Forgetful of the illustrious dead, all Venice rang with the shouts of

"Hail to the new Doge Alviso Mocenigo!" Proveditor General at sea, and

commander in Dalmatia, whom the Great Chancellor was conveying to his

coronation. The mass del Spirito Santo was sung in the cathedral of the

patron saint, Marco. Its vast dome, upheld by nearly three hundred

columns of marble and porphyry, towering like an eastern pagoda, and

brilliant with alabaster and emeralds, the spoil of rifled

Constantinople, reverberated to the holy anthem within, and the joyous

bursts of loyalty without. Amidst the clangour of bells and the shouts

of the people, the new Doge embarked in a magnificent gondola, covered

with a canopy of velvet and gold and decorated with the banners of the

knights of the Golden Stole and St. Mark the Glorious. Onward it moved,

amid beating of drums, braying of trumpets, the booming of artillery and

the acclamations of the people, towards the Palazzo di San Marco,

followed by two hundred gondolas bearing the standards of noble

families; and surrounded by the gleaming bayonets and halberds of the

Dalmatians, the Sclavonians, and other battalions of the Venetian

capelletti.

The two great pillars, surmounted by gigantic lions, which formerly

stood on the Piraeus of Athens, and now erected in the arsenal of

Venice, were enveloped in garlands of flowers and floating streamers;

two hundred cannon thundered forth a salute from the banks of the grand

canal, while the ships and galleys replied by broadsides in honour of

Alviso. The nobles were escorting the new Doge to that lordly dome from

which but an hour before the superb catafalco bearing the remains of his

aged predecessor had departed. Scattering gold among the people, the

Doge Alviso ascended the Giant's Staircase; on the summit of which he

was invested with the ducal robe and bonnet studded with precious

stones. After which, the most noble Angelo Maria Malipierro, senior of

the forty-one electors, made an oration to Alviso and his people.

Amid this scene of joy and splendour--to which the bright meridian sun

of a glorious summer day lent additional charms, spire and tower

gleaming in its golden light, and the long vistas of the sinuous canals

(where not shadowed by the gigantic palaces) shining like mirrors of

polished gold--Giulio della Torre, who never again could partake of

these festivities, stood an outcast felon, fettered and in rags, by the

column of infamy that marked the site of his detested palace. Never did

he feel the bitter agony of merited humiliation so much as at that

moment, when the Doge's splendid train, glittering with all the pomp of

wealth and nobility, swept through the marble arch of the Rialto.

There is no crime, however foul, for which gold will not procure a

pardon, both from church and state, in Italy; but Count Giulio was a

beggar, without even one quattrino. Those who now possessed his villas

and castles--having either purchased them in the days of his mad

extravagance, or holding them from Mocenigo on his forfeiture--were

loudest in his condemnation; although his hands were yet unstained by

blood, and he had been the dupe of a beautiful but vicious woman and the

unwitting tool of a desperate debauchee. In the solitude of the

horrible piombi, he had ample time to reflect on the insanity of his

career, and to repent: he wept for Diomida, and beat his head against

his dungeon walls in the extremity of his agony. He endured all the

pangs of remorse and self-reproach; and looking back to that proud

eminence on which he had so lately stood, admired, honoured and

beloved,--a position to which the talents of his high-born ancestors had

raised him, and his then virtues entitled him,--Diomida, the gentle, the

suffering, and beautiful, arose vividly before him, gashed by the dagger

of Strazoldi. Then his reason tottered, and he longed for death to

relieve him of his misery.

The new Doge Alviso Mocenigo, remembering an old grudge he bore Count

Giulio, shewed now, in the plenitude of his power, the true Venetian

spirit of revenge: he cast him into one of those dreadful cells under

the roof of the palace of St. Mark--the worst of the piombi or leaden

dungeons--where the wretched prisoners, stripped to the skin, are

chained to the pavement, and exposed to the burning rays of a hot

Italian sun concentrated in a focus, until their brains boil and they

become raving maniacs.

During the heat of a scorching summer, the unhappy della Torre

experienced these frightful torments in their utmost extreme, till he

found relief in furious madness. The stern Doge Alviso, insatiate in

his thirst for revenge, consigned his fallen foe to the galleys of the

Maltese knights, where the flaying rod of the task-master restored him

to his senses and the pangs of reflection and remorse.

Recollection slowly returned, and the once noble Giulio della Torre, who

had been chained to the oar a crazed maniac, became in time a hardened

villain, lost to everything but a craving for vengeance on Mocenigo;

which, happily, was never gratified. The bandits, bravoes, and other

murderous villains, with whom he was compelled to associate, applauded,

pitied, and encouraged him by turns: or affected to do so; but the

meanest citizen of Venice would not have glanced at him on the highway.

Mocenigo died; and for ten long years Giulio tugged at the oar: but the

thirst for revenge never passed away. The galley was wrecked on the

rocks of Alfieri on the Calabrian coast; he escaped, and turned robber.

From a robber he became a hermit, secluded in the wild woods, and dwelt

in the habitation which you now behold.

Know that _I am he_ of whom I have spoken: once Giulio Count della Torre

di Fana; but prouder of the humble title of Il Padre Eremito of the

Tomb! Here have I dwelt for sixty long, weary, and monotonous, though

peaceful years. Time seemed to stand still, and death appeared to have

forgotten me. Until three days ago, when first I felt his cold hand

upon my heart, I feared that, like the wandering Apostle of the

Scripture, I was to live on undying, until that last dreadful day when

the heavens and the earth, the dead and the living, shall come together.

* * * * *

Such was the story related to me by this singular being, omitting the

frequent outbursts and exclamations of horror, grief, remorse, and

exhaustion with which its course was often interrupted. The dying man

now finally paused, overcome with exertion and the intensity of his

emotions.

After many pious ejaculations and muttered prayers, his strength

gradually became weaker, his voice more faint, and utterly exhausted by

his long confession, he sank into that dull lethargy so often the

forerunner of death. Rolled up in my cloak I sat beside him, watching

the ebb of decaying nature, and pondering on the peculiarity of my

situation and this strange tale of other days. I seemed still to hear

the querulous tones of his feeble voice long after his lips had ceased

to move; but at last, overcome with the toil of the previous day and

night, I could no longer resist the weariness that oppressed me, and

sank into a deep sleep.

When I awoke, the morning sun streamed brightly through the ruined

window of the tomb, and its yellow light, piercing through the gloom,

fell with celestial radiance on the bushy beard, attenuated form, and

rigid features of the old recluse. The clasped hands, the fixed eyes,

and relaxed jaw informed me that his spirit had fled, and I reproached

myself bitterly fur having been so forgetful as to sleep and permit the

poor old man to die unwatched. I stirred him, but he felt no more: I

laid my hand on his heart, but its pulses were still. How many millions

of his contemporaries had been consigned to the tomb, where perchance

even their bones could not now be found, while he had lingered on--an

animated mummy withered in heart and crushed in spirit!

I now departed, obliged to leave to fate the chance of the hermit's

remains obtaining the rites of sepulture. The idea troubled me but

little at that time: when campaigning, unburied bodies are no more

thought of than dead leaves by the way-side. But I learned afterwards

that, by order of Petronio, Bishop of Cosenza, the old hermit was

interred with great ceremony in the ancient tomb; which was converted

into an oratory, where the prayers of the passers-by might be offered up

for the repose of his soul. The gown and rosary of the hermit may yet

be seen there by any one who is curious in these matters.

Upon leaving the tomb, I thought more, perhaps, of my horse than of the

hermit: poor Cartouche had been exposed to all the fury of the last

night's storm. I hastened to the place where I had picqueted him; he

was gone, and there still lay many miles of wild and rugged country

between me and Crotona! First securing the door of the tomb, to keep

wolves, lynxes, or polecats from the remains of the recluse, and

muttering a hearty malison on my predicament and the loss of my valuable

horse, I set out in the direction of the rising sun, which was my surest

guide to Crotona.

After breakfasting on the wild apples, plums and peaches, that

flourished by the road-side, and taking a hearty pull at my friendly

flask to correct their crudeness, I pushed forward on my solitary march

with all speed. On reaching a place where the road dipped down between

two steep impending banks, from the summits of which the shady oaks

formed by their entwined branches a thick impervious arch of the richest

foliage, what was my delight on beholding my gallant grey quietly

cropping the green herbage under the dewy shade! His reins trailed on

the ground, his coat was rough, and the saddle and housings were awry;

but on hearing my joyous halloo and whistle, the noble charger pricked

up his ears, neighed in recognition, and, trotting up, rubbed his head

upon my shoulder. In a minute more I was upon his back, and passing

hill and hollow at a speed which not even the swiftest horse of the

boasted Calabrian blood could have equalled.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*THE SIEGE OF CROTONA.*

Descending the chain of mountains terminating in the Capo della Nuova, I

beheld before me the wide expanse of the Adriatic Sea stretching away

into the Gulf of Tarento, now beautifully illumined by the light of the

setting sun. As the fiery orb sank behind the hills I had left, it

beamed a bright adieu on the towers of the Achaean city; tinging with

saffron and gold the waves that broke upon the Capo della Colonna--the

ancient promontory of Lacinium, once celebrated for the magnificent

temple of Juno, destroyed by the soldiers of Hannibal.

The school of Pythagoras--the glory of Graecia Major--had disappeared

with the power of Crotona; and of the majestic fane of Juno Lacinia but

one solitary column--rearing its massive shaft above the prostrate ruins

of the rest, and half submerged in the waves of the encroaching

sea--remained to attest the grandeur of the edifice in its glory; when

Greek, Ausonian, and Sicilian, bowed their heads before its pagan altar.

