THE RESCUE.
Speed, Malise, speed, the dun deer’s hide
On fleeter foot was never tied.
LADY OF THE LAKE.
Scarcely had the door closed behind Catiline, who rushed forth torch in
hand, as if goaded by the furies of Orestes, when half a dozen stout men,
sheathed in the full armor of Roman legionaries, sprang out of the
brushwood on the gorge’s brink, and seizing the ropes which had hung idle
during that critical hour, hauled on them with such energetical and
zealous power, that the ladder was drawn across the chasm with almost
lightning speed.
The hooks, with which its outer end was garnished, caught in the crevices
of the ruined wall, and a slender communication was established, although
the slight structure which bridged the abyss was scarcely capable of
supporting the weight of a human being.
The soldiers, accustomed, as all Roman soldiers were, to all the
expediences and resources of warfare, had prepared planks which were to be
run forward on the ladder, in order to construct a firm bridge. For the
plan of the besiegers, until interrupted by Catiline’s arrival, had been
to take the stronghold in reverse, while a false attack in front should be
in progress, and throwing ten or twelve stout soldiers into the heart of
the place, to make themselves masters of it by a coup-de-main.
This well-devised scheme being rendered unfeasible by the sudden charge of
Catiline’s horse, and the rout of the legionaries, the small subaltern’s
detachment which had been sent round under Lucia’s guidance—for it was
she, who had discerned the means of passing the chasm, while lying in wait
to assist Julia, and disclosed it to the centurion commanding—had been
left alone, and isolated, its line of retreat cut off, and itself without
a leader.
The singular scenes, however, which they had witnessed, the interest which
almost involuntarily they had been led to take in the fate of the fair
girl, her calm and dauntless fortitude, and above all the atrocious
villainy of Catiline, had inspired every individual of that little band
with an heroic resolution to set their lives upon a cast, in order to
rescue one who to all of them was personally unknown.
In addition to this, the discovery of Lucia’s sex—for they had believed
her to be what she appeared, a boy—which followed immediately on the loss
of her Phrygian bonnet, and the story of her bitter wrongs, which had
taken wind, acted as a powerful incentive to men naturally bold and
enterprising.
For it is needless to add, that with the revelation of her sex, that of
her character as the arch-traitor’s child and victim went, as it were,
hand in hand.
They had resolved, therefore, on rescuing the one, and revenging the other
of these women, at any risk to themselves whatsoever; and now having
waited their opportunity with the accustomed patience of Roman veterans,
they acted upon it with their habitual skill and celerity.
But rapid as were their movements, they were outstripped by the almost
superhuman agility of Lucia, who, knowing well the character of the human
fiend with whom they had to contend, his wondrous promptitude in counsel,
his lightning speed in execution, was well assured that there was not one
moment to be lost, if they would save Arvina’s betrothed bride from a fate
worse than many deaths.
As soon therefore as she saw the hooks of the scaling ladder catch firm
hold of the broken wall, before a single plank had been laid over its
frail and distant rungs, she bounded over it with the light and airy foot
of a practised dancer—finding account at that perilous moment in one of
those indelicate accomplishments in which she had been instructed for
purposes the basest and most horrible.
Accustomed as they were to deeds of energy and rapid daring, the stout
soldiers stood aghast; for, measuring the action by their own weight and
ponderous armature, they naturally overrated its peril to one so slightly
made as Lucia.
And yet the hazard was extreme, for not taking it into account that a
single slip or false step must precipitate her into the abyss, the slender
woodwork of the ladder actually bent as she alighted on it, from each of
her long airy bounds.
It was but a second, however, in which she glanced across it, darted
through the small embrasure, and was lost to the eyes of the men within
the darkness of the old barrack.
Astonished though they were at the girl’s successful daring, the soldiers
were not paralyzed at all, nor did they cease from their work.
In less than a minute after she had entered the window, a board was thrust
forward, running upon the framework of the ladder, and upon that a stout
plank, two feet in breadth, capable of supporting, if necessary, the
weight of several armed men.
