On the evening of the next day Macleod put into my hand a despatch for

the general, containing an account of the capture of Crotona, with a

list of the prisoners, stores, and casualties. With this document I had

to set out forthwith for the castle of Scylla, where Sir John Stewart,

with the brigade of Colonel Oswald, was pushing the siege in person

against a French garrison, which made a most resolute defence. The

French soldiers were commanded by the Marchese di Monteleone, who, by

some unaccountable means, had passed the piquets of the Masse, and

contrived to reach the fortress from the distant camp at Cassano; his

known bravery well entitled him to assume the command.

At first I was chagrined at the idea of a journey of more than a hundred

miles through such an extraordinary country; but, understanding that

Marco of Castelermo had offered to be my guide and companion by the way

(and on my return, if necessary), I looked forward to the long ride as a

probable source of pleasant and exciting adventures; for every day

brought forth something new and stirring during our campaign in these

turbulent provinces, and every rood of ground over which we marched was

rich in the recollections of the past.

The morning gun aroused me next day by dawn, and with alacrity I quitted

my couch, which consisted of nothing more luxurious than a wooden bench

and my horse-cloak.

Through the open iron lattice the brightening east gave promise of

another glorious Italian day; a cold, grey light spread over the sky,

distinctly revealing the most distant points of the scenery even so far

as the peaks of Santa Severina, (famous for that wine which Pliny of old

so much commended), and the little city of Strongoli perched on the

summit of a lofty mountain rising up abruptly from the shores of the

Ionian sea. The sun was yet far below the horizon, and the streets of

Crotona, the dark courts and blood-stained walls of the citadel, were

yet gloomy, silent, and still. Masses of shattered masonry, splinters

of shells, scattered shot, broken gun-carriages, with here and there a

corpse which our fatigue parties had not yet removed, and coagulated

pools of blood crusted on the pavement of platform and parapet, yet met

the eye, attesting the valour of the garrison and the slaughter of the

siege. With his plaid and feathers fluttering on the breeze, a sentinel

of the Ross-shire Buffs trod to and fro by the flag-staff, and the hour

being early, and no one stirring, he chanted a song to cheer his lonely

post; he sang of a land which had more charms for him than bright

Ausonia, and his thoughts were amid the pathless glens and savage

solitudes of Ross.

The clatter of hoofs on the pavement, as our horses were led into the

court, and the appearance of the tall figure of il Cavaliere di Malta,

muffled in an ample black cloak with a scarlet cross, and booted and

spurred for the road, made me hurry forth to meet him.

"Now, signor," said Marco, as he put his foot in the stirrup, "look well

to your girths and pistols, for we may have often to trust more to our

horses' heels and a flying shot than to downright valour. Many a mile

of wild wood, deep morass, mountain gorge and desert plain, must be

passed between this and Scylla; and it is very unlikely that we shall be

permitted to travel so far without having a brawl of some kind."

"I trust your provincial gentlemen of the road will not find us quite

unprepared, at all events," said I, leaping into my saddle, and

examining my holsters.

"Basta! for myself I care little, being able to keep any man at arm's

length; but in a gorge like la Syla, hedged by the rifles of a thousand

banditti, the wisest policy is to take off one's hat. The country

through which we must pass swarms with the followers of Scarolla, Fra

Diavolo, Benincasa, Gaetano Mammone, and lastly, the terrible

Francatripa, the king of St. Eufemio."

"And on each of these matchless vagabonds, the court of Palermo has

bestowed the star of St. Constantino, and a colonel's commission!"

"On all, save the horrible Scarolla."

"But Francatripa is said to be chivalrous and brave, and a perfect hero

of romance, though a mountain robber."

"You may chance to find him an incarnate fiend!" said Castelermo, as we

rode off: "ay, worse than a fiend if it suits his humour; and as for

chivalry, basta! I cannot see any in a bearded capobandito, with satan

in his heart, and a belt round him garnished with poniards and pistols.

Yet Francatripa's actions are formed after a noble model: it is his

greatest pride to be considered like poor Marco Sciarra, Re-della

Campagna."

"_He_ was a prince among Italian bandits! I remember having read that

once in the mountains of Abruzzo, his band plundered a poor wayfarer,

whom they bound with cords and brought before him.

"Well, signor," said the robber king, "what are you?"

"Only a poor poet, Messer Marco."

"Good!" replied the other, his frown relaxing.

"Your name?'

"Torquato Tasso of Sorrento."

"What! the author of----"

"Gierusalemme Liberata," said the prisoner, bowing profoundly. A shout

of acclamation burst from the band, and the 'king of the open country'

knelt on the sod, kissed the hand of the poet, and restoring to him his

baggage, escorted him in person beyond the dangerous passes of the

mountains.

"All this, and much more, I have heard in the nursery; but as neither of

us happen to be a Tasso, and king Marco has long since gone to the

shades, any adventure we may have with his successors and imitators will

not terminate so pleasantly. Look there, signor, and behold a

competition of minstrels! Hark! we shall hear music equalling the pipe

of Hermes!"

Under the vine-covered verandah of a cantina, sat six or eight of the

Chasseurs Britanniques, and Free Calabrians, who, by the red appearance

of their eyes, had evidently been carousing all night, and were yet

dreaming over their half-drained flagons; while the empty jars, cards

and dice scattered on the board, informed us that they had enjoyed the

night so merrily that they were not yet inclined to separate.

An itinerant performer on the zampogna, or Italian bagpipe, was playing

for the entertainment of the drowsy revellers, when a gigantic Scot in

dark tartan, one of Macleod's regimental pipers, passed by on his way to

the Strada Larga, to play a rouse for the soldiers billeted there.

Stopping before the cantina, the Scottish piper surveyed with surprise

and curiosity the little chanter and inflated skin of the Calabrian's

primitive bagpipe; while at the music of this feeble reed, the face of

the Highlander gradually contracted, from a ludicrous expression of

wonder, to a formidable scowl of Gaelic contempt. He threw the three

long drones of the great war-pipe over his left shoulder, and puffing up

its mighty bag, in an instant poured forth the wild northern pibroch of

the race of Seaforth. The strange variations and tremendous din of the

Highland bagpipe astounded the poor little zampognatore, whose notes

were lost amid the shrill and sonorous tempest which poured forth so

volubly from the pipe of the Highlander; whom he regarded for a time

with a droll look of silent wonder, and then slank away, retreating

backwards, while his stalwart rival strode after him, taking step for

step, and blowing fiercely, as he literally "walked into" the

discomfited Italian.

Discordant as the "war-note" of clan Kenneth must have been to the nice

Italian ear of Castelermo, he would fain have stayed to listen; but his

fiery Neapolitan horse had no such inclination: after snorting and

prancing, it set off at a speed which soon left far behind the towers

and ramparts of Crotona.

During the cool morning our ride was a very pleasant one, as the road

lay through a level part of the country, covered with rich crops and

studded with little villages and olive groves, interspersed with lofty

elms and clumps of pale green willow overhanging gurgling rivulets; but

the scene changed as we penetrated among the mountains, where we rode on

for miles without encountering a human being, save perhaps some

smoke-begrimed charcoal-burner, or bandit-like peasant, in pursuit of

the red deer which abound in those wild places. At times the road wound

between the green and solitary hills, through gorges like the bed of a

dried up river, where the rocks frowned grimly, rising up on each side

like walls of basalt or iron: but they were not devoid of beauty, for in

their clefts flourished the daphne and the rhododendron, blue

monk's-hood, pink fox-glove, and the whortle-berry; while the bronze

masses of dark Italian pines shed their sombre influence over the scene

from the summit of the cliffs above.

The scorching heat soon compelled us to take shelter in the hut of a

shepherd during the sultry noon. We met him on the lonely mountains

with his flock of goats, the tinkle of whose brass bells awoke the

echoes of the hollow valley whence they were ascending. He walked

lazily in front, playing drowsily on the zampogna, and the herded flock

followed in close order behind, drawn after him either by the charms of

his pipe, or by the dread of a sharp-nosed sheepdog with long white

hair, who formed the rear guard, and watched his fleecy charge with red

ferret-like eyes. His poor cabin could afford us nothing more than a

morsel of coarse cake, a handful of olives, and the manna or congealed

dew, which in the morning is gathered on the mulberry leaves in

Calabria; in lieu of wine we had a draught of the limpid water that

gurgled from a rustic fount, supplying the duct or hollowed tree that

lay before the door, and was half buried in the turf for the convenience

of his flock.

The shepherd was clad in a doublet and waistcoat of rough undressed

skins with the wool outside, fastened by ties of thong or horn buttons,

red cotton breeches, and a broad-leafed hat of plaited straw adorned

with a clay image of the Madonna; long uncombed locks waved in sable

masses on his brawny breast and muscular neck, which like his legs and

feet were sunburnt and bare; a pouch and knife hung at his girdle, and

his face, which perhaps had never been touched by a razor, was fringed

by a short and thick black beard. In ideas and manners he was perhaps

little different from the shepherds who inhabited these very mountains

when the trumpets of Hannibal awoke their echoes; only he prayed not to

"thundering Jove" but to Madonna, believed in the miracles of St. Hugh

and the holy Eufemio instead of the amours and valorous deeds of Pan,

and kept Lent in lieu of the _Lupercalia_ of the Latins.

"Everything here seems centuries behind northern Italy, in the march of

civilization," I observed to my friend and cicerone.

"Truly we have got amongst fauns and satyrs here," replied Castelermo,

as he drank from a pitcher of cold water with no very satisfied air.