The temple is now nothing but a heap of stones, mantled with green slime

and sea-weed; and the desolation is heightened by the discordant screams

of flocks of sea birds.

The banks of the classic Neathus have lost all their boasted beauty and

verdure, and are now covered with sedgy marshes and stunted trees and

shrubs; very different from that umbrageous foliage which clothed them

in the days of Theocritus.

Having ridden for the greater part of the day under a burning sun,

during the sultry hours of afternoon--a time which the voluptuous

Italian passes in the slumbers of the siesta--I was half choked by

thirst and the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, and Cartouche was

beginning to falter with fatigue. As I slowly followed the tortuous

windings of the road to Crotona, the approaching dusk of evening

gradually invested in its sombre veil the brilliant scenery: the

Adriatic turned from gold to crimson and the distant hills from emerald

green to misty purple, until their bright summits faded away into the

dim horizon, and the blue vault of heaven assumed the aspect of a

spangled dome, spanning land and sea; while the moon ascended slowly to

her place, like a mighty globe of liquid silver rising from the dark

heaving waters of the ocean.

Evening had given place to night: but such a night! It seemed more

beautiful than day! The balsamic odours of orange, olive and lemon

groves, were wafted on the soft, refreshing breeze, till the whole air

seemed to thicken with delicious fragrance. The sweet strains of the

"Ave Maria" stole up the valley from the lighted chapel of a solitary

convent, and the deep-toned chimes from a distant steeple were borne on

the cool air, mingled with the tinklings from the lowing herds, and the

evening hymn chanted by the shaggy-coated herdsman as he drove his

cattle towards the basin of a gushing fountain. Myriads of insects

buzzed around us, and Cartouche kept switching his long tail like a whip

and shaking his ears with irritation, as they floated in a black cloud

around him.

I found the modern Crotona to be little better than a village, dominated

by the citadel or castle. Every vestige or memorial of its ancient

grandeur had passed away, save the moss-grown column on the cape; and

nothing survived of the once-magnificent city, from the gate of which

the gigantic Milo led forth a hundred thousand men to battle. The

superb temples over which waved the banner of Justinian, the massive

walls and brazen gates which the cohorts of Totila the Goth assailed in

vain, had long since crumbled into dust, and a wretched hamlet marked

the site of the ancient Crotona of Mysellus.

The half-ruined citadel, built by Charles V., was occupied by a French

garrison. It was blockaded by a brigade of British commanded by Colonel

Macleod, and the Free Corps of Santugo, on the land side; while the

_Amphion_ frigate, with a squadron of Sicilian gun-boats, cut off all

supplies, succour, and communication from seaward. The French were

reduced to great straits at the time of my arrival, and were daily

expected to capitulate. General Regnier--who, since the battle of

Maida, had endeavoured to maintain his ground between the citadel and

Catanzaro (one of the finest towns in the province)--made suddenly a

precipitate retreat towards Tarento; abandoning his soldiers in Crotona

to their fate.

At Tarento, he was attacked by the chiefs of the Masse and the brigands,

who compelled him to retire after losing seven hundred men. The

Marchese di Monteleone narrowly escaped being taken prisoner while

leading on a desperate charge at the head of a "handful" of cavalry. To

his bravery and exertions when commanding the rear-guard, Buonaparte

attributed solely the effective retreat of his shattered forces through

these wild and savage provinces. The discomfited general retreated

along the shore of the Adriatic with the utmost rapidity; passing

through Melissa, Gariati Nuova, and Rossana, until he reached the

northern frontier of Calabria Citra: then, turning like a hunted stag on

his pursuers, he stood once more at bay; and, with the remnant of his

force, took up a position at Cassano. There he entrenched himself, and

awaited the formation of a junction with Massena, the Prince of

Rivoli,--"the child of victory," and of devastation,--who was advancing

at the head of an army flushed with success. Gaeta, after a brave

defence for three months, had been surrendered to Massena's division by

Prince William of Hesse Philipstadt.

On my approaching Crotona, the red gleams that flashed across the

darkened sky, and the deep booming sounds that broke with sullen

reverberations the silence of a calm evening, announced that an

interchange of heavy shot was taking place between the besiegers and the

citadel. The loud report of the frigate's 42-pounders could easily be

distinguished from the lighter artillery of the gun-boats and the

curricle guns, which formed the only battering train Macleod had with

him. From an eminence, I had a perfect view of the whole plan of

operations. The noble frigate--whose lofty masts, well squared yards,

sparkling top-light, and swelling sides, were reflected in the dark blue

water--had been hauled close in shore, for the purpose of battering the

citadel; but now, as the darkness was fast descending, her boats were

towing her beyond range, and she came to anchor out of gun-shot in the

Gulf of Tarento.

From the moment the first parallel was laid down, the siege had been

pushed strenuously. On the land side, a line of circumvallation,

consisting of a good breastwork and ditch, had been drawn around the

fortress, to defend its besiegers from the incessant fire of the

citadel. The daring and determination of this gallant little garrison

drew forth the admiration of all; save the revengeful Calabrians, who

panted for its surrender with a blood-thirstiness increased by

resistance. The garrison was commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel de

Bourmont: it had numbered only a thousand at the time of Regnier's

retreat, and was now greatly reduced by the casualties of war. One

night, sallying forth at the head of two hundred grenadiers, and passing

through a line of counter-approach, De Bourmont completely scoured that

part of the trenches occupied by the Calabrians, under Visconte Santugo.

The exasperation of these Calabrians, and their thirst for deadly

retribution, are inconceivable. On their crucifixes, on their daggers,

and on the bodies of the slain, they solemnly vowed vengeance on the

garrison when it capitulated; and only our bayonets restrained their

cruelty.

The streets of Crotona appeared empty, and the town almost deserted; the

spent cannon-shot and shell splinters, against which my horse

continually struck his hoofs, sufficiently informed me of the reason.

Many houses had been unroofed by the bomb batteries, or reduced to ruins

by the cannonade; very few remained inhabited, and those only which were

at a distance from the fire of the batteries. The French works were

mounted with forty pieces of the heaviest ordnance.

I found Macleod among the parallels, where he was on the alert day and

night, superintending the relief and defence of the trenches. His

uniform was completely concealed by a rough great-coat, above which he

wore a tartan plaid to protect him from the dew; that falls heavily by

night in this warm climate, and always in proportion to the intensity of

the heat of noon-day. An undress bonnet, a dirk, and basket-hilted

sword completed his equipment. He read by torch-light the laconic

letter of his friend the general; who, however, had enclosed documents

of a more official nature for Captain Hoste, R.N., commanding the

_Amphion_. The note ran thus:--

"DEAR PETER,

"If Crotona does not surrender in twenty-four hours after Dundas

arrives, take the d--ned place by storm. Yours ever,

"J.S."

"Extinguish the torch, or there will be a vacancy in the Buffs

to-morrow!" said Macleod to the soldier who held the hissing and flaring

link. At that moment a thirty-two pound shot came whizzing along and

buried itself in the breastwork, covering us with dust and clay. "A

narrow escape!" continued the colonel; "these favours are exchanged

liberally here. The podesta will order you a billet somewhere for the

night; but come to me in the morning: my quarters are in the Strada

Larga. I must send you to De Bourmont, as none of my fellows know any

language save that spoken north of the Brig of Perth. By dawn, we will

have the citadel summoned in due form by sound of trumpet. Meantime,

adieu!"

After considerable trouble I discovered the residence of the podesta in

the miserable marketplace. I procured a billet on a house which proved

to be a place of entertainment, though a very desolate one. There I

hastened to take up my quarters, wearied with fatigue and the heat of

the past day, and having an appetite like that of a hawk. Resigning

Cartouche to the care of the colonel's groom, I forthwith ordered a meal

which was to pass for dinner and supper. Brisket a la royale, garnished

with pickles, maccaroni with Parmesan cheese, &c., were the best the

house afforded; these, with fruit of all kinds, and a decanter or two of

Gioja wine, furnished a good repast enough for a hungry soldier, who had

just escaped an iron pill that no mortal stomach could digest. The

waiter had just removed the cloth, and I was stretching myself on the

sofa to enjoy my first cigar, when Santugo entered, cloaked, booted and

belted as if for some important expedition.

"How, my lord, for the trenches to-night?" said I, springing up.

"No, faith! the Free Corps have had enough of the trench duty. But, per

Baccho! my friend, how rejoiced I am to see you," he exclaimed, flinging

his plumed hat one way and his mantle another. "Cazzica, I am going to

a place to-night where few men dare show their noses; and yet there are

some of the prettiest faces in the kingdom of Naples within its walls:

faces which, monsignore, the sun (as being of the impure masculine

gender) dares not even to kiss with his rays. What say you, signor?"

"That I shall be most happy to accompany you, my lord: but let us finish

this decanter first."

"Of the most inveterate soakers are you redcoats! Signor Claude, of all

men in Italy, I would prefer you to stand by my side to-night."

"There is danger, then?'

"You readily appreciate the compliment. It may so happen that there

will be a scuffle," said he gaily, as stretching out his legs and

lounging back on his chair he half closed one eye, and with the other

scrutinized the colour of his wine with a critical air.

"Good Gioja that; what vintage, think you?"

"The last earthquake, perhaps."

"I'll trouble you for the caraffa. In short, signor," said the

Visconte, becoming suddenly grave, "I am obliged to throw myself

entirely upon you, and rely on obtaining your assistance and advice.