Nor had this bridge been established many seconds before the soldier in
command ran forward upon it, and met Lucia at the embrasure, bearing with
strength far greater than her slight form and unmuscular limbs appeared to
promise, the still senseless form of Julia.
Catching her from the arms of Lucia, the robust legionary cast the
fainting girl across his shoulder as though she had been a feather; and
rushed back with her toward his comrades, crying aloud in haste alarm—
"Quick! quick! follow me quick, Lucia. I hear footsteps, they are
coming!"—
The caution was needless, for almost outstripping the heavy soldier, the
fleet-footed girl stood with him on the farther bank.
Yet had it come a moment later, it would have come all too late.
For having with his wonted celerity ascertained the truth of these fatal
tidings, and ordered the body of horse whom he had brought up with him,
and who had returned from pursuing the infantry, on seeing a larger body
coming up from Antonius’ army, to return with all speed to the camp of
Manlius, retaining only a dozen troopers as a personal escort, Catiline
had come back to bear off his lovely captive.
The clang of his haughty step had reached the ears of the legionary just
as he drew poor Julia, unconscious of her rescue, through the barrack
window; and as they stood on the brink of the ravine, thus far in safety,
the red glare of the torches streaming through the embrasures, announced
the arrival of their enemies, within almost arm’s length of them.
The awful burst of imprecations which thundered from the lips of Catiline,
as he perceived that his victim had been snatched from him, struck awe
even into the hearts of those brave veterans.
A tiger robbed of its young is but a weak and poor example of the frantic,
ungovernable, beast-like rage which appeared to prevail entirely above all
senses, all consideration, and all reason.
"May I perish ill! may I die crucified! may the fowls of the air, the
beasts of the field devour me, if she so escape!" he shouted; and
perceiving the means by which she had been carried off, he called loudly
for his men to follow, and was in the very act of leaping out from the
embrasure upon the bridge, which they had not time to withdraw, when one
of the legionaries spurned away the frail fabric with his foot, and
drawing his short falchion severed the cords which secured it, at a single
blow.
Swinging off instantly in mid air, it was dashed heavily against the rocky
wall of the precipice, and, dislodged by the shock, the planks went
thundering down into the torrent, at the bottom of the gorge; while upheld
by the hooks to the stone window sill, the ladder hung useless on
Catiline’s side of the chasm, all communication thus completely
interrupted.
At the same moment three of the heavy pila, which were the peculiar
missiles of the legion, were hurled by as many stout arms at the furious
desperado; but it was not his fate so to perish. One of the pondrous
weapons hurtled so close to his temple that the keen head razed the skin,
the others, blunted or shivered against the sides or lintel of the window,
fell harmless into the abyss.
"Thou fool!" cried the man who had rescued Julia, addressing him who had
cut away the bridge, "thou shouldst have let him reach the middle, ere
thou didst strike that blow. Then would he have lain there now," and he
pointed downward with his finger into the yawning gulf.
"I do not know," replied the other. "By the Gods! Catiline is near enough
to me, when he is twenty paces distant."
"Thou art right, soldier, and didst well and wisely," said Lucia, hastily.
"Hadst thou tarried to strike until he reached the middle, thou never
wouldst have stricken at all. One foot without that window, he would have
cleared that chasm, as easily as I would leap a furrow. But come! come!
come! we must not loiter, nor lose one instant. He will not so submit to
be thwarted, I have two horses by the roadside yonder. Their speed alone
shall save us."
"Right! right!" replied the soldier, "lead to them quickly. It is for life
or death! Hark! he is calling his men now to horse. We shall have a close
run for it, by Hercules!"—
"And we?"—asked one of the veterans—
"Disperse yourselves among the hills, and make your way singly to the
camp. He will not think of you, with us before him!"—
"Farewell! The Gods guide and guard thee!"—
"We shall much need, I fear, their guidance!" answered the legionary,
setting off at a swift pace, still bearing Julia, who was now beginning to
revive in the fresh air, following hard on Lucia, who ran, literally like
the wind, to the spot where she had tied her own beautiful white Ister,
and another horse, a powerful and well-bred Thracian charger, to the stems
of two chesnut trees, in readiness for any fortunes.