"Basta! was the Arcadia of Virgil like this? Hark you, Signor Menalcas

(if that be your name), does not the villa Belcastro lie somewhere near

these wild mountains?'

"Yes, illustrissimo," replied the poor rustic, quite abashed by the

hauteur of the Maltese knight; "about a league beyond the Tacina, among

the wooded hills."

"Good! I hope we shall procure better quarters and entertainment than

this poor den can afford."

"I have been often plundered by the French marauders, signor," said the

goat-herd humbly.

"And this villa Belcastro: do you know the way to it?"

"Yes, Signor Cavaliere; but a thousand golden ducats would not bribe me

to be your guide thither!"

"Why so, fool?"

"My shoulders ache at the recollection of the scurlada. The Cavaliere

di Belcastro----"

"Has a very bad name in the neighbourhood. Ah! I heard that even at

Palermo. And so, Signor Sylvanus----"

"_My_ name is Renzo Grolle," said the herd, angrily. "The sbirri at the

villa allow no one to approach within rifle shot of the gates; as the

noble signor makes the French war a pretext for many an act of

oppression. I was scourged like a mule for leading a poor monk of

Cassano there a few days ago: and yet, perhaps he proved no unwelcome

guest. Whom think you he was, illustrissimo? Why, the great Marchese

di Monteleone in disguise; and on his way to Scylla! Madonna! I

discovered that afterwards, when he was beyond the reach of my knife!

His excellenza of Belcastro can act the robber, as well as the king of

St. Eufemio: but, perhaps, the less I say the safer for myself, and I

trust to your honour in being scatheless for what I have said already.

His dungeons are deep; and I am but a poor peasant, whom he might crush

by a word."

"At this age of the world, can such things be?" asked I, touched by the

poor man's terror and humility. "A devil of a fellow this: we will pay

him a visit out of pure spite. What say you, Signor Marco?"

"By all means," replied the cavalier, as we took the road again. "His

sbirri will scarcely dare to fire on me; and we can make our quarters

good in the king's name. Basta! let Signor Belcastro look to himself,

if swords are drawn: I believe I have met him before, and if my

suspicions are just, I shall not spare steel on him."

"There is then some story connected with him?"

"And to the old tune,--Italian jealousy. He is said to be married to a

beautiful Neapolitan, whom he espoused during a sudden love-fit; but in

consequence of some trifling affair when residing at Venice during the

carnival, he became inflamed with jealousy, like an old fashioned

husband of the "Ancient Tales," and poniarded an officer of the Dogale

Guard. Bringing his lady into this wild country, he has ever since kept

her a close prisoner, and held himself in such strict seclusion, that

his residence was unmolested by the French; but only because it was

unknown to them: or perhaps he is an ally; for Buonaparte, anxious to

root out from Italy the last traces of the feudal system, has given

Regnier orders to demolish every castle and fortified villa in the

Calabrias. In one of these ancient dwellings, which can easily be made

a strong place for defence, Belcastro keeps his beautiful wife a close

captive. I doubt not but she has been perfidious: in the course of my

intrigues with the sex, I have found more than one woman so!"

"I have always heard, signor, that you were somewhat too sarcastic on

the good faith of your dark-eyed countrywomen."

"By Sant Ermo! I have cause to be so," he replied, while his dark brows

contracted, as they always did when he was in the least excited, and his

eyes sparkled fire from beneath the shade of his black velvet baretta or

forage cap, which was adorned with the Maltese cross, and the letters,

I.H.S. in red enamel. "There was a time," he continued, half communing

with himself, "when I was the gayest cavalier on the Corso of Naples, or

the Marina of Palermo. It was generally allowed that none dressed more

gaily, rode more gracefully, played and drank more deeply than Marco of

Castelermo. No man's opinion went further in all matters of taste,

fashion, or dissipation; whether it was given on a new collection of

antiques or paintings, a choice of wines, a racehorse, a new carriage,

or the belle of the season. My word was a fiat in the fashionable world.

Basta! I was not then a commander of Malta. God and St. John forgive

me! if it was rather in a sinful spirit of revenge and chagrin than a

holy sentiment of veneration and religion, that I girded on the sword

and mantle of that most sacred brotherhood. There is a pleasure, a

morbid one though it be, in telling one's griefs; and since you have

half acknowledged to me your passion for the fair cousin of my friend

Santugo" (I had never told this sharp-sighted Italian a word about it),

"I should not behave with more reserve to you."

He paused for a moment: old recollections, long forgotten but

once-cherished sentiments, hopes and fears arose in quick array before

him; and his dark and noble features became flushed, as with that lively

frankness which so often characterizes the better classes of his

countrymen, he commenced as follows.

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*NARRATIVE OF CASTELERMO.*

It was in the church of the Holy Spirit at Naples, during vespers, that

I first beheld Despina Vignola, then in the first year of her novitiate.

It is said that the beauty of our Italian women soon fades; it may be

so: I am no traveller and cannot judge; but all must acknowledge that

their charms, while they last, are often truly dazzling. Such were

Despina's. To me she seemed a personification of all that is lovely in

woman: her bright brown hair was gathered up behind in many an ample

braid, while a mass of glossy ringlets clustered round her high pale

forehead and waved on her fair neck. A robe of white satin fell in deep

broad folds around her figure, leaving her polished shoulders and taper

arms uncovered from the braceleted wrist to the dimpled elbow. The

graces of her person were displayed to the utmost advantage by the

richness of her attire; for it was not the custom of the fashionable

convent of Santo Spirito to robe the novices in the grim paraphernalia

of the cloister: until the vows were taken, they always appeared at mass

in full dress.

Despina was formed for love and life, not for the nun's veil and

cloistered cell; to which, according to a custom too common in Italian

families, she had been vowed in infancy by her parents. It was my fate

to love her passionately and truly, when few others would have dared to

look impurely upon the affianced bride of Heaven: one from her childhood

vowed to Madonna. She was an orphan, and her guardians--an avaricious

aunt, and Ser Vignola, a rascally notary of the Strada di Toledo--to

procure the reversion of her little patrimony, kept before her

continually the enormity of not fulfilling the vows of her parents.

In Italy, one is more prone to fall in love at church than any other

place: this may perhaps account for the numerous intrigues of our female

ecclesiastics. There is a mysterious influence in our religious

service--a mixture of heavenly aspirations and earth-born delights,

which powerfully awakens the better feelings of our nature; softening

the heart and rendering it more sensitive to tender and lasting

impressions. Was it not at church that Petrarch first beheld the

bright-haired Laura, whose beauty shed a light on his pilgrimage through

life for twenty years after? Ah, signor! our holy religion belongs to

the days of poetry and romance!

None but an Italian can know what a first love is to an Italian heart;

or how ardently and wildly the tender passion burns beneath these sunny

skies. In those days I was a young alfiero (or ensign) in Florestan's

Battalion of the Guards, and my daily attendance at the church of

Spirito Santo soon became a standing jest at our mess and a topic for

laughter to my gay companions; who were quite at a loss to comprehend

the reason of such sudden and rigid attendance to the duties of

religion. An aged aunt of mine, who departed about that time in all the

glory of virginity, out of her admiration of my piety put a codicil to

her will by which 50,000 ducats became mine, instead of being poured

into the treasury of the Greek Padri of St. Basil, as she had first

intended.

While kneeling beside the envious iron grille which separated me from

Despina, and kept all profane sinners from the vicinity of the fair

vestals, I felt happiness even at being so near her--to hear her soft

breathing, her low responses, and the rustle of her satin dress--to

watch the heaving breast, the long lashes of the downcast eye, and the

beauty of those auburn ringlets, which seemed "interwoven by the fingers

of love!" as Petrarch has it. O, Madonna mia! these were the pure

aspirations of a young and gallant heart. But alas! how were they

responded to?--how requited? I will not trouble you with much more of

this; though love quickens a fertile imagination, and I could relate a

thousand devices formed to gain the attention of the beautiful novice:

which all proved vain. She kept her long eye lashes cast down and her

bright eyes obstinately fixed on the monotonous pages of her mass book;

which she affected to prefer to the gayest cavalier on the corso: for

such I considered myself in those days of youth and vanity; and

certainly my cap had the tallest feather, my belt the longest sword, and

my uniform the smartest cut in all Naples. We all know how passion is

inflamed by difficulty; and from the time she left the church after

vespers, until the moment of beholding her again at matins, ages seemed

to elapse: but they were ages of scheming, contrivance, and stratagem.

The abbess, who was Despina's near relative, soon suspected the object

of my devotion was an earthly, and not a heavenly virgin; she was an

acute Calabrian and watched me attentively: in short, the fair novice

appeared at matins, mass, and vespers no more.

But the ingenuity of Monsignore Cupid, is fully a match for all the cold

precautions of guardians and enemies. Daily and nightly I came with my

friend Santugo (then a joyous student, fresh from the University of

Naples) to survey the lofty walls, the iron portal, and grated loopholes

of the convent with the faint hope of beholding her; but, corpo di

Baccho! we might as well have looked down the crater of Vesuvius, the

flames from whose summit often lighted up our nightly patrols. In

short, signor, with a key of gold I gained over the portress, who

conveyed to Despina a most elaborately written letter: a ring, bearing

her initials, D.V., was my only answer. Croce di Malta! Even at this

distant hour, the recollection of the joyous moment when I first

received it, stirs up a tumult within me! After that we used to meet in

the convent garden every night, but only for a few moments.