Being a Maltese religioso, Castelermo declines to accompany me; though I

know that he loves convents no better than I do. He was once jilted by

a nun, and plundered of his patrimony by an abbess, as he may yet relate

to you; for poor Marco is a most inveterate proser, and sure to tell his

love-story when not absorbed with his other theme, the glories of Malta

the knight Valetta and old Villiers de l'Isle Adam. My relation

Benedetto mounts guard in the trenches to-night, and their greatnesses

of St. Agatha and Bagnara are doubtless immersed in the intricacies of

chess, or the nonsense of faro: thus I have no friend but you; and as we

were good friends of old in Sicily, and comrades at Maida, I am

encouraged to make you the depository of my secret."

This serio-comic preamble led me to expect some wondrous disclosure. He

paused for a moment, and heaved a long preliminary sigh: when, as I

filled up our glasses, his glance fell upon Bianca's ring which

glittered on my finger. He changed countenance visibly, and for an

instant his dark eyes kindled with fire, while his brows knitted and

became as one.

I was beginning to erect my bristles in turn; when, assuming a grave but

not unpleasant tone, he thus addressed me:--

"Signor Claude, I perceive you have already won far on the good graces

of my cousin Bianca. From what passed at Palermo, I might have expected

this; and yet, considering the shortness of the time, and the pride of

the girl, I am somewhat surprised. But I have no wish to interfere: nor

shall I have cause; if, in loving her, you bear always in mind that she

is the daughter of a soldier, and the cousin of one of the first

Neapolitan nobles."

Not altogether pleased at his tone, I was about to reply--perhaps with

an air of pique--when he continued, with a laugh--

"Stay, caro Claude! I know what you would say: that you value not a

rush the wrath of any man; and that you love Bianca as never man loved

woman. I can imagine all that: but beware how you display the jewel

before some eyes! Many a poniard that now rests quietly in its sheath

might be edged and pointed anew. Eh--hah! excuse my brevity, and want of

ceremony just now; but having a love affair in hand, time presses. One

at a time is quite enough to be concerned in."

"Believe me, Luigi, if I can be of any assistance, it will afford me

inexpressible pleasure."

"Good! I knew you would be my friend."

"But whom mean you to parade?" said I, stretching my hand over a table

where my pistols lay.

"Per Baccho!" said he, with an air of displeasure; "a duel is the first

thing you Britons think of when one is in a scrape. There are none

fought in Italy. A bravo's poniard at a ducat the inch--you

understand?"

"Then, Santugo, the lady----"

"Is a nun of the convent of Santa Caterina da Siena here, at Crotona."

"A nun?"

"In that little word lies all the danger, the difficulty, and the

devilry!"

"To poach on the preserves of his Holiness is ticklish work in this part

of the world!"

"I know it," he replied, gloomily; "and am acquainted with three

gentlemen of Naples who, for meddling with ecclesiastics, have borne all

the terrors of the law--imprisonment, ignominy, the weight of the public

scurlada, and confiscation of everything: they are now compelled to

serve under Fra Diavolo, Francatripa, and others, as common brigands.

Per Baccho! I have not forgotten the unhappy Cavaliere di Castelluccio,

who was lately spirited away by the Bishop of Cosenza, and has never

been heard of since. However, these are but slight dangers for us, over

whom the holy office once stretched its iron arm. In these days, what

priest would dare to put forth his hand against me, the Visconte di

Santugo, and Grand Bailiff of Calabria-Ultra? Well, Claude, the lady is

a nun; and I must have her to-night, even should we be compelled to fire

the convent, and carry her off in the confusion. Ah! Del Castagno

tried that with a girl at Nicastro--a dashing attempt; but he was caught

by the sbirri of the Bishop Petronio and consigned for six months to a

dungeon at Canne, where black bread and stale water so completely cured

him of the tender passion, that he regarded the poor damsel with the

most pious horror, and has now become the sober-minded husband of cousin

Ortensia. But I jest with a heavy heart! Dundas, I believe you to be

honourable as I have found you brave; and in the affair of to-night,

would rather have you as my comrade than any of the volatile Neapolitans

of my acquaintance--fellows whose friendship will perhaps only last

while the flask contains a drop of wine and the purse a ducat."

"The lady?" I observed, impatiently.

"Is Bianca's sister."

"How! the Signora Francesca?"

"Even so: the second daughter of old Annibale di Santugo, who fell while

fighting under the Cardinal Ruffo in Apulia. Though poor in ducats, he

was rich in blood and name--being my father's younger brother. With his

last breath, he bequeathed to my care his three motherless

girls--Ortensia, Bianca, and Francesca. Francesca was esteemed the

greatest beauty in Italy; yet in an excess of folly--or rather, let me

call it, generosity--she immured herself in a convent. To remove the

only obstacle to her sister's marriage with my friend Benedict, did this

dear girl (of all the loves I have had, my only true one!) give up her

slender patrimony, and take the veil in this convent at Crotona. But

the bright tresses shred from her brow were scarcely consumed on the

altar, ere bitter repentance and heart-consuming grief seized her. I

was serving with the Neapolitan army in the Roman territories, and had

not then seen her--at least, since her childhood. Would to God that I

never had! How much agony might have been spared both of us! I met her

at the baths of Nicastro; where, in strict charge of my mother, she had

gone, by special permission, for the recovery of her health, which the

close confinement of the cloister, unavailing regrets, and a lingering

love for the world she had left, were destroying. I was fiery, ardent,

and only three-and-twenty; she, a drooping but beautiful girl, devoted

to Heaven--a veiled and vowed nun. Oh! what madness could have prompted

me to love her? But Cupid and the devil are always at one's elbow. We

were cousins--a dangerous relationship--and our intimacy, open and

unconstrained, plunged us at once into this delicious passion, the

impulses of which I found it impossible to resist. I evaded the

watchful eyes of my mother, and gained, beyond redemption, the

affections of poor Francesca. She returned to her convent wretched and

heart-broken. Infamy and death are, perhaps, before her. Oh! Madonna

mia! She must be rescued, and at all risks!" he exclaimed, leaping up,

and wrapping his cloak around him. "You will accompany me, of course?

Remember 'tis the sister of Bianca!"

"And if she consents to elope?"

"We must carry her off to a little villa I have somewhere in the Val di

Demona. There she can be quietly domiciled until the uproar is over,

and I can obtain a dispensation from Rome; after which she may resume

her old place in society, and laugh at the authority of the Signora

Abbadessa--who, I learn from her friend, Benedetto, is a regular Tartar.

Now, Claude, let us march."

I buckled on my sabre, drained the decanter, and, forgetting the

fatigues of the day, set forth with Santugo. We were both muffled up in

our cloaks, and had our forage caps pulled over our faces to elude

observation.

At the corner of the Strada Larga, I lit a cigar at the consecrated lamp

before a Madonna, and we pushed on at a brisk pace, regardless of the

maledictions and cries of "Eretico!" which my heedless act called forth

from some Crotonians who observed it.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*THE ABDUCTION.--A SCRAPE.*

We left Crotona by an ancient archway, massive, dark, and covered with

lichens; and almost hidden beneath a mass of vines and ivy. Through

this gate, perhaps, had rolled the "tide of war" that swept away the

host of the luxurious Sybarites. Taking the road to the old promontory

of Lacinium, a quarter of an hour's walk brought us beneath the high

walls of the convent, which, from the summit of a wave-beaten rock,

threw a long dark shadow across the moonlit Adriatic. The wild roses

and orange trees grew in luxuriance on three sides of it, and filled the

air with a fragrant perfume.

"How brilliant the moonlight is!" said I, by way of saying something,

for my lively friend had become unusually silent and thoughtful.

"Hush! Signor Claude; speak softly, and keep well in the shadow. As

for the moon, I would that the angel of darkness stretched his wings

between us. I could well spare her lustre just now. If we are

observed, our walk will have been to little purpose."

"Ghieu! I believe you; ho! ho!" laughed a strange voice near us.

"Did you speak?" asked Santugo, in a fierce whisper.

"Not I," was my somewhat curt reply.

"Corpo di Baccho! then we are watched!" he exclaimed, drawing his sword,

and searching about him with kindling eyes.

"Imagination, Santugo."

"Ghieu! ho! ho!" laughed the voice again, close behind me. I turned

suddenly round, but saw nothing, save the massively-jointed wall. I was

startled and annoyed, and instantly loosened my sabre in its sheath,

keeping my sword arm free from the folds of my cloak.

Santugo's irritation was excessive; he ran his sword into every bush,

searched every nook and corner, and scanned the whole walls, even at the

imminent risk of being discovered, but to no purpose: whether the voice

was real or imaginary was yet a mystery. We listened intently; all was

still, save the soft rustle of the orange trees, and the dash of the

surf, as the Adriatic rolled its waves on the basaltic cliffs beneath

the convent walls. A bell, swung from a beam in the square, open-arched

campanile, or steeple, tolled midnight; and a faint, flickering light

was immediately seen transiently lighting the tall windows of the

chapel, illuminating the bright hues of the stained glass, and

burnishing the stone tracery of each in succession.

"'Tis Francesca d'Alfieri!" exclaimed the Visconte, with rapture. "She

does penance alone in the chapel to-night; each sister does so in turn.

I have enlisted the zitella of the convent in the service of love, and

have no doubt of success." While speaking, he threw a handful of sand

against a lattice, which opened, and a young female face appeared; a

rose was thrown to him, and he clapped his hands twice: these were the

private signals agreed upon. At that moment, I was certain I heard a

growling chuckle close by us; but, without taking notice of it, I

listened attentively for any sounds that might follow.

"Is all safe and quiet, Signora Pia?" asked Santugo.