Rapidly as the soldier ran, still the light-footed girl outstripped him,
and when he reached the sandy road, she had already loosened the reins
from the trees to which they had been attached, and held them in
readiness.
"Mount, mount" cried Lucia, "for your life! I will help you to lift her."
"I am better now," exclaimed Julia—"Oh ye Gods! and safe too! I can help
myself now! and in an instant she was seated behind the stout man-at-arms,
and clinging with both hands to his sword belt.
"If you see me no more, as I think you will not, Julia, tell Paullus,
Lucia saved you, and—died, for love of him! Now—ride! ride! ride! for your
life ride!"
And giving their good horses head they sprang forth, plying the rein and
scourge, at headlong speed.
As they ascended the first little hillock, they saw the troopers of
Catiline pouring out of the watch-tower gate, and thundering down the
slope toward the bridge, with furious shouts, at a rate scarcely inferior
to their own.
They had but one hope of safety. To reach the little bridge and pass it
before their pursuers should gain it, and cut off their retreat toward
their friends, whom they knew to be nigh at hand; but to do so appeared
well nigh impossible.
It was a little in their favor that the steeds of Catiline’s troopers had
been harassed by a long and unusually rapid night march, while their own
were fresh and full of spirit; but this advantage was neutralized at least
by the double weight which impeded the progress and bore down the energies
of the noble Thracian courser, bearing Julia and the soldier.
Again it was in their favor that the road on their side the chasm was
somewhat shorter and much more level than that by which Catiline and his
riders were straining every nerve, gallopping on a parallel line with the
tremulous and excited fugitives; but this advantage also was diminished by
the fact that they must turn twice at right angles—once to gain the
bridge, and once more into the high road beyond it—while the rebels had a
straight course, though down a hill side so steep that it might well be
called precipitous.
The day had by this time broken, and either party could see the other
clearly, even to the dresses of the men and the colors of the horses, not
above the sixth part of a mile being occupied by the valley of the stream
dividing the two roads.
For life! fire flashed from the flinty road at every bound of the brave
coursers, and blood flew from every whirl of the knotted thong; but
gallantly the high-blooded beasts answered it. At every bound they gained
a little on their pursuers, whose horses foamed and labored down the
abrupt descent, one or two of them falling and rolling over their riders,
so steep was the declivity.
For life! Catiline had gained the head of his party, and his black horse
had outstripped them by several lengths.
If the course had been longer the safety of the fugitives would have been
now certain; but so brief was the space and so little did they gain in
that awful race, that the nicest eye hardly could have calculated which
first would reach the bridge.
So secure of his prize was Catiline, that his keen blade was already out,
and as he bowed over his charger’s neck, goring his flanks with his bloody
spurs, he shouted in his hoarse demoniacal accents, "Victory and
vengeance!"
Still, hopeful and dauntless, the stout legionary gallopped on—"Courage!"
he exclaimed, "courage, lady, we shall first cross the bridge!"—
Had Lucia chosen it, with her light weight and splendid horsemanship, she
might easily have left Julia and the soldier, easily have crossed the
defile in advance of Catiline, easily have escaped his vengeance. But she
reined in white Ister, and held him well in hand behind the others,
muttering to herself in low determined accents, "She shall be saved, but
my time is come!"
Suddenly there was a hasty shout of alarm from the troopers on the other
side, "Hold, Catiline! Rein up! Rein up!" and several of the foremost
riders drew in their horses. Within a minute all except Catiline had
halted.
"They see our friends! they are close at hand! We are saved! by the
Immortal Gods! we are saved!" cried the legionary, with a cry of triumph.
But in reply, across the narrow gorge, came the hoarse roar of Catiline,
above the din of his thundering gallop.—"By Hades! Death! or vengeance!"
"Ride! ride!" shrieked Lucia from behind, "Ride, I say, fool! you are
_not_ saved! He will not halt for a beat when revenge spurs him! For your
life! ride!"