Dupe that I was to believe this creature loved me! But ah! the

happiness of those brief visits will never pass away from my memory. I

found Despina as attractive in mind and manners as she was charming in

person; she was a joyous donzella, who knew better the poems of Alfieri

and Gorilla than the doggrel hymns of the Padri; and while we enjoyed

our tete-a-tete in an arbour, Santugo kept watch, perched on the summit

of the garden-wall. Often we cursed the villain notary who lent all his

influence to crush the blossoms of so fair a flower: but at last my

passion took a more noisy turn.

By Santugo's advice, I engaged all the improvisatori in the city to

celebrate Despina. I mustered twenty with mandolins, twenty choristers,

as many bell-ringers and scrapers on the viol, with all our regimental

drums and cymbals. O, what a jovial company! Every other night we

entertained the sisterhood with a grand serenade, making all Naples echo

with bursts of joyous music; until the abbess, deeming her "commandery"

disgraced by our clatter and chorussing, procured a guard of sbirri from

the Bishop of Cosenza (whose palace unluckily stood in the adjoining

street), and on the first night after this reinforcement we were greeted

by a volley of blunderbuss-shot, which was within a hair's-breadth of

sending us all to the banks of the Styx. Three choristers were killed,

and several wounded. Santugo escaped unhurt, but I was peppered with

slugs so severely, that for the next two months I was confined to my

apartments; and in the interval Despina took the veil! She either

supposed I was dead of my wounds, or deemed me inconstant. Perhaps it

was dire necessity, as the last day of her novitiate had expired; and,

after a short residence at the house of the notary, to take a last view

of the world (as the custom is), she returned to offer up her vows. All

the bells of Naples were tolling on the occasion: several novices were

to take the veil that day, and the fashionables flocked to the church of

the Holy Spirit, as to some great festival of joy.

"O, Madonna!" exclaimed poor Marco, beating his breast with true Italian

energy, "will the bitter recollections of that infernal morning never

pass away? The Princess of Squillaci, a damsel old in years,

wickedness, and fashionable dissipation, was also to take the vows; and

all the foolish city, from Portici on the east to Misenum on the west,

held it as a day of universal joy.

While all this was going on, you cannot imagine the agony of mind I

endured: weaker than a child, I was prostrated upon a sickbed by a long

and wasting illness. My brain was dizzy. I wondered how the sun could

shine so joyously on the bay and the city, which lies so magnificently

along its spacious margin: to me it was a day of gloomy horror! The

bells seemed to toll for the funeral of Despina. My mind was a chaos,

and I would have hailed an eruption of Vesuvius, an earthquake, or any

horrible convulsion which would have overwhelmed the whole city: but

neither came to pass, and I lay stretched on my fever-bed, helpless,

forgotten, and miserable. I drank cup after cup of wine; but there

seemed a fire within me, which all the waters of the bay would not

quench. The pain of my wounds, the wine I drank so rashly, and the

fever of mind and body, soon made me delirious, and Santugo alone

restrained me from sallying, sword in hand, into the crowded streets, to

search for some imaginary foe.

That night, while yet the fever raged within me, and my brain whirled

with the champagne I had drank, I arose, dressed, and armed myself, and

issuing forth soon found my way to the closed gates of the convent. The

streets were silent and dark; my thoughts were strange: even while my

head swam and my knees tottered I imagined that I had the strength of a

Hercules. Aware that I was mad with fever and wine, my pranks had some

of the caution of sanity in them, and I shrank beneath the deep shadow

of the cloisters when a passenger approached, or the moon streamed its

light between the fleecy clouds which the south-west wind piled in

gleaming masses over Naples.

At times I laughed bitterly; anon I wrung my hands, and cried aloud,

"Despina--Despina! Anima mia!" and chanted some of our merry madrigals,

till the hollow cloisters and the long vista of the empty street, gave

back the ravings of folly and despair.

A new fit seized me; I became gloomy, and fled from the city to wander

among the ruins of Queen Joanna's palace: a place rendered terrible to

the superstitious fishermen by the tales of horror connected with it.

From thence I wandered as far as that dreaded valley the Forum Vulcani;

a spot filled with fabled terrors from time immemorial, and shunned by

the vulgar of Naples. The superstition is that it is haunted by fiends

and spirits, who toil and shriek through caverns of fire, watching that

hidden gold, which (by day) the wretched lazzaroni have sought for

centuries. At times the ground is covered with burning sulphur, and

rent with chasms belching forth pitchy smoke, flames, or boiling water;

which the fabled giants who are buried there vomit up from hell.

Petrius Damianus supposes that purgatory lies beneath it, and tells of

frightful noises, groans, and shrieks, issuing from clefts in the rocks;

whereon sat monstrous shapes of birds and men, who, on the croaking of a

gigantic raven, plunged headlong into the chasms, and appeared no more,

at least not for many days.

At night, when viewed by the light of a setting moon or the flame of

Vesuvius, the Forum Vulcani, with only its natural terrors, is gloomy

enough: hemmed in by rocks of basalt, from the clefts of which the

burning bitumen flashes forth at times, or white steam curls on the

breeze--the ground thick with sulphur, and trembling with the throes of

the mighty volcano in the distance, it has horrors enough for ordinary

men; but that night it had none for me, and I startled the echoes of its

rocks with my cries of "Despina!"

I again found myself beneath the convent walls of Spirito Santo, just as

the city clocks were telling midnight; I was alone, and a strange

thought occurred to me. I tore down a lamp, and demolishing a wooden

railing, poured oil on the painted pales, and piling them against the

door, set them on fire, laughing, and shouting "Despina!" as I fanned

the flames with my hat; and when the blaze increased apace, I folded my

arms within my mantle, and watched its rapid progress with the most

intense satisfaction. Aim or object I had none: I was _mad!_--and yet I

can remember the whole like some wild dream. The forked tongues of

flame shot upward, and licked the wooden balconies and projecting eaves

of the old convent, which was likely to be soon enveloped in fire. Its

magnificent oratory, with columns of jasper and dome of marble--its

shrines, tombs, and relics--the miraculous crucifix which spoke to

Thomas Aquinas, the true cross, the Virgin's petticoat, and Heaven knows

what more--now stood in greater peril than ever they did during the

outrages of the mad fisherman of Amalfi.

The lazzaroni came yelling in thousands from every point; the whole

Strada di Toledo was red with the blaze, and the Piazza di Mercato, and

the facade of the Royal Palace, were all gleaming in light: even the

starry vault above was sheeted with sparkling fire. Basta! how I

laughed at the roaring flames and the clanking engines, from which the

hissing water poured in streams--at the shrieking nuns, the shouting

mob, and all the mingled dismay and uproar I had so suddenly caused.

But, being soon discovered to be the author of the mischief, I was

carried off by the Neapolitan guard, and lodged in prison; where three

months' close confinement, with no other fare than hard crusts and cold

water, cooled my blood so completely, that I came forth an altered man,

and so heartily ashamed of my late extravaganza, that I resigned to the

Duca di Florestan my commission in his battalion of the guards, and left

the service.

With liberty, all my love for Despina returned; and circumstances which

followed soon after raised my passion to its former height and ardour.

One morning, on awaking, I found a little coloured billet laid on my

pillow; tearing it open with hurried and trembling hands, I found it to

be an invitation--from whom?--the Signora Abadessa of Spirito Santo, to

visit her at my earliest convenience. How the little pink note came

there, no one knew; and I was too much fluttered to inquire. There was

an air of mystery in the affair that pleased me; and love and hope

sprang up again. But aware that I had the treachery and revenge of a

Calabrian woman to dread, together with the wrath of her gossip and

well-known admirer the famous Bishop of Cosenza, I went well armed,

taking a matchless poniard of Bastia steel in addition to my concealed

pistols. Happily, however, such precautions were needless. I found the

gay abbess an agreeable little woman; she gave me her hand to kiss, and

welcomed me with a pleasant talkative manner which quite won me to her

purpose. After rebuking me gently for my sacrilegious attempt to fire

her convent, she bade me kneel to receive her blessing. I listened to

her rebuke and received her benison in silence and distrust, wondering

the whole time how so unusual an interview was to end. I thought of the

bishop's sbirri, and the dungeons of the convent below us, and kept one

hand in my bosom grasping my poniard.

The reverend lady began by a long preamble on the risk she ran in the

disclosure she was about to make regarding the sister Brigida, as she

named Despina; and then, making a long pause, she kept me on thorns of

expectation, while observing with a keen glance the expression of my

care-worn visage. I could not love Despina (the abbess continued) more

than I was beloved in return; and taking pity upon me, she had consented

to quit the convent, and become my bride, the moment I procured her a

dispensation from those vows which bound her to the church--vows offered

up on the expiry of her novitiate, and in an agony of sorrow for my

supposed death. Blessed words! But they were my ruin! My brain whirled

and my heart leaped with delight; throwing myself at the feet of the

abbess, and pressing both her hands to my lips, I declared her my best

friend--my good angel, and bestowed on her a thousand of those titles

which flow so smoothly from an Italian's tongue, when his heart is

overflowing with gratitude.

She rang a hand-bell, and the light form of Despina appeared at the iron

grating of the parlour. I sprang towards her, but she averted her face:

at first it was very pale, and seemed more lovely beneath the dark hood

which shaded it; but a mantling blush overspread her cheek as she gave

me her hand through the grating to kiss.

"Ah, Despina! had you trusted more to Providence, how much sorrow might

have been spared us both!"

"True, dear one," said she, wafting me a kiss through the grate.