"All, monsignore; but for sister Francesca's sake and our own, be

cautious," replied the girl, with a trembling voice. She then unrolled

a ladder of rope from the window, to the inside of which she assured us

it was firmly fastened. In imitation of Santugo, I folded my cloak round

the left arm, and mounting after him, scrambled to the summit of the

wall, then leaping down we found ourselves standing in the garden, where

our feet made terrible havoc among the abbess's flower-beds and

glass-covered seeds.

"Che gioja!" said Santugo; "all is safe! a twenty-oared scampavia awaits

us beneath the shadow of the convent wall: Giacomo has manned it with

thirty of the most unscrupulous in the ranks of the Free Corps. But two

grand points are yet to be gained; the postern must be unbarred, and the

cord of the alarm bell cut; after which, we may proceed leisurely, and

laugh at the rage of the Abbadessa." He walked quickly towards the

chapel, and I followed, feeling somewhat piqued at the cautious manner

in which he revealed to me his plans.

The zitella (or girl of the convent) led us into the chapel, every part

of which was involved in deep gloom, except a little shrine, where,

beneath a gothic canopy of white marble, stood a silver image of Saint

Hugh. Two tapers glimmering before it served to reveal the figure of

the fair devotee, as she knelt with clasped hands before the gilded rail

which enclosed the object of her devotions--the shrine of the patron

saint of her family. The beauty of the little edifice, and the richness

of its shrines,--its columns with shafts of porphyry and capitals of

marble,--its roof of gilded fresco, and floor of the most elaborate

mosaic,--its alabaster tombs and gorgeous altar were all unheeded. We

stole softly up a side aisle, and concealed ourselves behind the dark

shadow of a monument, where I had leisure to observe Francesca and

compliment Santugo on his admirable taste.

There was something in the gloomy and mysterious aspect of the place,

the situation and sombre garb of the recluse, which fascinated me, not

less than the beauty of her person. It was long since I had seen her,

and she now seemed more lovely and more interesting than ever: and more

like Bianca. Her face was pale--too pallid perhaps--but of a beautiful

oval form, and possessing a regularity of feature which would have been

deemed insipid, but for the lustre of her dark Ausonian eyes, and the

peculiarly aristocratic curl of her lip. Luigi spoke hurriedly:--

"Signor Claude--you remember her--and the night with the conciarotti.

'Tis Francesca--my matchless Francesca, as good as she is timid and

beautiful! O, Anima mia--behold me--I am here!" he added, going softly

towards her; "courage, sweet one! there is not a moment to be lost. I

have possession of the postern towards the sea, where a barge of twenty

oars awaits us. Do not shrink from me, Francesca! The hour of

deliverance and of happiness is come."

"O, never for me--on earth at least! Madonna, guide me, look upon me in

this moment of doubt and agony!' she exclaimed, in tones of despair.

Sinking against the altar rail, she clung to it with one hand, and

covered her face with the other, sobbing heavily. The Visconte knelt

beside her. Her beauty, her distress, her resemblance and near

relationship to Bianca, all operated powerfully upon me, and I felt for

her deeply.

"O, misery!" she exclaimed, in a low but piercing voice; "Luigi of

Santugo, to what are you about to tempt me? Reflect upon the deadly sin

of this act!"

"Evoe! ho! ho!" laughed a shrill voice, which awakened the thousand

echoes of the hollow chapel. Francesca clung to Luigi, overcome with

shame and terror; and looking up, I beheld above my head the great

visage of the hunchback, peering from beneath the shadow of a gothic

canopy, under which he was squatted "like a pagod in a niche obscure."

A terrible grin of malice and mischief distorted his hideous lineaments.

I rushed upon him, but he slid down a pillar like a cat, and eluded me.

The startled Visconte silenced at once all the scruples of his cousin,

by snatching her up in his arms, and bearing her into the garden; a task

which evidently required considerable exertion, notwithstanding the

seeming lightness of her figure. But a plump girl of twenty or so is not

so easily run away with as romancers would have us to suppose. At that

moment the alarm bell was rung furiously, and through the open arches of

the campanile, we saw the figure of the hideous imp, Gaspare Truffi,

swinging at the end of the rope, and grinning like a demon, while he

danced and yelled at the top of his voice, "Evoe! ho--ho! Ghieu!

Sacrilege and rescue! Ajuto! help!"

"Would to Heaven I had pistols to silence the clamours of that apostate

wretch!" exclaimed Santugo, as the noise of approaching feet and the

hallooing of men were heard in the distance. "The bell is arousing the

paesani!" he added, drawing his sword. "Quick, signor! As my friend

and brother officer, good service must you do me this night, or, by the

crown of the Sicilies! you must think no more of Bianca d'Alfieri." I

liked neither the words nor the tone; but pardoned them out of

consideration for the anxiety of my excitable companion.

"The zitella keeps the postern beside the fountain, sparkling in the

moonlight yonder, and through that door we must pass to the sea!" The

poor zitella lay senseless beside the gate, weltering in her blood,

which flowed copiously from a severe wound in her temple, and the key

having been broken in the lock by Gaspare, our retreat was utterly cut

off! The alarm and exasperation of Santugo were indescribable. The

devil! what a moment it was, a forlorn hope was nothing to it!

The bell continued tolling; the whole convent was alarmed, and a mob was

heard clamorously demanding admittance at the porch. The visconte's

followers were as noisily enforcing ingress at the seaward gate; on

which they thundered with their oars and musket butts, vowing dire

vengeance if their lord was in the least maltreated. Long ere this, the

Signora Francesca had fainted.

"Aprite la porta--open the gate! Beat it down! Plague of San Carlo

upon it! Bravo Giacomo!" cried Luigi. "Via! it yields: strike well and

together! A hundred ducats to the hand that beats down the door!

Heaven be thanked, a cloud is obscuring the moon, and it will not be

known which way we steer!"

"Viva la Signora d'Alfieri! Viva Monsignore Santugo! Corraggio,

colonello mio!" cried the Calabresi, as they redoubled their attacks on

the strong oaken postern.

"Sacrilege!" cried the shrill voice of the Abbess from a window; whence

she implored the people to rescue a daughter of the church whom brigands

were carrying off perforce.

At this critical moment the great gate was opened, and a mob of

peasantry, mule-drivers, and fishermen, armed with clubs, rifles,

ox-spears, and poniards, almost filling the garden, rushed with a yell

upon us. Giacomo's boatmen at the same time had beaten the postern-door

to fragments, and the light of the waning moon poured through upon the

glancing bayonets and white uniforms of the Calabrian Free Corps.

"Save the zitella!" cried Santugo. Giacomo bore her on board the

scampavia, in the stern sheets of which Santugo deposited his cousin,

and brandishing his sword aloft, gave a reckless shout of triumph. It

was the last I saw of them. Enveloped in murky clouds, the moon sank

behind the mountains of Isola, and the scene became suddenly involved in

gloom. The assailants were too close upon me, to permit my following

the Visconte's example, by springing on board; and I was compelled to

stand on the defensive, slashed one across the face with my sabre, he

fell shrieking into the water, where the relentless Giacomo despatched

him with the boat hook. I was soon hemmed in on every side; and sinking

beneath a shower of blows, was beaten to the ground. The last sound I

heard was a yell of defiance and rage, as the broad oars dipped into the

water, and the swift scampavia shot away like an arrow from the shore.

Supposing me slain, Luigi thought only of saving Francesca; and while

his twenty rowers pulled bravely, the soldiers gave the baffled pursuers

a volley from their firelocks. The Calabrian peasants never went abroad

without their cartridge boxes, poniards, and rifles. The latter were in

instant requisition; and a skirmish ensued, in which several were

wounded on both sides before the fugitives were beyond range of musket

shot.

Reckless and bold as he was by nature, perhaps Santugo would not have

dared to commit such an outrage against his religion, and the prejudices

of the Italian people, at any other time. But the power of the Church,

shaken by the recent destruction of the (misnamed) holy office, was

feeble; and such was the disorderly state of the country, then filled

with armed banditti who made it the scene of perpetual rapine and

warfare, that the authority of the law, at all times weak, was

completely neutralized. The rank, power and wealth of Santugo's family,

and his interest with Carolina and the court of Palermo, emboldened this

wild young noble to plunge into what was esteemed by the superstitious

and bigoted Calabrians as a deed replete with sacrilege and horror, and

which could not fail to draw down the utmost vengeance of the Church and

Heaven itself upon the unhappy perpetrator and his impious followers.

Indeed, a short time afterwards the Papal malison was duly thundered

forth against Santugo and myself, and published in the columns of the

Diario di Roma; consigning us to the warm protection of his most satanic

majesty.

For that I cared less than for the broken head and sore bones which were

my share of this adventure. I had also the pleasant prospect of my name

becoming a standing quiz at every mess in the Mediterranean when the

story appeared in the _Gazzetta Britannica_--a gossiping, military,

patriotic paper published during our occupation of Sicily, and the only

public journal in the island: where the press is (or was) under the

severest restrictions.

The clamours of the people at this act of sacrilege led me to expect the

worst treatment at their hands. Stunned by the blow of a club, I was

severely beaten while lying on the beach, and narrowly escaped being

poniarded by the hunchback; from whose vindictive malice I was saved

only by the intervention of a priest. Elevated on the shoulders of some

herdsmen, Truffi now harangued the rabble--proposing, first, that they

should tie a stone to my neck and cast me into the sea, or bind me to a

tree and make me a target for their rifles at eighty paces. Resistance

was vain, as they had securely bound me with my sash. But I demanded

instant liberation, and that my sabre should be restored to me; and I

threatened severe retribution from our general and the chiefs of the

Masse should they dare to maltreat me.