It was a fearful crisis.
The Thracian charger reached the bridge. The hollow arch resounded but
once under his clanging hoofs—the second stride cleared it. He wheeled
down the road, and Julia, pale as death, whose eyes had been closed in the
agony of that fearful expectation, unclosed them at the legionary’s joyous
shout, but closed them again in terror and despair with a faint shriek, as
they met the grim countenance of Catiline, distorted with every hellish
passion, and splashed with blood gouts from his reeking courser’s side,
thrust forward parallel nearly to the black courser’s foamy jaws—both
nearly within arm’s length of her, as it appeared to her excited fancy.
"We are lost! we are lost!" she screamed.
"We are saved! we are saved!" shouted the soldier as he saw coming up the
road at a gallop to meet them, the bronze casques and floating horse-hair
crests, and scarlet cloaks, of a whole squadron of legionary cavalry,
arrayed beneath a golden eagle—the head of their column scarcely distant
three hundred yards.
But they were not saved yet, nor would have been—for Catiline’s horse was
close upon their croupe and his uplifted blade almost flashed over
them—when, with a wild cry, Lucia dashed her white Ister at full speed, as
she crossed the bridge, athwart the counter of black Erebus.
The thundering speed at which the black horse came down the hill, and the
superior weight of himself and his rider, hurled the white palfrey and the
brave girl headlong; but his stride was checked, and, blown as he was, he
stumbled, and rolled over, horse and man.
A minute was enough to save them, and before Lucia had regained her feet,
the ranks of the new comers had opened to receive the fugitives, and had
halted around them, in some slight confusion.
"The Gods be blessed for ever!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and
raising her eyes to heaven. "I have saved her!"
"And lost thyself, thrice miserable fool!" hissed a hoarse well known
voice in her ear, as a heavy hand seized her by the shoulder, and twisted
her violently round.
She stood face to face with Catiline, and met his horrid glare of hate
with a glance prouder than his own and brighter. She smiled triumphantly,
as she said in a clear high voice,
"I have saved her!"
"For which, take thy reward, in this, and this, and this!"
And with the words he dealt her three stabs, the least of which was
mortal; but, even in that moment of dread passion, with fiendish ingenuity
he endeavored to avoid giving her a wound that should be directly fatal.
"There writhe, and howl, ’till slow death relieve you!"
"Meet end to such beginning!" cried the unhappy girl. "Adulterous parent!
incestuous seducer! kindred slayer! ha! ha! ha! ha!" and with a wild laugh
she fell to the ground and lay with her eyes closed, motionless and for
the moment senseless.
But he, with his child’s blood smoking on his hand, shook his sword aloft
fiercely against the legionaries, and leaping on his black horse which had
arisen from the ground unhurt by its fall, gallopped across the bridge;
and plunging through the underwood into the deep chesnut forest was lost
to the view of the soldiers, who had spurred up in pursuit of him, that
they abandoned it ere long as hopeless.
It was not long that Lucia lay oblivious of her sufferings. A sense of
fresh coolness on her brow, and the checked flow of the blood, which
gushed from those cruel wounds, were the first sensations of which she
became aware.
But, as she opened her eyes, they met well known and loving faces; and
soft hands were busy about her bleeding gashes; and hot tears were falling
on her poor pallid face from eyes that seldom wept.
Julia was kneeling at her side, Paullus Arvina was bending over her in
speechless gratitude, and sorrow; and the stern cavaliers of the legion,
unused to any soft emotions, stood round holding their chargers’ bridles
with frowning brows, and lips quivering with sentiments, which few of them
had experienced since the far days of their gentler boyhood.
"Oh! happy," she exclaimed, in a soft low tone, "how happy it is so to
die! and in dying to see thee, Paullus."
"Oh! no! no! no!" cried Julia, "you must not, shall not die! my friend, my
sister! O, tell her, Paullus, that she will not die, that she will yet be
spared to our prayers, our love, our gratitude, our veneration."
But Paullus spoke not; a soldier, and a man used to see death in all
shapes in the arena, he knew that there was no hope, and, had his life
depended on it, he could not, at that moment have deceived her.