The superior hurried me away, and I left the convent giddy with delight

at the sudden turn fortune had taken in my favour. Within the hour, I

wrote to my uncle, the great Cardinal Ruffo, to intercede with his

Holiness, and procure a dispensation for Despina; and I spent nearly my

whole inheritance in bribing the greedy officials at the Papal court to

hasten it, trusting; to God and mv own hands for the means of

maintenance when Despina became mine. Meanwhile, I visited the convent

daily, and though my interviews with her were very short, I became more

than ever enchanted with her beauty and vivacity; which seemed to

increase as the time flew past, and the day of her freedom and our

happiness drew nearer.

Often have I whiled away the hours of a starry night in the Toledo,

watching the taper which flickered in her dormitory; and I retired happy

if I did but obtain even a glance of her figure passing the lattice.

One night, while watching thus, a tall dark shadow fell on the muslin

curtains of the window: it was _not_ that of Despina. I paused--horrible

suspicions floated before me, and I felt my blood run cold. The light

vanished, the chamber became dark, and immediately a tall fellow dropped

from the window into the street. My heart, which had ceased to beat for

a time, was now on fire: the blood shot through my veins like lightning;

my poniard gleamed in my hand.

"Ola, signor cavaliere!" cried I, crossing his path; "who are you that

leaves the convent thus, and under the shadow of night?"

"One who will not brook questioning by you, whoever you are, per

Baccho!" replied the other, drawing his hat over his eyes, and standing

on his guard, with a poniard also. "Let me pass, cursed lazzarone! or

it may be the worse for you."

Jealousy, anguish, and hatred, burned fiercely within me, and I rushed

upon him with frantic vehemence. Parrying his blow with my mantle, I,

with truer aim, slashed up his face from cheek to chin. My antagonist

fled, uttering a terrible malediction.

"Basta!" said I, while wiping my weapon, "he is only some craven robber

after all! Thank heaven! my suspicions were vain. But her window!--I

must have mistaken it--and yet the shadow--." A tumult of sad thoughts

overwhelmed me, and I slept none that night, but wandered about the

Toledo like a houseless dog. Sunrise found me at the parlour grate of

the convent.

Despina appeared as usual, her eyes beaming with smiles expressive of

equal pleasure and surprise on beholding me so early. The fair recluse,

who had just arisen from her pure and peaceful couch, seemed so

blooming--so fragrant--with beauty, youth, and innocence, that I cursed

my vile suspicions, and concluded the strange visitor of the convent to

have been a robber.

Three days afterwards, my uncle, the Cardinal Ruffo, sent a dispensation

for Despina to the convent. I heard of its arrival, and with a heart

brimming with exultation, I flew to embrace my inamorata. On hearing my

well-known ring at the bell of the porch, Despina was not, as usual, at

the grate, nor did the superior appear; but a letter from her lay on the

table for me. I tore it open, and read the fatal confirmation of my

suspicions: I found that I was the dupe of two of the most artful and

inexplicable women in Italy. Despina had eloped! The moment her

dispensation had arrived, she quitted the convent in a calesso,

accompanied by a masked cavalier, and was gone no one knew whither. The

letter concluded by a request that I would visit the convent no more, as

the abbess was too much incensed at Despina Vignola to make welcome any

one who had ever loved or been connected with her.

The next thing I remembered, was finding myself in the sunny Toledo, and

hearing the jarring of the convent's iron doors as they were closed and

locked behind me. I tore the letter to fragments, which I scattered on

the wind, and rushed through the streets to order forth horses and

servants in pursuit--servant, I should say, for my retinue was then

curtailed to one. I thought only of revenge. O signor! little can you

imagine the agony of rage and shame I endured; not, perhaps, so much

from unrequited love as from wounded vanity and pride. Next morning all

gossiping Naples rang with the story, and everybody enjoyed a laugh at

the famous jilt of the Cavaliere di Castelermo, by a perfidious little

nun--per Baccho!

A letter, which I received next day from Cardinal Ruffo, containing

abundance of good advice and his blessing on our nuptials, in no way

tended to soothe my exasperation. Basta! months elapsed before the

shock of this event passed away, and I could listen with calmness to

Santugo, who related to me the story of Despina, so far as he had been

able to pick it up in the public places of the city.

I had been most cruelly and strangely duped. Anxious to be free from

those religious trammels which her parents' bigotry and her guardian's

avarice had cast around her, the artful girl--who had never loved

me--was willing that I should employ all my interest (which was great)

and my money (which, alas! was little) to procure her a dispensation,

that she might espouse the brother of that diavolessa the superior. He

was a ruined cavalier of the Calabrias, who had lost his last ducat at

the hells, and to whom the reversion of her entry-money from the

convent-treasury would be very acceptable: though the beauty of the girl

was temptation enough.

"Basta!" said I, "Santugo, 'tis enough!" I inquired after her and her

choice no more; but strove to banish the affair from my mind, when the

first burst of my fury had passed away. Luckily, I had been taught

philosophy, and bequeathing to the devil my share in the sex, found that

I had not much more to bestow: I had not a quattrino, save what I raised

by the sale of the remnant of my patrimony--the tower of St. Ermo in the

upper province. Santugo would have shared his last ducat with me; but I

was too proud to be dependent on any man. My legacy, the reward of my

devotion, had all melted away, too, during my joyous life in the Guards:

it was spent in procuring a wife for another man! I wish him joy of his

spouse: if she proved as virtuous after marriage as she was before it,

she must be a crown--but not of glory--to her husband. Basta!

Finding myself without one beggarly bajoccho to clink upon another, I

became a soldier again, and served the Knights of Malta as a musketeer

against the corsairs of Barbary. On the return of our frigate to Malta,

after a most successful cruise, in which we obtained abundance of

plunder, slaves, and glory, I was admitted into the Italian Langue; on

proving before a chapter of the order that my blood had been noble for

two hundred years (easy enough for one who comes of a senatorial

family), and that in my coat armorial there were the blazons of four

patrician houses. A little prize-money picked up in Algeria furnished

me with two hundred and sixty golden crowns, to pay my fees of diploma

on passing from esquire to the rank of spurred and belted knight. In

this capacity, when in command of a frigate, I defeated Osmin Carara,

the celebrated corsair who so long infested these seas; and for that

exploit I was made bailiff of the commandery at St. Eufemio, then

consisting of sixty knights, the noblest in Italy.

So, signor, you now behold me a brother of the most reverend and

illustrious order of St. John of Jerusalem, once of Rhodes, and latterly

of Malta. After the reduction by Buonaparte of that barren rock (the

last stronghold of the order), I retired with his most eminent highness

the grand master, and the poor remnant of our forces, to Genoa; where

our solemn chapters are yet held. On the breaking out of the Italian

war, when the French crossed our frontier to plant their banner of blood

and anarchy on the ramparts of Rome--to assail God's vicegerent in his

own eternal city, drive the Bourbon king from Naples, hoist their red

cap above the winged horse, and establish a republic of injustice and

tyranny--then I once more girded on the sword, and have ever since been

fighting; at one time under the chiefs of the Masse, at another under

the British: but, alas! oftener under Francatripa and other bold bandits

of Naples; who seem to be the only men truly staunch to Italy in these

days of war and peril. Malediction on the hour when a wearer of this

blessed badge has to stoop to a companionship so unworthy! But the end

sanctifies the means. * * *

There is the Villa Belcastro! If my story has beguiled a part of the

way through this wild and mountainous country, I shall consider myself

amply repaid in having pleased you: but I fear, Signor Claude, you have

found it dry enough; though the tale is a sad one to me--the most dismal

chapter of my history indeed.

*CHAPTER XX.*

*THE VILLA BELCASTRO.*

"Where is the path? It seems lost in the wilderness hereabout," said I,

when my communicative friend had concluded.

"Yonder woman at the fountain will perhaps show us the way to the gate.

Permit me to pass," replied the cavalier, as he spurred his horse to the

front, and galloped before me: his tall military figure, and peculiar

garb and equipment, with the solitary wild around us--the castellated

villa, and the lonely hills--had an air of romance with which my red

coat, jack-boots, and most unchivalric cocked-hat, but ill consorted.

The country through which we had travelled was of the most picturesque

character: lofty mountains rose up against the blue vault, which they

seemed to sustain; they were covered to their summits with the light

foliage of the olive, the heavy branches of the sombre pine, the broad

masses of the glossy-leaved ilex, fragrant myrtle, rich arbutus, orange

and lemon groves, all flourishing in the wildest luxuriance; while the

aloe, the cactus, and date-palm, grew among the ferruginous rocks in

profusion. Little hamlets, inhabited only by charcoal-burners, nestled

in lonely nooks; solitary chapels, old crosses marking deeds of blood or

piety, and the mouldering ruins of long-departed races--the Calabri or

the Locri--appeared half-hidden amid the long reedy grass, in the flat

alluvial vales through which the roadway wound.

But on nearing the Villa Belcastro a change came over the scenery: the

country seemed deserted, or inhabited only by the lynx, the wolf, and

wild boar; muddy cascades roared down over the red scaurs of the

mountains; and a wide pathless wood of dark Italian pines and tall

cypresses, sombre and gloomy, surrounded the ancient edifice. The

picturesque towers of the villa were perched on the summit of a rock

that reared up its jagged front immediately before us; but we were

unable to penetrate the tangled growth of underwood that intervened, so

thickly interwoven with creeping wild plants that it seemed like an

Indian jungle. Buffaloes--a species of cattle introduced into Italy

during the seventh, century--browsed in the marshy places, and at times

a lynx or polecat shot through the forest, or an eagle screamed from the

rocks.

The white walls and striking facade of the villa shone in the warm light

of the western sky, and from one of the four turrets at the angles of

the edifice, which were covered with elaborate stonework projecting like

a heavy cornice, we saw a standard slowly hoisted and unfurled to the

breeze. Our scarlet uniforms had probably led the inmates to suppose

that British troops were in the valley below.