Though they laughed at my threats, their effect was not altogether lost;

and I was not subjected to further violence. Placed upon a sorry ass,

and accompanied by a throng of shouting peasantry, I was conducted back

to Crotona in ridiculous triumph, and then thrust into an iron cage at

the end of the Casamatta, or ancient prison of the town, where I was

left to my own reflections for the remainder of the night, or rather

morning--for it was then past three o'clock. I was burning with

indignation against these base ragamuffins, whose pomelling made every

joint of my body ache; but nevertheless soon fell into a sound sleep on

the stone floor of the cage; nor did I awake until the morning sun shone

down the picturesque vista of the dilapidated Strada Larga. I arose with

stiffened limbs; and at first was unable to comprehend where on earth I

was. But the cries of "eretico!" "assassino!" "ribaldone!" &c., and a

thousand other injurious epithets with which I had been greeted by the

rabble, were yet ringing in my ears, and, together with the disordered

state of my dress, brought the whole affair to my recollection. With

revengeful bitterness, I remembered the many indignities I had received

from Gaspare Truffi: once he had snapped a pistol in my face; twice he

attempted to poniard me; and he would probably have had me despatched,

but for the firm intervention of an old Basilian father. A dim

recollection floated before me of having seen his gnome-like visage

peering between the iron bars of the cage long after the crowd had

departed--his eyes glaring with hatred and malice that made them glisten

like a snake's beneath the dark shadow of his heavy brows--while he

informed me, in the guttural Italian of Naples, that I would "yet feel

his knife between my ribs, as he was sworn to revenge his gambling

defeat at Nicastro," and the sabre-cut bestowed on his hump at the Villa

of Alfieri.

"'Sdeath!" thought I, while starting up from my hard couch, "I must have

this creature flogged or hung! It is too ridiculous to be persecuted by

a contemptible hunchback, who follows me like an evil genius everywhere.

Ola, Signor Benedetto, Cavaliere del Castagno!" I cried aloud, as that

redoubtable gentleman swung himself over a window of the podesta's house

and alighted in the street about a hundred yards from me. But without

looking to where the voice came from--as he had evidently no wish to be

recognised--he drew his hat over his eyes, threw his ample cloak over

his disordered attire, and hurried down the Strada Larga. I remembered

the podesta's daughter--a pretty girl, from whom I had received my

billet last evening.

"Poor Ortensia!" thought I; "and thus your loving Benedict spends his

tour of duty in the trenches!"

Save himself, no one seemed yet stirring in Crotona; its ruined streets

were completely deserted. At times a casual patrol of our troops

passed; but these were far beyond hail: and, in truth, I looked forward

with dread to being discovered in the cage--knowing too well it would

furnish a subject for laughter to every corps in Sicily. The idea of

the general's aide-de-camp being barred up in an iron cage, like a

common rogue, or a rat in a trap, was too replete with ridicule to be

patiently endured: but, after a few attempts to break prison and escape,

I was obliged to abandon the attempt and await my deliverance patiently.

To increase my annoyance, a few withered and sun-burned gossips gathered

round the parapet of a circular well (a fountain, by-the-bye, is ever

the grand rendezvous of Italian gossips), and after filling their

classic-shaped jars with water, they rested them on the margin of the

spring, and stared at me to their full contentment; relating to the

passers-by their own version of the story, with such additions and

variations as the exuberance of their fancy or hatred of a heretic

suggested. To the peasant come to market in his wolf-skin jacket and

leather gaiters; the hind driving his team of oxen to the field; the

shepherd on his way to the mountains; to the water-carrier; the

impudent, rosy-faced itinerant improvisatore with his lute; and the

white-bearded Franciscan, with his greasy angular hat, snuff-begrimed

cassock, and begging-box;--to each and to all who stopped at the well,

did these shrivelled crones relate, with great emphasis and

gesticulation, the story of the sacrilege committed at the convent of

St. Catherine by the English heretic.

Vehement and ugly, as all old women in southern Italy are (the lower

classes at least), they soon collected a dense crowd round the cage, and

I was stared upon by a circle of hostile eyes in a manner very

unpleasant to endure. I might have laughed at a predicament so

ridiculous, but the petulance of the Crotonian rabble soon became

annoying; their religious scruples were aroused by the malicious

observations of these old gossips, and I began to expect a martyrdom

like that of St. Stephen.

But relief was at hand. Cavaliere Benedetto, though he hurried off so

abruptly, had recognised me, and despatched a party from the trenches to

my rescue. I hailed with joy their glittering bayonets, which I soon

saw flashing above the head of the mob. Bitter was the wrath of the

Italian soldiers when they beheld me so unworthily treated; their musket

butts were in immediate requisition, and in three minutes one side of

the cage was dashed to pieces, and I was free.

Under their escort I gladly hurried to my billet, where I put my

disordered uniform in proper trim for appearing before Macleod after

breakfast.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*THE SUMMONS OF SURRENDER.*

Meanwhile, Santugo and his fair companion were ploughing the waters of

the Adriatic, and scudding along the coast of Calabria as fast as twenty

oars and an ample lateen sail, filled by a strong Borea or breeze from

the north, could carry them. With the Visconte, and still more with his

cousin, the affair was not yet ended; innumerable griefs and troubles

were in store for them. But I heard no more of the abduction for a

time, save in the jokes of my comrades; and once in a friendly note from

the general, warning me to avoid all such affairs in future, as they

were calculated to prejudice the Calabrians against us, and injure the

cause of Ferdinand, for whom we were fighting.

I had just completed my brief toilette, and was hastily paying my

respects to hot chocolate, devilled fowl, cream cheese, marmalade, and

maccaroons, when Santugo's grave friend, the Maltese knight, Il

Cavaliere Marco di Castelermo, entered.

"Basta!" he exclaimed, casting aside his sword and sable cloak; "what

have you and the Visconte been about last night? Broken into a convent

of consecrated nuns, as if it had been a mere bordello of Naples, and

carried off, by force of arms, the queen of that sainted community! It

is a sad affair, signor."

"Sad, indeed, as my ribs find, to their cost, this morning: moreover, I

have lost in the scuffle a splendid sabre of Damascus--the last gift of

a friend who fell beneath the guns of Valetta."

"Ah! you served there? So did I. So Santugo has robbed the convent of

its brightest jewel--Francesca d'Alfieri, who shone among the beauties

of Palermo like a comet among the lesser stars."

"The young lady has attractions which----"

"Attractions!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Italian; "I tell you, signor,

she is magnificent! Ah! had you seen her last year, when she appeared as

Madonna, on the festival of the blessed Virgin! The whole country did

homage to her wondrous beauty. Francesca seemed a vision of something

more than mortal, as she sailed along on the lofty gilded car among

clouds of gauze and silver, with a crown of diamonds blazing on her ebon

tresses, wings on her shining shoulders, and incense, divine music,

light and glory, floating round her. Basta! she was an angel of love!

The people, as they knelt, forgot their prayers to Madonna, and offered

up only praises of her beauty. I honour the Visconte for carrying her

boldly off. The girl would have been destroyed in an Italian convent;

where (I blush to say it) purity of heart is a wonder, and innocence a

crime. But I tremble to think of the retribution which the Bishop of

Cosenza may deem due for the abduction: he is a stern, relentless

fellow."

"But what will the lieutenant-colonel commanding think of Santugo

abandoning his battalion--deserting in fact, with thirty rank and file

of the Free Corps, with their arms and accoutrements?"

"His youth, rank, and the ideas of our country must plead for him."

"And then the sacrilege, signor: what will the people say of it?"

"Just what they please, Santugo is too spirited a cavalier to value a

rush the silly scruples of a bigoted peasantry, or the idle thunders of

a knavish priesthood. He will only remember, that in abducting his

cousin--replete with danger though the act may be--he has done a good

deed in the cause of love and humanity. Corpo di Baccho! read "The

Prosecution of the Dominican Nuns of Pistoia in 1781, by the Canon

Baldi," and you will see there disclosed a mass of the most corrupt

female profligacy: a revelation amusing as it is horrible. Signor, you

would shrink with dismay if made acquainted with one-half of what passes

within the walls of our southern convents, where belladonna, the

dungeon, and the poniard are too often at work. In the indictment of

the Canon Baldi there is displayed a regular system of depravity, into

which the young nuns are slowly initiated (after the first year of their

novitiate is passed), as into a lodge of freemasonry--craving pardon of

the gentle craft for a comparison so vile. Basta! manfully as I have

fought for Italy and her ancient liberties, I would yet more willingly

lend a hand toward the utter demolition of every convent within the

land. Still, thanks to Madonna! I am a true Catholic, and commander of

the Maltese cross; and as such I swear to you, signor, on the blessed

badge of the isle, that no man has a better reason for being at feud

with the female order of ecclesiastics than I have. I was ruined in my

prospects, seared in heart, and robbed of my patrimony by the knavery of

an abbess and the art of a deceitful nun. But enough of this." He

paused, with a kindling eye, and his cheek coloured as if he remembered

that more had been said than was quite necessary; but mastering some old

recollection or inward emotion, by a strong effort, he continued, in a

tone of affected carelessness, "Signor Claude, there is a relief in

telling one's sorrow; and some night, when the Gioja or Lipari loosens

my tongue, you may learn how it first came to pass that I shaped the

Maltese cross on my shoulder. But just now we must hurry to the

trenches, upon which De Bourmont has commenced his morning salute of

round shot and grape."

We found the whole citadel of Crotona, and the outwork possessed by the

French between it and the sea, enveloped in white smoke; amid which the

dark corbelled battlements, the flames that flashed through, and the

bayonets that glittered over them, were seen for a moment, and then

obscured as the smoke wreaths rolled on the morning wind. The French

worked at their batteries manfully, pouring showers of cannon-shot,

bombs, and bombelles, on our troops; who were pretty secure behind their

breastworks, and repaid them with considerable interest from an eminence

on which a fascine battery was erected.