Little, however, cared the dying girl for that; even if she had heard or
comprehended the appeal. Her ears, her mind, were full of other thoughts,
and a bright beautiful irradiation played over her wan lips and ashy
features, as she cried joyously, although her voice was very tremulous and
weak.
"Paullus, do you hear that? her friend! her sister! Paullus, Paullus, do
you hear that? Julia calls me her friend—me, me her sister! me the
disgraced—"
"Peace! peace! Dear Lucia! you must not speak such words!" said Paullus.
"Be your past errors what they may—and who am I, that I should talk of
errors?—this pure high love—this delicate devotion—this death most
heroical and glorious no! no! I cannot—" and the strong man bowed his head
upon his hands, and burst into an agony of tears and passion.
No revelation from on high had taught those poor Romans, that ’joy shall
be in heaven, over the sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and
nine just persons that need no repentance.’
Yet groping darkly on their way by the dim lights of nature and
philosophy, they had perceived, at least, that it is harder far for one
corrupted from her very childhood, corrupted by the very parents who
should have guided, with all her highest qualities of mind and body
perverted studiously till they had hardened into vices, to raise herself
erect at once from the slough of sensuality and sin, and spring aloft, as
the butterfly transmuted from the grub, into the purity and loveliness of
virtue—than for one, who hath known no trial, suffered no temptation, to
hold the path of rectitude unswerving.
And Julia, whose high soul and native delicacy were all incapable of
comprehending the nature, much less the seductions, of such degradation,
as that poor victim of parental villainy had undergone, saw clearly and
understood at a glance, the difficulty, the gloriousness, the wonder of
that beautiful regeneration.
"No, no. Dear Lucia, dear sister, if you love that name," she said in
soothing tones, holding her cold hands clasped in her own quivering
fingers, "indeed, indeed you must not think or speak of yourself thus.
Your sins, if you have sinned, are the sins of others, your virtues and
your excellence, all, all your own. I have heard many times of women, who
have fallen from high virtue, in spite of noble teachings, in spite of
high examples, and whom neither love nor shame could rescue from
pollution—but never, never, did I hear of one who so raised herself,
alone, unaided, in spite of evil teaching, in spite the atrocity of
others, in spite of infamous examples, to purity, devotion such as thine!
But, fear not, Lucia. Fear not, dearest girl, you shall not die, believe—"
"I do not fear, I desire it," said the dying girl, who was growing weaker
and fainter every moment. "To a life, and a love like mine, both guilty,
both unhappy, death is a refuge, not a terror; and if there be, as you
believe, who are so wise and virtuous, a place beyond the grave, where
souls parted here on earth, may meet and dwell in serene and tranquil
bliss, perhaps, I say, perhaps, Julia, this death may compensate that
life—this blood may wash away the sin, the shame, the pollution."
"Believe it, O believe it!" exclaimed Julia earnestly. "How else should
the Gods be all-great and all-wise; since vice triumphs often _here_, and
virtue pines in sorrow. Be sure, I say, be sure of it, there is a place
hereafter, where all sorrows shall be turned to joy, all sufferings
compensated, all inequalities made even. Be sure of that, dear Lucia."
"I am sure of it," she replied, a brighter gleam of pleasure crossing her
features, on which the hues of death were fast darkening. "I am sure of it
_now_. I think my mind grows clearer, as my body dies away. I see—I
see—there _is_ God! Julia—there is an hereafter—an eternity—rest for the
weary, joy for the woful! yes! yes! I see—I feel it. We shall meet, Julia.
We shall meet, Paullus, Paullus!" And she sank back fainting and
overpowered upon Julia’s bosom.
In a moment or two, however, she opened her eyes again, but it was clear
that the spirit was on the point of taking its departure.
"I am going!" she said in a very low voice. "I am going. His sword was
more merciful than its master.—Bury me in a nameless grave. Let no stone
tell the tale of unhappy, guilty Lucia. But come sometimes, Julia,
Paullus, and look where I lie; and sometimes—will you not sometimes
remember Lucia?"