"Basta!" exclaimed Castelermo, "'tis the veritable castle of an ogre

this! Cavaliere Galdino must be seldom troubled with visitors. I see

not a trace of road or pathway to his hermitage on the cliffs yonder."

"I trust we shall reach it before nightfall: a ride in the dark through

such a wilderness would not be very pleasant, and evening is closing

fast."

While I was speaking, the last segment of the sun's crimson disk sank

behind the green ridge of hills from which we had descended; the long,

dark shadow cast by the villa-crowned rock across the wooded valley

faded away; the Apennines grew dark, and the sombre tints of evening

deepened rapidly.

"Signora," said Castelermo to an old woman who was filling a jar at a

fountain, and whose grim aspect declared her to be the spouse of a

charcoal-burner, "is there any path to the villa on this side of the

mountains?"

"Through the woods there is a way, signor cavaliere," said the woman,

setting down her jar, and endeavouring to hide her bare bosom; for her

attire was of the most wretched description. "But it is a troublesome

road, and perilous too; and you will only lose your labour--for none get

entrance there. The sbirri keep guard day and night with their rifles

loaded; and more than one poor peasant has been shot--mistaken for a

Frenchman, perhaps.

"So the cavaliere yet contrives to maintain his quota of sbirri in

arms?" said Marco.

"Yes, signor illustrissimo," replied the poor woman, glancing furtively

round her; "but, ahime! such ruffians! They are slaves who have

escaped, bravoes, banditti, and the worst malefactors of Naples, who

wear his livery; and, bearing arms in his name, they commit such

outrages that the very relation would make you shudder, cavalieri!"

"A droll country gentleman!" I exclaimed. "And he will not admit any

one, say you?"

"None save the accursed witches who come all the way from the peak of

Fiesole to hold their Sabbath with him."

"Ay! and devils from the Val di Demona, to bring distempers on our

blessed infants!" cried another hag, starting up from behind the

fountain, where she had shrunk down to conceal the scantiness of her

attire, which consisted only of a red sottana, or coarse petticoat, and

leather sandals; "and to blast our crops and herds, and make the fiends

who dwell in the bowels of the mountains rend the solid earth, and shake

our huts to pieces."

"Madonna! speak lower! he is told whatever is said of him by the sybil

of Norcia, who made him proof against fire and steel and water."

"I care not. I am alone in the world now: my husband died on Regnier's

gibbet at Monteleone, and my sons have perished fighting under the

chiefs of the Masse, Gesu Cristo! I am old, lonely, and very

miserable!"

"Proof against steel did you say, signora?" said I, addressing the first

gossip; "we may test that, if he plays any of his pranks with us."

"Signor, heard you ever such stuff?" exclaimed Castelermo, while our

horses drank of the well, and we enjoyed a hearty laugh at the excessive

credulity of the Calabrians; to whose wild superstitions, I was by that

time no stranger. "Old gossips," he continued, putting some silver into

their attenuated hands to quicken their apprehension: "for what reason

does this terrible Feudatory keep garrison so closely? Nay, speak one

at a time, but as quickly as you please: our time is short."

"You must have come from a distant country, illustrissimi signori, that

you have not heard of the poor Cavalieressa Belcastro," said one of the

old women, taking her jar from her head, on which she had poised it, and

replacing it on the margin of the well, to point the periods with her

fingers while speaking. "There is not a child on this side of La Syla,

but knows her story. Some people say her husband stole her from a

convent; others that she left a noble signor whom she loved better, and

married the Cavaliere Belcastro for the sake of his rank."

"His rank!" reiterated Marco contemptuously, his brows contracting:

"Yet, I may mistake--proceed."

"After marriage came repentance, and the Signor Belcastro was tormented

by jealousy; believing that a woman who was false to another could never

be very true to himself. And truly he had proof of her light carriage

with a handsome young captain, who was carried away to the Val di Demona

by those imps who are always at the signor's elbow awaiting his

commands. Since then he has kept the poor lady locked up in a dreary

chamber of the Villa, from which he brings her forth but once a week to

go to mass on horseback; and she is so strictly watched that,

notwithstanding three attempts made by the brave capobandito, Scarolla,

she yet remains a captive."

"Watched by a spirit, who will never leave her till the cavalier dies

and Satan claims his own," added the other woman.

"Malediction on such husbands!" exclaimed the first gossip; "if my Maso

treated me so, I would put a dose of aquetta in his soup--I would! He

was jealous once; but we were young then, and I soon soothed him."

"How the terror of this man's name has besotted these poor simpletons,"

said Marco, as we rode through the wood along a narrow path they had

pointed out. "He is said to be a dark and curious being; and, leaving

out the sorcery, their relation is almost word for word what I have

heard at Naples and Palermo. I would stake a thousand ducats to a

bajoccho, we shall have an unseemly brawl with this melancholy

Castellano; unless his character is much exaggerated."

"Indeed! For my own part I would willingly stake a cool hundred, if I

could serve the poor lady."

"Of the signora, the less we say perhaps the better; though I feel some

curiosity to know her maiden name and family, and a great deal to see

the inside of this place: to which we are venturing, like two rash

knights, after the solemn warnings of yonder Cumaean sybils. I perceive

them still watching our route, as if it was beset with as many perils as

any in the 'Hundred ancient Tales.'

"By Jove, sir, they are not much mistaken!" I exclaimed, as a musket

flashed from a loophole in the outer wall, and the shot whistled over my

shoulder.

"May I perish if this shall pass unrevenged!" exclaimed the cavalier.

"Basta! let us forward, and at full gallop!"

In a minute we were close under the walls, the outer windows of which

were all barred and far from the ground. An iron gate closed the

portal, or archway; and beyond it we saw ten or twelve sinister-looking

ruffians, clad in a sort of livery, and armed with black cross belts,

musquetoons and bayonets.

"Rascals!" exclaimed my companion; "are ye Italians, true catholics, and

yet ignorant that it is sacrilege to molest one of the Sangiovanni? In

the days of the holy office, this must have been settled otherwise; even

in Calabria. But open the barrier and give us instant admission, or it

may fare the worse with your lord; to whom we must speak, and without

delay."

The porter, an old Albanian Greek, who trembled between fear of

disobeying his master's orders and offending a knight of Malta--an order

lately so formidable--slowly undid the bolts and chains; imploring, in

his curious dialect, that we would soften the wrath of the Cavalier

Galdino, and save his shoulders from the scurlada. Until the French

invasion, the resident Feudatories of Calabria, Apulia, &c. maintained

the feudal system with all its iron tyranny; but since the frightful war

of extermination, waged in these provinces by General Manhes, and the

peace of 1815, it does not exist in any of the Italian states: except, I

believe, the island of Sardinia. Between the tyranny and oppression of

the barons and their armed followers--with whom on various pleas they

garrisoned their castles and villas--the dues or tithes of the numerous

priesthood and the outrages of the brigands, the situation of the

peaceful portion of the mountaineers was not very enviable.

"Which of ye dared to fire upon us? and by whose order?" asked

Castelermo, laying his hand on his sword, and surveying the culprits

with a stern eye. There was no reply. "Cowards! do you hear me?"

"Cavaliero Marco," said one fellow coming forward hat in hand, after a

long pause, "I trust we know our creed better than to molest any man who

wears upon his breast the cross of Malta. But, indeed, it was no other

than excellenza himself who fired the shot; and let him answer for it."

"The villain!" I exclaimed, leaping from my horse.

"Dio mi guardi! the deed was none of ours, Signor Marco."

"Who are you, that seem so well acquainted with my name?"

"A poor rogue of Amendolia, signor, by name Baptistello Varro. I cannot

presume to think you can recollect me, though I had the honour to serve

with you, under your uncle the Cardinal Huffo, while his eminence was

yet a true man to Italy and the Holy Faith. You remember the siege of

Altamurra on the plains of Apulia: you saved my life there. Ah! what a

leaguer that was! His eminence built altars where other men would have

had batteries, and besprinkled our cannon so plentifully with holy water

that they often hung fire. I owe you a life, signor; and an Italian

never forgets either a friend or a foe."

"Well, Master Baptistello, although I have no remembrance of those

things, I doubt not you are an honest fellow; but the sooner you change

leaders the better. Quit this inhospitable den to-morrow, and join the

corps of the Free Calabri at Crotona. But, meanwhile, lead us to this

ungracious lord of yours. The shot he fired shall cost him dear, or I

am not--lead on, Basta!" and with his usual exclamation, he cut short

what he meant to have said.

On being ushered up a spacious staircase of white marble, the stained

glass windows of which were faintly lighted by the lingering flush of

the departed sun, we found ourselves in an ancient hall, decorated in a

quaint style of architecture, neither Norman nor Saracenic, but a

mixture of both; and a relic perhaps of the days of those invaders.

Lighted by four large windows which overlooked the vale and forest, now

dimly illumined by the rising moon, its roof was arched with stone

profusely carved, and supported by twelve antique figures, or

caryatides, which supplied the place of pillars: they were sculptured

out of the sonorous marble of Campanini, which when struck is said to

resound like a bell; and their time-worn mutilated forms glimmered like

pale spectres amid the gloom of evening and the shadows of the darkening

hall. By the light of the stars and the moon's wan crescent, we could

discern sylvan trophies, sombre paintings from which grim faces of old

Italian knights and older saints looked forth, and numerous weapons of

various dates which adorned the lofty walls.