Le Moine fired salvoes by sound of bugle, and the _Amphion_ discharged

her broadsides, and with such effect that a great part of the castle

wall came away in a mass from the rocks, and the unfortunate who lined

it were hurled into the ditches in an instant: the well-jointed masonry

rolled down like a stony avalanche, and cannon with their carriages,

fragments of bodies and weapons strewed the streets below. Three hearty

cheers arose from our trenches, and were echoed by the tars of the

_Amphion_; which was hauled yet closer in shore, and poured her shot in

rapid succession on the lower works of the citadel. The Sicilian

gun-boats, with their thirty-two pounders and howitzers, dealt death and

destruction among the sand-bag batteries and stockades: these the French

soon abandoned, retiring with precipitation into the castle of Carlo V.

After maintaining a brisk cannonade for nearly two hours, the fire of

the enemy began to slacken; and by the material with which their guns

were served--such as pieces of metal, crowbars, broken bottles, stones,

bolts, and bags of nails--we perceived with satisfaction that their

ammunition was fast failing. Yet they manned the breach as if expecting

an assault immediately; and, even while exposed to a galling fire,

worked bravely, repairing the damaged wall with fascines, bags of sand

and wool, stakes and "chandeliers." They were doubtless resolved to

meet any escalade with the courage of Frenchmen, and with the

indomitable valour that distinguished all soldiers of the empire.

At last the fire on both sides ceased, the clouds of smoke curled away

from the old towers of Charles V., the bright sun shone joyously on

bastion and curtain, and we plainly beheld the sad havoc made by the

salvoes of our batteries, and the broadsides of the frigate.

"Now, Dundas!" cried Macleod, scrambling out of the trenches, "as the

gallant Monsieur de Bourmont has given over his morning's shooting, and

as you know something of his lingo, just tie a handkerchief to the point

of your sword, and go up and inquire whether or not he means to

surrender the place without any more bother? If not, let him expect

broken heads to be plenty before tattoo to-night. By Heaven! the

Ross-shire Buffs will dye their tartans red in the best blood of his

garrison, brave fellows though they be!"

"And the terms, colonel?"

"Such as Frenchmen--such as brave soldiers may accept without dishonour;

but nothing more. Give this my summons of unconditional surrender; and,

as they know not of the fall of Gaeta and Massena's advance, they will

no doubt yield at discretion."

With a white handkerchief fluttering from the point of my sabre, and

having a Corsican bugler in attendance, I departed on my mission from

the trenches; where more than two hundred of our soldiers lay weltering

in their blood. Most of their wounds being inflicted by cannon shot, or

the explosion of bombs, were ghastly beyond description. The earthen

trenches in some places were literally flooded with gore. None but

those who have seen a man bleed to death from his wounds being left

undressed, can imagine how much blood the human frame contains. The

ensanguined mud, where corpses, wounded men, fascines, shot and shell,

lay all mingled together, made our approaches frightful; and I gladly

sprang out and left them behind me.

As usual, the morning was beautiful: earth and sky were bright with

summer splendour. The sea of Adria shone in a blaze of yellow light, and

the chain of mountains stretching away to Isola, the little white

village dotting the sandy beach, and the solitary column of Juno Lacina,

afar off, made up a charming landscape; the beauties of which, my mind

was then too much occupied to appreciate. To bear a flag of truce is an

exciting duty; and I felt my pulses quicken, on finding myself close

under the enemy's cannon, yet warm with the heat of their last

discharge. As I approached the old fortress, its walls shone gaily in

the bright sunlight; but the blood oozing from the carved stone

gargoyles, or spouts, of the battlements, told a terrible tale of the

havoc made by our shot and shell.

An ample tricolour waved lazily in the warm breeze, and serried lines of

bright bayonets glittered over the ramparts, while grim faces peered at

me through the dark embrasures and narrow loopholes of the time-worn

walls. The troops were formed in rank-entire, with arms shouldered.

Poor old Bourmont was evidently making the greatest possible display of

his force.

When within twenty yards of the gate, the Corsican sounded "a parley;"

which was answered by beat of drum within the fortress. The rattling

drawbridge descended, and a wicket opened in the gate, which was

composed of enormous palisades, cramped and bolted together. (I

observed everything narrowly, while they allowed me the use of my eyes.)

Immediately on stepping through the wicket, we were encircled by twelve

Voltigeurs, with fixed bayonets; and a young French officer, saluting me

with his sabre, informed me that my eyes must be immediately

blindfolded, and my orderly committed to close ward in the guard-house.

"Monsieur," I said, indignantly, "I am, as you see, a staff officer in

the service of his Britannic Majesty, the bearer of a despatch to

Lieutenant-Colonel de Bourmont, and not a spy!"

"My orders are strict," he replied, with equal hauteur; "since you have

entered the gates, your eyes must be blindfolded, or you and the bugler

will be made prisoners forthwith! I pledge you my word as a gentleman

and soldier that no dishonour will be offered." We shook hands; the

Corsican boy was consigned to the care of the barrier guard, while my

eyes were blindfolded, and giving me his arm, the officer led me away in

this ludicrous manner, I knew not whither.

On the bandage being removed, I found myself in a large vaulted room of

the old castle. It was roofed with stone, and I heard the tramp of feet

and rumble of gun-slides on the bartizan above. The groined arches

sprang from twelve dilapidated corbels, representing the apostles. A

bare wooden table, a few chairs and trunks, cloaks and sabres hanging on

the wall, spurred boots, empty bottles, and cigar boxes lying in a

corner, constituted the furniture of the room. The light streamed into

it between the stone mullions and corroded iron bars of three deeply

embayed windows; through which a view was obtained of the Gulf of

Tarento stretching away to the north, and the dark wooded ridges of La

Syla to the westward, rising five thousand feet above the sea's level.

Coffee, wine, cigars, French army lists, Parisian Moniteurs, and the

last grand bulletin, lay on the table; at which De Bourmont, a fat but

pleasant-looking old man, dressed in a blue frogged surtout and scarlet

trousers, with a crimson forage cap, was seated with another officer, at

breakfast.

"Monsieur le Commandant," said the officer who introduced me, "a flag of

truce from the trenches--an officer of the enemy."

"Ah! they have come to terms at last!" said the little commandant,

nodding with a very satisfied air to the officer who sat opposite him;

and then rising, he handed me a chair. "Proud to see you, monsieur," he

added, uncovering his bald head; "be seated--the wine is close to you.

There is Muscatelle, or, if you like it better, far-famed Lachryma

Christi and Greco, from grapes raised on the slopes of Vesuvius. We can

get these things, you see, notwithstanding that the Scots colonel does

push the trenches so vigorously. Mille bombes! ah, what a man he is!

Yes, and we can get that which warms our hearts better than even

Falernian wine or Greco--eh, Pepe?" he added, rubbing his nose, and

giving a sly glance at his morose companion, who intently broke the

shell of his third egg, without deigning to notice me.

"Would you prefer chocolate to wine, monsieur?" continued the colonel.

"We will talk over matters during breakfast. I am glad you have come to

terms--very!"

I accepted his invitation; but could not resist smiling at the

complacent manner in which the Frenchman spoke of besiegers coming to

terms with the garrison of a place which their cannon had almost reduced

to ruins.

"How did your free Calabrians like the way we scoured the trenches the

other night?" asked Captain Pepe, while handing me coffee.

"You taught them a good lesson. The marmalade? Thank you. An hour in

the trenches has given me quite an appetite."

"And how did your old tub of a frigate, and her fry of gun-boats, like

the chain-shot, the cross-bars, and stang-balls we favoured them with

this morning?"

"Monsieur, I did not come here to answer insolent questions, but to

deliver this despatch to Colonel Bourmont; who I have the pleasure to

perceive is a French officer of the old school--a gentleman, and not a

Parisian bully."

A quiet smile spread over Bourmont's face, as he bowed and took

Macleod's letter; while Pepe, like a cowed bravo, bit his white lips and

glared at me with ill-concealed malice and animosity: but I continued to

help myself with perfect composure.

Exasperated by this cutting contempt--"By heaven and hell!" he

exclaimed, "were it not that I must hold sacred the white flag you

carry--mille baionettes!--I would cut you in two!" and starting from the

table, Pepe retired into a recess of the window; where he affected to

observe the saucy _Amphion_, which was riding with her broadside to the

shore, the union-jack waving from her mizen peak--a striking feature in

the view, but ill-calculated to soothe the wrath of the irritated Gaul.

I could read the history of this repulsive man in the coarse features

and strong lines of his sunburnt visage.

The French army at that time possessed many such spirits. Raised from

the dregs of the people during the anarchy which followed the

Revolution, many of the actors in those frightful tragedies and

massacres that disgrace the nation became--rather by the force of

circumstances than their own deserts--commanders in the armies of

Buonaparte. Savage and black-hearted, furious and sour republicans,

thus found themselves marching beneath the banners of an emperor; and

some of them obtaining honours in that profession which numbers all the

kings and princes of Europe among its members. But the true Parisian

rabble, without one spark of the generous spirit of the soldier, were

destitute of that chivalry which distinguished the old French armies in

the time of the Bourbons. A knowledge of the men they fought against,

caused our troops to regard the soldiers of the Revolution with equal

detestation and contempt: this latter feeling, however, soon became

changed when they encountered them as the army of Napoleon; who restored

France to that honourable place among the kingdoms of Europe, from which

she fell in 1792. The sanguinary rabble who hailed with yells of

triumph the axe as it descended on the neck of the queenly Marie

Antoinette--who clove in two the head of the beautiful Princess

Lamballe, and dragged her naked body for days about the kennels of

Paris, were forgotten when contemplating the glories of Napoleon, the

long succession of his victories, the devotion of his soldiers, and the

chivalric enthusiasm of the old guard. But to proceed.

