point of the bayonet!"