A sonorous shouting greeted him. Five, ten, twenty bundles of lighted
sticks were simultaneously thrust beneath the place where he was
standing. The glare illuminated the animated faces, eager for carnage,
the steel of the guns, the iron axes. The faces of the torch-bearers
were sprinkled with flour, as a protection from the sparks, and in the
midst of their whitened faces their reddish eyes shone singularly. The
black smoke arose in the air, fading away rapidly. The flames whistled
and, stretching up on one side, were blown by the wind like infernal
hair. The thinnest and dryest reeds bent over quickly, reddening,
breaking down and cracking like sky-rockets. It was a gay sight.
“Mazzagrogna! Mazzagrogna! To death with the seducer! To death with
the crooked man!” they all cried, crowding together to throw insults at
him.
Mazzagrogna stretched out his hands, as though to subdue the clamour;
he gathered together all his vocal force and began, in the name of the
king, as if promulgating a law to infuse respect into the people.
“In the name of His Majesty, Ferdinando II, and by the grace of God,
King of both Sicilies, of Jerusalem——”
“To death with the thief!”
Two or three shots resounded among the cries, and the speaker, struck
on his chest and on his forehead, staggered, throwing his hands above
his head and falling downward. Upon falling, his head stuck between
two of the spikes of the iron railing and hung over the edge like a
pumpkin. The blood began to drip down upon the soil beneath.
This spectacle rejoiced the people. The uproar arose to the stars.
Then the bearer of the pole holding the hanging corpse came under
the balcony and held the body of Vincenzio Murro near to that of
the majordomo. The pole was wavering in the air and the people,
dumbfounded, watched as the two bodies jolted together. An improvised
poet, alluding to the Albino-like eyes of Mazzagrogna and to the
bleared ones of the messenger, shouted these lines:
“_Lean over the window, you fried eyes,_
_That you may look upon the open skies!_”
A great outburst of laughter greeted the jest of the poet and the
laughter spread from mouth to mouth like the sound of water falling
down a stony valley.
A rival poet shouted:
“_Look, what a blind man can see!_
_If he closes his eyes and tries to flee._”
The laughter was renewed.
A third one cried out:
“_Oh, face of a dead brute!_
_Your crazy hair stands resolute!_”
Many more imprecations were cast at Mazzagrogna. A ferocious joy
had invaded the hearts of the people. The sight and smell of blood
intoxicated those nearest. Tomaso of Beffi and Rocco Fuici challenged
each other to hit with a stone the hanging head of the dead man, which
was still warm, and at every blow moved and shed blood. A stone, thrown
by Rocco Fuici, at last, hit it in the centre, causing a hollow sound.
The spectators applauded, but they had had enough of Mazzagrogna.
Again a cry arose, “Cassaura! Cassaura! To death! To death!”
Fabrizio and Ferdinandino Scioli, pushing their way through the crowd,
were instigating the most zealous ones. A terrible shower of stones,
like a dense hailstorm, mingled with gun-shots, beat against the
windows of the palace, the window panes falling upon the assailing
hoards and the stones rebounding. A few of the bystanders were hurt.
When they were through with the stones and had used all their bullets,
Ferdinandino Scioli cried out, “Down with the doors!”
And the cry, repeated from mouth to mouth, shook every hope of
salvation out of the Duke of Ofena.
V
No one had dared to close the balcony, where Mazzagrogna had fallen.
His corpse was lying in a contorted position. Then the rebels, in
order to be freer, had left the pole, holding the bleeding body of
the messenger, leaning against the balcony. Some of his limbs had
been cut off with a hatchet, and the body could be seen through the
curtains as they were inflated by the wind. The evening was still. The
stars scintillated endlessly. A few stubble fields were burning in the
distance.
Upon hearing the blows against the door the Duke of Ofena wished to try
another experiment.
Don Filippo, stupefied with terror, kept his eyes closed and was
speechless. Carletto Grua, his head bandaged, doubled up in the
corner, his teeth chattering with fever and fear, watched with his
eyes sticking out of their orbits, every gesture, every motion of his
master. The servants had found refuge in the garrets. A few of them
still remained in the adjoining rooms.
Don Luigi gathered them together, reanimated their courage and rearmed
them with pistols and guns, and then assigned to each one his place
under the parapets of the windows, and between the shutters of the
balcony. Each one had to shoot upon the rebels with the greatest
possible celerity, silently, without exposing himself.
“Forward!”
The firing began. Don Luigi was placing his hopes in a panic. He was
untiringly discharging his long-range pistols with most marvellous
energy. As the multitude was dense, no shot went astray. The cries
arising after every discharge excited the servants and increased their
ardour. Already disorder invaded the mutineers. A great many were
running away, leaving the wounded on the ground.
Then a cry of victory arose from the group of the domestics.
“Long live the Duke of Ofena!” These cowardly men were growing brave,
as they beheld the backs of their enemy. They no longer remained
hidden, no longer shot at haphazard, but, having risen to their feet,
were aiming at the people. And every time they saw a man fall, would
cry, “Long live the Duke!”
Within a short time the palace was freed from the siege. All around
the wounded ones lay, groaning. The residue of the sticks, which were
still burning over the ground and crackling as they died out, cast
upon the bodies uncertain flashes of light reflected in the pools of
blood. The wind had grown, striking the old oaks with a creeping sound.
The barking of dogs, answering one another, resounded throughout the
valley.
Intoxicated by their victory and broken down with fatigue, the
domestics went downstairs to partake of some refreshments. They were
all unhurt. They drank freely and abundantly. Some of them announced
the names of those they had struck, and described the way they had
fallen. The cook was boasting of having killed the terrible Rocco
Furci; and as they became excited by the wine the boasting increased.