De Bourmont looked over Macleod's letter in various ways, but could make

nothing of it; upon which he asked me to translate it. So far as I can

remember, it ran thus:--

"_Trenches before Crotona, July_ 1806.

"SIR,--Further resistance on your part being now in vain, I give you

until sunset to send away all the women and children; after which, if

the citadel be not surrendered, your garrison shall be buried in its

ruins.

"I have the honour to be, &c. &c,

"PETER MACLEOD, Lieut.-Col.

"Commanding Ross-shire Buffs.

"Lieut.-Col. DE BOURMONT,

"Knt. Grand Cross of the Iron Crown,

"and Commandant of Crotona."

"Sur ma vie!" said the little colonel, reddening with indignation, and

turning up his eyes on hearing this blunt message. "Poof! what say you

to this, Pepe, my boy?"

"Guerre a mort!" growled the polite Captain Pepe. "Bedieu! I would

slit the bearer's nose, and send him back to the writer, as a fitting

answer. Or what think you to summon a file of the guard and cry _a la

lanterne_, as of old? Mille bombes! I have served many an English

prisoner so in Holland: but that was in the days of Robespierre."

"Halt! silence, monsieur!" said Bourmont, angrily; "remember that you

are among the soldiers of Napoleon the First, not the rabble of the

Fauxbourgs of Paris." The captain bit his nether lip and again retired

to the window, while the colonel continued:--

"I shall not surrender; having good reasons for fighting to the last:

and you, monsieur--monsieur----"

"Dundas"--I suggested.

"Ah! Dundas; yes: pardon me. You are too much of a soldier not to be

aware of them."

"Colonel, I know not to what you refer. General Regnier has taken up a

position at Cassano, from which he will inevitably be driven with

immense slaughter by the chiefs of the Masse and the leaders of the

brigands, who are all drawing to a head in that direction; so from him

you can expect no succour. Monteleone by this time must have yielded to

Colonel Oswald; and, Scylla excepted, every fortress has opened its

gates to us. Of a force of 9,000 men who encountered us at Maida, 3,000

only march under the standard of Regnier. In the upper province, your

troops have melted away before the Italians alone. Our shipping cut off

all retreat by sea; our troops by land. You must capitulate: resistance

will be madness, and a useless sacrifice of your brave soldiers;

therefore permit me to entreat you to think well over the answer which I

am to bear to an antagonist so fiery and determined as M'Leod."

"Monsieur aide-de-camp, I thank you for the advice; but I hope French

soldiers will not be cowed by Scot or Englishman," said the colonel.

"Remember, that in the service of the Emperor, to be unfortunate _once_

is to be for ever lost. Do you pretend ignorance of the fact that Gaeta

was surrendered lately by the Prince of Hesse Philipstadt to Massena,

who is now pushing on to our relief, and is by this time within a short

day's march of Regnier's position at Cassano?"

"I know that the strong fortress of Gaeta has surrendered, after a

gallant resistance," I replied, equally surprised and chagrined that _he

too_ was aware of the circumstance; "but who ever informed you that

Marshal Massena was in the frontiers of Calabria Citra, told that which

is false! His division is still at Gaeta, nearly two hundred miles from

Cassano."

"Then I have been deceived!" exclaimed Bourmont, bitterly. This

intelligence seemed to fall upon him like a thunderbolt. After a little

reflection, he said, "Monsieur, if you pledge me your word of honour

that the marshal is so far off, I will yield Crotona within an hour;

reserving permission for the garrison to march out (through the breach,

if we choose) with all the honours of war--with bag and baggage, colours

flying and drums beating--the officers, of course, retaining their

swords; and the whole force to be permitted to march to the camp of

Cassano without farther hostility."

"Impossible, monsieur! who can answer for the barbarous banditti and

lawless soldiery of the Masse? Remember the escape of Monteleone, and

the massacre of his regiment at La Syla!"

"True, true!" he muttered, bitterly. "Mon Dieu! we are but a handful!"

"As a gentleman, as an officer, I pledge you my word, colonel, that

Massena's division has not yet left even the Terra di Lavoura."

"Enough, monsieur: Crotona is lost; and with it the faithful services of

many an arduous year! Arcole, Lodi, Marengo--O my God!" he covered his

face with his hand.

"Ghieu! ho! ho!" croaked the voice of the everlasting hunchback, as he

emerged from a recess in the thick wall, where he had been coiled up

unseen by me. "I tell you, Signor Colonello, that the Prince of

Rivoli's advanced guard was at Latronico in Basilicata, three days

since!"

"Now, by heavens! crookback again: and here even!" I exclaimed,

bestowing a black look on Truffi, whose false assertions were calculated

to stagger De Bourmont. "This wretch, then, is the channel of your

intelligence, monsieur? If my pride would permit me condescending so

far as to defend myself against the idle contradictions of such a

despicable opponent, I have in my sabretache a letter which proves where

the marshal was three days ago. It was found among the papers of an

officer, killed by a cannon-shot, when our fleet fired on Reamer's line

of march by the Adriatic."

"A letter: bravissimo!" croaked Gaspare, while he snapped his fingers

like castanets, and grinned so hideously that I burst into a fit of

laughter. "Ghieu! Era scritto in tiempo del scirrocco!" (Fie! it was

written in time of the sirocco.)

"No, Signor Canonico, you mistake," observed Captain Pepe, who could not

resist giving us the vulgar Italian joke. "The letter, I have no doubt,

was indicted at the trenches yonder, and may be right after all. You

know that a pig and an Englishman are the only animals insensible to the

effects of the scirrocco."

"Excellent," roared the hunchback, his hump heaving with laughter.

"Captain Pepe will oblige me by retiring to his quarters, and Fra

Gaspare by quitting the room," said De Bourmont, indignantly. "In my

presence, no British officer shall be wantonly insulted. Montaigne,

send here the Captain de Viontessancourt; I will confer with him on this

matter."

Pepe and Truffi disappeared together, and Montaigne, the officer who had

introduced me, and who had hitherto remained silent, in a few minutes

ushered in a tall, elderly man,--one of those kindly-looking old fellows

that gain one's good will at first sight. He wore a light green

uniform, and the medals on his breast, together with the keen,

determined expression of his eye, announced him a thorough soldier;

while his politeness and urbanity declared him to be every way the

reverse of Mr. Pepe: in fact, he was one of those high-minded chevaliers

of old France who had weathered the sanguinary storm of the Revolution.

His hair was white as snow; and he seemed to be about sixty years of

age. Bourmont introduced him to me, saying--

"Captain de Viontessancourt, 23rd Voltigeurs of the Emperor--Lieutenant

Dundas, of the British service. My friend Viontessancourt has grown

grey under his harness; and with him I will consult on this matter: it

is useless to ask council of any of my other officers; whose continual

cry is 'guerre a mort!'"

Giving me a file of Moniteurs to peruse, and pushing a brace of

decanters towards me, he drew the tall chevalier into one of the deep

recessed windows, where they remained in earnest confab for nearly half

an hour. Bourmont then seated himself at the table at which I was

sitting, and wrote to Macleod; offering to surrender the citadel, if the

garrison were permitted to evacuate it with the honours of war and march

without molestation to the French camp at Cassano.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*MARCHING *_*OUT*_* WITH THE HONOURS OF WAR.*

To this proposal Macleod was half inclined to accede; but the captain of

the frigate, a sturdy and impatient sailor, whom he consulted on the

occasion, advised his accepting of nothing but an unconditional

surrender. The colonel, who perfectly understood the punctilious ideas

of military honour which animated De Bourmont, was inclined to spare

that gallant Frenchman the disgrace of a complete capitulation; but yet,

being resolved to get possession of Crotona, he had recourse to a

curious military quibble, which has been resorted to on more than one

occasion: particularly when General Ferrand, in 1793, surrendered the

town of Valenciennes to our troops, under H.R.H. the Duke of York.

I returned to the citadel with Macleod's answer, and the high-spirited

Bourmont, yielding to the pressure of circumstances, was obliged to

consent to the dictated terms: these were--that his troops should march

forth from the gates of Crotona, with all the insignia of military

parade to the banks of the Esaro, where, at a given place, they were to

halt, pile arms, yield themselves prisoners of war; surrendering arms,

colours, drums, cannon, and everything except their baggage. After some

troublesome diplomacy, and journeying to and fro between the trenches

and the citadel, I got the whole affair arranged, and the articles of

capitulation signed and sealed by both commanders, within an hour of

sunset; by which time Bourmont's garrison was paraded, for the last

time, in heavy marching order, and ready to evacuate the place.

The sun was setting behind the mountains when the frigate fired a gun;

and before the white smoke had curled away through her lofty rigging,

the tricolour had descended from the ramparts of Crotona. The gates

were thrown open, and the drawbridge descended with a clatter across the

ditch.

"It is the signal-gun: they come now!" cried Macleod, as he leaped on

his horse. "Mr. Dundas, the brigade will come to 'attention' and

'shoulder.' Drumlugas," he added, addressing a strong, broad-chested,

and red-whiskered captain of his regiment; "march your company to the

gates, and the moment the last Frenchman has left them, hoist the

standard. But, in the first place, march in and receive over the

posts."

The tall captain touched his bonnet, and giving the order--"Grenadiers,

threes right, quick march!" his company, with the band in front, marched

up to the guard-house, where the French guard was under arms; and where,

after all the usual formula, the whole of the sentries and posts were

relieved by the Highlanders.