"'T is long since I stood in such a noble old hall as this," said Marco,

casting himself languidly into a gilt fauteuil. "General Regnier,

applying the forcible argument of gunpowder, has done more, perhaps,

than the march of civilization, towards destroying the feudal system;

and the ancient strongholds and palazzi of our noblesse are now somewhat

scarce even in the lower province. We must be on our guard with this

signor of Belcastro," he added in a whisper. "I have often heard of him

at Palermo, as being a sullen, subtle, and ferocious man,--a ruined

gamester and half desperado--cunning as a lynx, and treacherous as

Cesare Borgia. Heaven help the unhappy woman whom fate has tied to him!

But, ha! what have we here?" he exclaimed aloud, snatching from a marble

slab the long envelope of some official communication, which just then

caught his eye, "See you this, Signor Claude? Our villain host has been

in correspondence with the enemy."

It was addressed to the "Cavaliere Galdino di Belcastro," and endorsed

in the corner "_Regnier, General de Division_."

"Now, I would give a thousand ducats to know what this contained!" said

my companion, as he thrust it into his long glove. "'T is sealed with

the crest of the iron crown, and--but Basta! here he comes."

As he spoke, there entered the hall a tall man of powerful frame and

most forbidding aspect, attired in the full dress of the old school: his

hair powdered and tied with a white riband, his shirt ruffled at the

wrists and bosom, a wide skirted coat and black satin knee breeches with

buckles. The courtly air which this costume usually imparts to the

wearer, rather heightened than diminished the repulsive manner of this

tyrannical feudatory.

"Lights here! Ola, Baptistello! a light, you loitering whelp," he cried

with the voice of one in no pleasant mood. In less than a minute,

servants had lighted the wax candles of three gigantic girandoles, and

we had a better view of our host. He was past the meridian of life, and

his countenance, which I have already characterized as forbidding, was

rendered yet more so by a hideous cicatrix, as from the gash of a

sword-cut, which grew purple and black alternately. He bowed to us with

frigid hauteur, and then surveyed with a peculiar glance the tall and

noble figure of Castelermo. The latter changed colour on beholding the

scar, but said with a stern aspect, after a pause,--

"How now, Signor Galdino! do you take me for a lynx, a torpedo, the

devil, or what, that you look on me thus?"

"For none of these," he answered, coldly; "but say who are ye, signori,

that force yourselves upon my privacy uninvited?"

"I am an officer of his Britannic Majesty's service--Luogoteniente di

Fanteria nel servizio Britanica--and a bearer of despatches." The

cavaliere bowed.

"And _I_ the Cavaliere di Castelermo, Knight Commander of Malta, and an

officer of the Free Calabri: as such, I demand your reasons for firing

upon us like some base brigand, thus committing both treason and

sacrilege."

"By the ancient customs of Calabria, common to the land since the days

of Count Roger the First, I may defend my residence against the

intrusion of all men. As for the treason, cospetto! I care little

whether Buonaparte or Ferdinand is our ruler; and as for the sacrilege,

I can answer for that where, when, and how you will!" His fingers

played convulsively with a little stiletto, which hung half concealed

beneath the lapelle of his embroidered vest.

"Rest assured, Signor Galdino, that I am not slow in literally

translating the hint; but recollect that, as a cavaliere of birth and

honour, I would scorn to put my life in the scale with a traitor's!"

"How?" exclaimed Belcastro, starting forward with rage.

Castelermo held before his eyes the paper he had picked up, and our host

changed colour beneath the cold, sarcastic smile of the knight. He

started as if to summon his people, but paused--a sudden thought seemed

to occur to him; he gulped down his fury, his brows became smooth, and a

ghastly smile curled his sinister lip.

"Eh, via signori! you are now under my roof; the ways are dangerous

hereabout; you cannot proceed; and I must not forget that hospitality

which courtesy renders imperative. Let us say no more of that unlucky

wall-piece, which in a moment of irritation I discharged. My residence

is seldom favoured by peaceful visitors. But are any more of King

Ferdinand's people--troops, I mean--likely to pass this way soon?"

"A brigade of British are entering the valley, and will probably arrive

here after midnight." Our host looked displeased, and turned to one of

the windows, while I glanced inquiringly at Castelermo, who whispered--

"I deemed it politic to say so, for he has some dark end in view. I did

not like the sudden and sinister smile which replaced the gloom of his

sullen visage. You observed it? By St. John of Malta! were our cattle

not tired with these rugged mountain roads, I would rather have passed

the night in my saddle than under his roof. A few miles further would

have brought us to the town of Belcastro: but there is no help for it

now."

My companion was not deceived. Animated by a fear that we had

discovered his correspondence with the French leader, and by a wish to

possess himself of my despatches to transmit them to the same personage;

eager, also, to gratify the deep-rooted hatred he bore to Castelermo, he

secretly determined to murder us both, and in cold blood. The bullet or

poniard had been his first resolve; but dreading discovery, and the

arrival of the supposed brigade, poison became his next resource. But I

am anticipating. The change in his manner was too abrupt and bare-faced

to pass without exciting our suspicions.

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF CASTELERMO.*

While Signor Belcastro scanned the star-lighted valley to trace the

march of those troops whom he had no wish to see, servants laid a hasty

supper of various cold meats, boiled maccheroni, and fruit, all of which

were very acceptable to the cavaliere and myself; we were well appetized

by our ride over the mountains, exposed to a keen tramontana, or north

wind, which had been blowing for the last two hours.

"Be seated, gentlemen!" said our host, as he took the head of the table.

"Will you not lay aside your swords?"

"We have been so much accustomed to them of late, that mine is no

encumbrance."

"Nor mine," said Marco, bestowing on me a glance so peculiar, that I

refrained from unclasping my belt. There was so much blunt distrust in

this, that the face of Belcastro flushed.

"Shall we not have the pleasure of seeing the signora at supper?" said

Marco, as he spread his table napkin, and attacked a plate of cold

roasted meat, affecting to be unconscious that he stung Belcastro to the

quick by the question.

"I regret that she is indisposed," he replied, regarding the cavalier

with furtive glances, his eyes burning like red sparks beneath his

shaggy brows; "seriously so: but, indeed, she never appears before

visitors."

"So I have heard at Palermo," said Marco, drily, and in the same

peculiar tone, while the face of Belcastro grew purple and the gash

black; though he continued his supper with apparent composure. "'T is

said, signor," continued his tormentor, "that being jealous of her

surpassing beauty, you keep her a little too close, after the old

Italian fashion. I have heard the captive lady of Belcastro spoken of

more than once at the Sicilian court; and truly, but that the days of

chivalry are gone by, our grand master would have sent a squadron of his

best knights to summon your stronghold----"

"Cavaliere Marco!" said our host, sternly, "those persons at Palermo or

elsewhere, who meddle with my affairs, will act a wiser part in

attending to their own. Massena is now hovering on the frontiers of

Upper Calabria with a force that must sweep the British from Italy--ay,

and from Sicily, too! Where, then, will be the lazzaroni court?

Signor, cease your jesting. Cospetto! this is not a time for the

courtiers of Ferdinand to create enemies."

There was something in all this beyond my comprehension. I supped

rather uncomfortably: some mischief was brewing. Why, I knew not; but

the half nonchalant, half contemptuous manner of Castelermo, and the

sullen air of Belcastro, were not calculated to make me feel perfectly

"at home." The conversation that passed was purely political, and

conducted in a very unpleasant style of sarcasm and retort. Our host

seemed no friend to the Bourbon cause, and freely abused the character

of Ferdinand.

"But glory to Carolina!" he added, "she is worth a legion of such men as

her husband; and but for her influence alone, the spirit of resistance

(you term it honour and freedom) had long since been scared from Naples

by the eagles of Napoleon!"

"'T is a sad truth," said Castelermo, with a sigh. "Oh, that the pure

flame of patriotism which burns in my own breast could be kindled in

every Italian heart!--that my countrymen, instead of their silly desire

for separate dukedoms and independent commonwealths, would cherish a

spirit of love and union, and exalt the standard of their country to

that place which it once held. Then the Ausonians would become once

more a people, like their Latin fathers: the first on earth. Think of

the richness of our soil, which yields in abundance all that man can

desire; the magnificence of our cities, which have ever been famous for

the great men they have produced--historians, politicians, poets,

painters, musicians, and sculptors. 'T is the land to which all Europe

owes its religion, its civilization, and its laws! But, alas! its

spirit is dead; or Italy would become once more a nation, and a great

one: not a land of shreds and patches--of principalities, republics, and

seignories, pining and withering amid dissensions and jealousies at

home, and wars and woes abroad. But Italia! Italia, as she was once--a

glorious and united nation--one kingdom from the mountains of Savoy to

the Capo del Armi--where would be her equal?"

"Chimera all!" replied Belcastro, coolly draining a glass of wine; while

Marco, whose eyes sparkled, and whose cheek flushed scarlet during this

outburst, continued with a tone of sadness--

"I know it. Never will her people or her wicked rulers be aware of

this: as Austria is, and other nations are, whose interest it is to keep

Italy feeble, partitioned, and divided."

"Europe must bow to France," said Belcastro, who was a confirmed

Buonapartist. "Look around us! Ferdinand styles himself King of Naples

and of Sicily: whether he is likely to keep that little long, even

though protected by the fleets and armies of Britain, is very

problematical. You fight for his crown here among the wilds of Calabria,

while he spends his days ingloriously at Palermo; and instead of leading

on his Italians to battle, to gain a kingdom or a grave, he hunts in the

woods of Sicily, clad in a grey doublet, greasy cap and worsted hose,

like some ignoble peasant rather than the son of Charles of Parma and

Placentia. In truth, he is the most cowardly, ignorant, and indolent

sloth on this side of the Alps. His feeble cause would expire

altogether, but for the indomitable spirit of Carolina of Austria; who

is the very reverse of such a husband: her presence at the

council-table, when fired with ardour and indignation against the

destroyers of her sister Marie Antoinette, is alone sufficient to keep

alive the sinking patriotism of our nobles."