"You shall live in our souls forever!" replied Julia, stooping down to
kiss her.
"In your arms, Paullus, in your arms! will you not let me, Julia? ’Twere
sweet to die in your arms, Paullus."—
"How can you ask?" cried Julia, who scarce could speak for the tears and
sobs, which almost choked her.
"Here, Paullus, take her, gently, gently."
"Oh! sweet—oh! happy!" she murmured, as she leaned her head against his
heart, and fixed her glazing eyes upon his features, and clasped his hand
with her poor dying fingers. "She told you, Paullus, that for your love I
died to save her!"
"She did—she did—dear, dearest Lucia!"—
"Kiss me," she whispered; "I am going very fast. Kiss me on the brow,
Paullus, where years ago you kissed me, when I was yet an innocent child."
Then, fancying that he hesitated, she cried, "you will let him kiss me,
now, will you not, Julia? He is yours"—
"Oh! kiss her, kiss her, Paullus," exclaimed Julia eagerly, "how could you
fancy, Lucia, that I should wish otherwise? kiss her lips, not her brow,
Paullus Arvina."
"Kiss me first thou, dear Julia. I _may_ call you dear."
"Dear Lucia, dearest sister!"
And the pure girl leaned over and pressed a long kiss on the cold lips of
the unhappy, guilty, regenerated being, whose death had won for her honor,
and life, and happiness.
"Now, Paullus, now," cried Lucia, raising herself from his bosom by a last
feeble effort, and stretching out her arms, "now, ere it be too late!"—
He bowed down to her and kissed her lips, and she clasped her arms close
about his neck, and returned that last chaste caress, murmuring "Paullus,
mine own in death, mine own, own Paullus!"—
There was a sudden rigor, a passing tremulous spasm, which ran through her
whole frame for a moment—her arms clasped his neck more tightly than
before, and then released their hold, all listless and unconscious—her
head fell back, with the eyes glazed and visionless, and the white lips
half open.
"She is dead, Julia!" exclaimed Paullus, who was not ashamed to weep at
that sad close of so young and sorrowful a life, "dead for our happiness!"
"Hush! hush!" cried Julia, who was still gazing on the face of the
dead—"There is a change—see! see! how beautiful, how tranquil!"—
And in truth a sweet placid smile had settled about the pallid mouth, and
nothing can be conceived more lovely than the calm, holy, pure expression
which breathed from every lineament of the lifeless countenance.
"She is gone, peace to her manes."
"She is at rest, now, Paullus, she is happy!" murmured Julia. "How
excellent she was, how true, how brave, how devoted! Oh! yes! I doubt not,
she is happy."
"The Gods grant it!" he replied fervently. "But I have yet a duty," and
drawing his short straight sword he severed one long dark curl from the
lifeless head, and raising it aloft in his left hand, while with the right
he pointed heavenward the gleaming steel, "Ye Gods!" he cried, "supernal
and infernal! and ye spirits and powers, shades of the mighty dead! Hear
earth, and heaven, and thou Tartarus! by this good steel, by this right
hand, in presence of this sacred dead, I swear, I devote Catiline and his
hated head to vengeance! By this sword may he perish; may this hair be
steeped in his lifeblood; may he know himself, when dying, the victim of
my vengeance—may dogs eat his body—and his unburied spirit know neither
Tartarus nor Elysium!"—
It was strange, but as he ceased from that wild imprecation, a faint flash
of lightning veined the remote horizon, and a low clap of thunder rumbled
afar off, echoing among the hills—perchance the last of a storm, unheard
before and unnoticed by the distracted minds of the spectators of that
scene.
But the superstitious Romans accepted it as an omen.
"Thunder!"—cried one.
"The Gods have spoken!"—
"I hail the omen!" exclaimed Paullus, sheathing his sword, and thrusting
the tress of hair into his bosom. "By my hand shall he perish!"
And thenceforth, it was believed generally by the soldiers, that in the
coming struggle Catiline was destined to fall, and by the hand of Paul
Arvina.