After delivering Macleod's order to the different battalions of his

brigade, I selected from the ranks of the Calabrese corps, Luca Labbruta

(or blubber-lipped Luke), a ferocious follower of Santugo, to watch for

Gaspare Truffi (who, not being a French subject, was not included in the

capitulation), and to seize the hunchback the moment the garrison

marched out. He touched his knife with a grim smile of intelligence,

and left me.

The British forces, consisting of the 78th Highlanders, Les Chasseurs

Britanniques, a small party of artillery, and the marines of the

_Amphion_, formed two lines from the gate, facing inwards; and through

this lane the garrison of Crotona were to march. In the rear were drawn

up the ranks of the Free Corps, scowling darkly and handling their

murderous poniards with a sternness of intent and ferocity of manner

which declared how little they relished the modern laws of war, or

understood that chivalric courtesy which brave men may yield to each

other with honour, and which the soldiers of Britain and France can so

well appreciate. Behind these dark-visaged battalions crowded the

people of Crotona; while every window, nook, and corner, were filled

with faces, eager to get a glimpse of their dreaded enemies, on whom

they showered maledictions and abuse without cessation. The picturesque

costumes of the crowd lent additional interest to the scene: the

madonna-like profiles of the women, shaded by their linen head-dresses

falling gracefully on the shoulders, or crowned by luxuriant dark hair

secured by a gilt arrow, agreeably contrasted with the aspect of the

well-mustachioed contadino, grim and swart, half bandit and half

peasant, clad in his shaggy doublet and high hat flaunting with ribands

and the red cockade of Ferdinand IV.; a dagger and horn in his belt, and

the long rifle sloped on his shoulder, as we see him depicted in the

spirited etchings of Pinelli. The buffalo herdsman with his long pole

or glittering ox-goad, the bearded canon with dark robes and shaven

scalp, and a thousand other striking figures made up a scene such as a

painter or romancer would love. A battalion of the Chasseurs

Britanniques--a corps composed of men of every nation--were drawn up

opposite the Ross-shire Buffs; the garb of the latter nearly resembling

that of the imperial legions whose swords had laid all Europe and part

of Asia at the feet of Rome.

Filling up the background of this novel and picturesque scene, on one

side rose the dark citadel, with its heavy ramparts and macciolated

battlements, in the style of the middle ages; on the other, lay the

little Italian town, with its balconies, verandahs, and terraces--its

flat roofs of wood or tile, and its little square towers open on four

sides, and covered with broad projecting roofs--one-half in light the

other in deep shadow, as the setting sun poured its ruddy lustre from

the summits of the distant hills. Beneath the castled rocks shone the

glassy gulf, where cape and headland, breasting the rolling waves,

stretched away to the horizon in dim perspective, till the soft blue of

the ocean blended with that of the evening sky, and some white shadowy

sail alone indicated the line where air and ocean met.

Immediately after the gun was fired from the _Amphion_, the French drums

were heard beating, and the garrison came forth about six hundred

strong; having two field pieces in front, with two tumbrils of

ammunition, and two of baggage. They marched in subdivisions, with

bayonets fixed, the right in front, the field officers mounted, with

colours flying and brass drums beating; the gunners carried their

linstocks lighted at both ends, and a ball was placed in the mouth of

each piece of ordnance. Their _tout ensemble_ was peculiarly

service-like and soldierly; their dark greatcoats enlivened by red

worsted epaulettes and scarlet trousers, and the bear-skin caps

surmounting bronzed visages with rough wiry mustachios. Many of them

were veterans of the empire, with hair grey as their goatskin knapsacks.

The hoarse rattle of their brass drums, the sharply sonorous trumpets

and clashing cymbals--a not unharmonious clangour of metallic

music--loudly resounding as they marched through the archway of the

citadel, lent additional spirit to the scene, as they advanced with all

the order and steadiness of a review on the Champ de Mars. Their

bayonets, brass-feruled musket-barrels, and the gilt eagles on their

caps, gleamed in the rays of the setting sun, and the heavy silken

tricolour flapped in the breeze, as it was up-borne above the marching

column by Bourmont's only son, a mere boy, fitter for his mother's side

than the harrowing scenes of war.

"Portez vos armes!" cried Bourmont, lowering his sabre on passing the

first stand of colours.

"Brigade--present arms!" answered Macleod, with a voice loud and clear

as a trumpet; and our double line 'presented,' the officers in front

saluting with their swords, while our bands struck up the grand national

air of the Bourbons, "Vive Henri Quatre." The French would perhaps have

preferred the 'march' of Napoleon; but I perceived a flush cross the

face of the old Chevalier de Viontessancourt, when the first burst of

the air fell upon his ear. The animosity on both sides had evaporated;

our hearts were full, and the generous "hurrah" so hard to be

restrained, rose to every man's lips as the Frenchmen passed us.

The moment the last file had cleared our ranks, we "shouldered arms;"

and, followed by a wing of the Buffs--to prevent the revengeful

Calabrians from assaulting them--the French continued their march to the

tomb of Croton (which, as old Ovid tells us, was the origin of the

city), where, by the articles of capitulation, they were to be deprived

of all their military insignia. Macleod, with the remainder of his

brigade, took possession of the citadel--marching in with the

_Amphion's_ marines in front; the right being the post of honour

generally assigned to that maritime corps. Drumlugas hoisted the British

flag, which was saluted by the heavy ordnance of the frigate, thundering

over the still waters of the gulf while the echoes of the Strada Larga

were yet ringing to the music of the French band.

The Maltese knight, the Duca di Bagnara, and Cavaliere del Castagno,

mounted on true Neapolitan steeds--small, strong, compact, large-headed,

and bull-necked, perfect prototypes of the horses in ancient Roman

bassi-relievi--brought up the rear with their battalions of the free

corps; which immediately broke ranks, and dispersed over the fortress in

search of plunder: we had the utmost difficulty in rescuing from their

bayonets and daggers the numerous wounded soldiers whom De Bourmont had

left behind.

On reaching a pile of ruins called by tradition the Tomb of Croton, and

situated near the banks of the AEsaris of the ancients, the French

troops halted and piled arms; the officers dismounting, and the whole

marching to a certain distance from the stands of muskets, they

surrendered their cannon, colours, and drums, without scathe or damage,

to the Ross-shire Buffs, commanded by Major Ferintosh. It was a

humiliating act; but the honour of France was saved--the garrison

having, in the fullest sense of the term, marched out with "the honours

of war."

The swords of the officers were restored to them, and, with the

soldiers, they were permitted to retain their baggage; but the whole

were immediately embarked on board the _Amphion_, where they were in

safe enough keeping within "the wooden walls of old England." They were

sent to Messina; but were soon after exchanged, and transmitted by

cartel to France.

Fra Gaspare--whom I was now more than ever eager to capture, having

discovered that he acted the treble part of spy, assassin, and

traitor--was not to be found within the fortress. All the efforts of

Luca Labbruta, who, encouraged by my promised reward, searched every

nook and corner of the fortress--the secret passages, stair-turrets,

cells, and dungeons (the architect had provided enough of them

all)--were in vain. I was provoked by his want of success. The

hunchback certainly had not come forth when the garrison marched through

the gates; and I could not feel quite at ease under the idea that this

vindictive miscreant might still be lurking in one of the numerous holes

or hidingplaces in the old citadel.

A writer on Italy remarks, that it is a national trait of the Calabrian

provincials to be inflamed with the deadliest animosity against any

person who discovers or reveals their secret villainy. I was well aware

of this; and knew that Gaspare Truffi was to be dreaded rather than

despised. But Cavaliere Benedetto soon discovered that De Bourmont, who

found the little wretch useful as a spy, had connived at his escape in

one of the covered waggons.

"I knew that he was not within the citadel," said Benedetto; "my fellows

have searched every hole that would hide even a mouse: not a place

between bartizan and dungeon-floor has escaped them; and I could have

sworn by our Mother of Loretto--ay, and the miraculous grot of Capri to

boot--that they would find him. But, per Baccho! we shall have the

cursed gnome in our clutches some other time; and meanwhile, signor,

consider yourself safe."

"I am surprised at being so fortunate in escaping his malice so long!

He has had so many opportunities, when a shot----"

"No, no, signor," said Castagno, waving his hand disapprovingly; "I may

say with something akin to national vanity, that a Calabrian--though

monks and scholars will tell you that he is but a mongrel of Greek,

Latin, Lombard, and Saracen blood--can strike with his poniard surely

and deeply at close quarters, but would scorn the act of shooting even

his bitterest enemy from a distance."

"Our friend the friar is an exception to this rule: I have had ocular

demonstration of the fact. It is cowardly assassination any way--a

distinction without a difference."

"But old superstition has rendered it the fashion nowadays," he

rejoined, with a jaunty, careless air; as, bowing, he replaced his

cigar, and left me.

That night we had a joyous househeating in the citadel. Our foragers

came unexpectedly upon a stock of choice old wine, which De Bourmont had

been reserving in some of the cool, dark cellars--probably for his own

particular use. He had doubtless come by them as lightly as we did; his

soldiers having plundered every house in and about Crotona. But

Macleod, his successor, set the casks abroach; and the wine flowed as

from a fountain.

His own officers, accustomed to the potent aquavitae of their native

hills, were seasoned topers, and imbibed the juice of the "Tuscan grape"

and the light wines of Cyprus and Sicily as if it were water; but most

of the Chasseurs Britanniques and the _Amphion's_ men lay beneath the

table when the morning sun peeped in upon the scene of their orgies.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*ANOTHER DESPATCH.*