"Cavalier Galdino," said Marco, angrily, "there is much truth in what

you have said: yet remember, that even truth may be treason; and that,

if you always express yourself so freely, there are those not far off

who will not permit you to pass without molestation. You are aware how

merciless our countrymen are to all favourers of Napoleon. Scarolla is

among these mountains with his people----"

"Talk not to me of Scarolla!" cried Belcastro, furiously--"a base-born

brigand, to whom this very Carolina sends arms and money: and perhaps

she has disgraced the order of St. Constantine by hanging it on his

villainous neck, as on that of Francatripa, and Mamone the

blood-quaffer. A thousand devils! tell me not of Scarolla--but, fico!

never mind politics. Here, Baptistello! clear the table, and bring more

wine. What shall it be? Malvasia or Champagne? I have some excellent

Muscatelle--its flavour is matchless. Shall it be placed before you?"

"Thank you, with pleasure," said I, bowing, glad to find that our

irritable host was discovering a little more of the gentleman in his

manner.

"I never drink Muscatelle," said Castelermo. This I knew to be false: it

was his favourite wine. "But, Signor Belcastro, I----'

"Have no objection to try yours, you would say? Right, Varro--hand down

the old silver jars from the left side of the cabinet there: the lower

shelf," he added, throwing a ring with keys towards the servant.

The latter opened the antique piece of furniture, which was composed of

ebony, ivory, and silver; the pillars, carving, and figures, being all

equally elaborate and beautiful. He brought forth from its dark

recesses two flasks, or silver vases, of ample dimensions. Each had a

small mouth rising from a tall and taper neck; one was closed by a red,

the other by a green crystal stopper. Their workmanship was exquisite,

but I doubted if the contents were so. Grapes, bacchanals, and nymphs

appeared in rich embossage, and a shield on each side bore a coat of

arms deeply engraved. Belcastro's dark eyes flashed, but I thought it

was with pride, as he pushed the massive flasks towards us, saying--

"These were made by Cellini, the famous Florentine, for Pope Clement

VII., and when Rome was sacked by the Constable de Bourbon, an ancestor

of mine, who served with his vassals under the papal banner, picked them

up in the confusion."

Baptistello placed the vases officiously before Castelermo, whispering

to us hastily but audibly the ill-omened words--

"_La bella-donna!_"

Marco's cheek flushed, and I started, on observing that Varro's usually

swart visage was pale as death.

"The vases are indeed superb," said my companion, turning them round

with an air of unconcern; which I had some trouble in imitating, feeling

certain that a catastrophe was at hand. "Beautiful, truly, and I doubt

not that Clement of holy memory prized them highly, and regretted their

loss in an equal degree."

"I have goblets to match, said to be made from part of the treasure

stolen by the same cunning sculptor from the castle of St. Angelo. Bring

them forth, Baptistello."

The servant, after searching for a time in the depths of the cabinet,

declared that the goblets were not there.

"Not there, said you? Satan! they have been stolen; and if so, your

bare back shall feel a stripe of the scurlada for every bajoccho they

were worth!" cried Belcastro passionately, as he started up and flung

open the doors of the cabinet.

"Admirable!" muttered Castelermo, changing the crystal stoppers, and

receiving a keen glance from Varro, the moment our host's back was

turned. "Be still," he added, grasping my arm energetically, "be

patient--our lives are hanging by a hair."

"Saved--buono--O, Gran Dio!" added Varro.

"You must be either blind or drunk, Varro, or have the eyes of a mole,

for here are the cups," said the cavaliere, placing three silver-chased

tankards on the table. "You may retire now--we need you no more," and

our friend retired, but only to the hall-door.

"Shall I fill for you, signori," continued Belcastro, taking out the

stoppers and filling our cups from one of the flasks; then, as if

inadvertently, he filled his own from the other, and drank it off. The

commander of Malta crossed himself: his brow was black as night, but his

emotion was unnoticed; he took up his cup, and bowing to the host,

drained the bright Muscatelle fearlessly. I had no pretence for delay,

and to have lingered would have seemed cowardice to Castelermo. It was

a horrid dilemma. My brain reeled, my pulses beat thick and fast, my

heart sank, and my whole soul was troubled with sensations such as I had

never before experienced--and certainly never have since.

It was a frightful moment of doubt and agony. But I drank off the wine

(which, for aught that I knew, was charged with a deadly drug),

resolving to run the Cavaliere Galdino through the body, the instant I

felt the least symptom of illness from it.

"Well, signori, I hope you like my favourite wine," said he, as we set

down our cups; a dark smile gathering on his sombre features. But

Baptistello, too, was smiling; and I gathered comfort from that. The

liquor tasted like ordinary Muscatelle: a little sweeter perhaps in

flavour. We had soon no doubt, from the grave, grim, and altered aspect

of the cavaliere, that he had filled his own goblet with the poisoned

wine intended for our destruction (as it had, perhaps, already been for

others) and drugged with an infusion of Solarium, or the deadly

nightshade; called Bella-donna by the Italians, because ladies make a

cosmetic of the juice. I felt that our safety was entirely owing to

Castelermo's presence of mind in changing the stoppers, and became

deeply grateful to Varro for his tact and friendly warning.

An awkward pause ensued as we set down our cups. It was a grave moment

for us all: we felt in our hearts that a terrible crisis was past. But

for my friend's peculiar tact and stern example, I would have flung the

goblet at Galdino's head on his invitation to drink, and by refusing to

taste the Muscatelle have discovered the dark suspicions we entertained.

However, we were safe, while this modern Borgia had fallen into his own

snare.

"Come, signori, why pause you thus? You seem not to have relished the

wine," said our entertainer, again filling his silver cup from the fatal

vase, and draining it to the dregs. "Buono! of all our Italian wines, I

prefer the Muscatelle; but this, of course, I produce only on certain

occasions, and to certain friends," he added, with a hideous laugh,

which made the dark corners of the hall echo hollowly. My heart chilled

with abhorrence of the man, and apprehension of what was to ensue.

"Croce di Malta!" muttered Marco, surveying him with a glance of stern

curiosity; "his potion operates already."

"His death rests with himself--the guilt, I mean: the deed was his own

doing," said I, in the same low tone.

Belcastro, lolling back in his chair, laughed and hallooed in a manner

so unusual, that a number of his household crowded about the hall door,

and were seen peering fearfully upon our dismal carousal. He showed all

the symptoms of sudden intoxication: but the disease that was then

spreading through every vein took a new and unexpected turn.

Bella-donna often produces idiotcy or folly; and Belcastro became quite

insane. The white froth of madness hung from his livid lips and black

mustachios, and his eyes, while sparkling with all the fury of a

tiger's, were glazing fast with the ghastly glare of death. He laughed

boisterously: but such laughter! Regarding him more as a wild beast

than a man, I thought only of what my fate _might_ have been, and

loosened my sabre in its sheath, ready to draw it the instant his fit

took a dangerous turn. Castelermo clenched the hilt of his poniard, and

the assembled servants shrank behind our chairs for protection.

"Ha, ha! ho, ho! the wine!--'t is like the flames of hell! O Apostoli!

the signora of Belcastro--look well about ye, ye vagabonds! She would

have been a capitanessa if she could; but I slashed the gay uniform of

her beardless capitano! The traitress, Piozzi! poisoned, per Baccho!"

and his head settled down on his breast. The white saliva ran from his

mouth over his chin and white ruffled shirt; while his eyes, which were

fixed on the face of the cavaliere Marco, flashed like those of a fiend

rather than a mortal man. From their position, and the slanting manner

in which the light fell on them, they seemed absolutely to shoot forth a

blue glare from beneath his beetling brows. His visage was pale as

death: all, save the scar, which was still of a dark purple hue.

"Villain!" cried he, pointing to it, and starting up in a new frenzy,

"have you forgotten that your poniard disfigured me thus? Have you

forgotten that night in the Strada di Toledo, at Naples?"

Marco laughed sternly, and the insane man, quailing before his firm

glance, again sank down in his seat: for a time he became silent and

still.

"Come hither, Baptistello, and you, Signor Claude," said Castelermo;

"aid me to disarm him, or he may turn on us, and with some concealed

weapon be the death of us all."

We advanced simultaneously towards him; but with a yell so loud and

shrill, that (as Varro afterwards protested) it brought forth an echo

from each of the twelve figures of Campanini marble, he leaped from his

chair, and rushed towards the windows; through which the bright

moonlight streamed, as if vying with the illuminated girandoles of the

hall. Impelled by madness, or some strange terror, he dashed headlong

through the casement, sending the fragments flying in every direction,

and sprang out upon the massive stone balcony. There he tossed his arms

wildly, while his domestics, overcome with terror, held aloft their

crucifixes, and muttered Aves.

"Dog as he is, let us save him, in the name of mercy! Meet him at the

other end of the balcony; and stand well on your guard," exclaimed

Castelermo, as we stepped out upon the platform. The Cavaliere Galdino

was thus placed between us; but the moment he found us advancing

deliberately upon him, he placed both hands on the cope of the stone

balustrade, and, uttering a shout of triumph, vaulted over and fell

headlong through the space below. Far beneath us we heard a slight

brushing on the furzy rocks, a falling of dislodged stones, and all was

still.

Half sick and giddy, I clung to the balcony, and looked over on the dark

pine forest and winding valley below the tower; from which a plumb-line

might have been dropped to the depth of two hundred feet without meeting

with an obstacle. He must have been dead before he reached the bottom.

"Devil as he was, and though he has cast a dark shadow on the brightest

path that ever opened to me through life, I would rather that he had

died at Cassano with his face to the enemy, than thus miserably and

ignobly," said Castelermo. "Basta! in making his elegy, I must not

forget to thank St. John for our narrow escape, and the author of some

ancient story for that blessed hint about changing those coloured

stoppers. Ah! the cunning villain. My blood boils while I think of his

stern treachery. Approach Baptistello Varro: you shall have a score of

bright ducats for this good service to-night," he added, slapping the

servant familiarly on the shoulder.

"May my fingers be blistered if I touch them!" said Varro. "Signor, I

have only requited the good service you did me on the plains of Apulia,

when the Frenchman's plaguy bayonet was at my throat. To any other man

than yourself, illustrissimo, I might have behaved like a true sbirro,

and allowed him to drink a skinful of la belladonna, if such was the

pleasure of his Excellency. 'Tis the third time I have seen these

rascally jars produced."

"Then you are the greater rogue, Varro: but as you are deprived of one

master, we must find you another. Seek the Cavaliere del Castagno at

Crotona, who in my name will enrol you in the Free Corps; where you will

do more good service to your country by serving under their colours,

than by wearing the livery of these dissipated and tyrannical

feudatories, who are a curse to the land they rule."

"Would it please you to see the cavalieressa?" asked Baptistello: "she

will be a free woman now, since this last prank of her husband's; and I

know a certain capitano who will throw up his cap when he hears of it.

A sad life she has endured with him, signor; mewed up in this desolate

place, where never a soul was to be seen save a lonely shepherd on the

distant mountains, or a stray peasant cutting wood in the valley below.

Via! I will quit it this hour, and rather fight under Scarolla than

again don the livery and aiguilette of a sbirro."

"Silenca, Varro," said Marco; "silence, and lead on to the apartment of

the lady. If it should be so: she whom I loved so much. Basta! I have

faced Frenchmen, Turks, and Algerines; but this meeting--forward! It is

fitter that she should learn her misfortune, or deliverance, (term it

which you may) from the mouth of a gentleman, than from a rabble of

serving-men."

We followed Baptistello across the court or quadrangle, and ascending a

flight of narrow steps lighted by flickering lamps, arrived at a

corridor, where the voices of females and sounds of lamentation became

audible.

"This leads to the apartments of the signora," said our guide.

"It seems more like the lighthouse of Messina," I observed, "or the

stair to a prison."

"And the poor lady has found it a prison dreary enough," continued the

garrulous Italian. "Here she has dwelt for three long years, and seen

but seldom the face of her husband. Cattivo! often I have heard her

lamenting in the dreary nights, when I kept watch in the gallery: for

this is a tower of the villa, and its window commands a view as far as

to the Tacina. Then I wished that I was a noble cavalier instead of a

poor serving-man, that I might free her from such thraldom. You must

know, Signor Marco," and here his voice sank into a very confidential

whisper, "the gay captain who used to serenade the cavalieressa at

Venice did not die when the hired bravo stabbed him. The wound was

inflicted by a glass poniard, and the blade was broken in the wound; it

was long of being extracted, and longer of being healed: but he

recovered, and is now at Catanzaro; and, having bribed Scarolla, he has

made more than one attempt to carry off his mistress: but, by

Excellenza's orders, we always kept such close watch----"

"Basta, forward!" exclaimed Marco, impatiently. "Do you take us for

brothers of the shoulder-knot, that we are to stand here listening to

your household scandal? I must see your lady without delay."

"To judge by what we hear, her women have been beforehand with you,

signor," replied Varro, again taking the lead; and as a proof how little

the cavalier's treatment of his wife caused her to be respected by his

dependants, the sbirro threw open her chamber-door, and without knock or

warning ushered us unceremoniously in.

The apartment was elegant: through parted hangings of blue silk and

gold, festooned between columns of white marble rising from vases of

green jasper, was revealed an inner chamber, where stood a couch formed

like a large gilded shell; above it drooped drapery of white satin,

edged with the richest lace. Books, music, mandolins, were scattered

about, together with work-baskets, flowers, and various gewgaws:

everything that taste, wealth, or luxury could wish were there--save

happiness. Sadly pale were the careworn but beautiful features of the

lady, and strongly they contrasted with the plump, red cheek of her

robust Calabrian waiting-woman; who stuck close to her skirts on our

entrance.

She started, shook back the heavy ringlets from her snowy brow, and

gazed upon us with dark but brilliant eyes, which expressed more

astonishment than grief.

"Despina Vignola," exclaimed Castelermo, as he started back apace, and

regarded her with a glance rather of deep sorrow than wonder. "Ah,

Despina! how little could I once have dreamed we should have met here,

and greeted each other thus!"

She gazed alternately at the dark but handsome features of the cavaliere

and the broad black velvet cross on the breast of his scarlet uniform;

and her glance of wonder gradually changed to one of confusion,

recognition, and anger: she covered her blushing features with her pale

hand, but for an instant only, and then looking up with an air of

hauteur, said--

"This meeting is quite as unexpected to me as it may be to you, Signori

Cavalieri. How is it that you have this night slain my dear husband,

the Signor Galdino; and within his own house of Belcastro?"

"A cool question!" said Marco, bitterly, gnawing his glove, while his

proud spirit was roused by her cold nonchalance; "admirably so! and to

be asked by a notary's niece, of a cavaliere of the house of Ruffo

Sciglio----"

"Ruffo, the traitor!" said she, scornfully: "but you reply not to my

question."

"I will ask but another, Why the devil your amiable sposo slew himself?

Basta! he fell into that deadly snare which his deliberate villany and

groundless hate prepared for better men. But let me be gentle: perhaps

at this moment he is making answer for his misdeeds before that dread

tribunal where all men must one day stand--the prince and the peasant,

the high-born lord and the homeless lazarone. (Here Marco signed the

cross, and all bowed their heads, save myself.) Peace be with his

ashes! I shall forget that in the days of my joyous youth he robbed me

of my poor patrimony, and deprived me of that which was dearer to me

than all the world beside--the love of thee, Despina; forcing me to

abandon my country, and serve in the wars of the Maltese knights as a

humble musketeer of the galleys. A knight of St. John should bear no

enmity to the dead, and wars not with Christian men; unless another's

sword is drawn upon him, after which I trust he will stand buffets and

blows like a true cavalier of the Rock."

"Bravissimo!" said the lady, affecting to smile scornfully through the

tears which glittered in her fine eyes, "a woman's apartment is an

excellent place to swagger and bluster in. You have all the manners of a

Venetian bravo, signor."

"Those of a Venetian captain might be more pleasing," retorted the

excited cavalier. "But I will quit your roof, signora, and travel to

Belcastro; though this night Charybdis yawned in my path. Basta! the

wearer of such a badge as this cross is scarcely safe in the house of a

damsel so famous for her gallantries."

"By the blessed Madonna! Belcastro you shall never see," exclaimed

Despina, aroused to passion by his taunts. "Ola, Baptistello! where is

the Teniente Guesippe and his sbirri? Here, Signor Guesippe di

Gondezani! Dio! I shall burst with fury!"

In a few minutes the teniente, with twelve armed servants at his back,

entered the apartment, and surrounded us with levelled musquetoons and

fixed bayonets.

"If this adventure ends in blows, I at least shall have one man's life

in exchange for my own," said I, drawing my sabre. Castelermo folded

his arms beneath the dark military cloak which bore the red cross of his

order on the left shoulder, and surveyed the lady and her unscrupulous

rabble with a frown of contempt.

"Molest us, if you dare!" said he. "Bear in remembrance, that though

the holy office has passed away, he who raises his hand against a

Maltese knight commits sacrilege. Insult me, and think how it will be

avenged! There are no less than fifty cavaliers of my old commandery

scattered through this very province, and in two days they would hurl

this mansion into the valley below. Not less will be the vengeance of

the British general, if this officer, my friend, is maltreated by those

wretches and malefactors who wear your husband's livery. Back, ye

scoundrels!" he suddenly exclaimed, and drew his sword; "and you,

Baptistello, lead our horses to the gate. Santa notte, la Signora

Cavalieressa! we shall not forget our entertainment in this diabolical

lazaretto. And good-night to you, Signor Guesippe, and your myrmidons,"

continued Marco, with fierce irony. "Basta! the malaria of the valley,

and the chance of being riddled by the rifles of Scarolla, are

preferable to remaining here, where poison and cold lead seem your best

welcome to visitors. And so, once more, a most holy night to all this

noble company."

We descended to the piazza, where, mounting our half-refreshed horses,

we again set forth on our journey; wishing the Villa Belcastro and all

its inmates in a hotter place than Italy.

"Signor Marco, I shall be particularly careful how I thrust myself

uninvited upon a Calabrian mansion in future," said I, yawning as we

descended the hills.

"You have seen Despina, and this night have had the sequel to my story.

How little I expected it, when yesterday I whiled away an hour during

our ride by a relation of my adventures. I long suspected that

Belcastro was my rival; but never had proof of the fact until to-night."

I addressed him once or twice, but he heard me not, and continued to

ride on with his head bent forward, and his bridle-hand resting

listlessly on the pommel of the saddle. He was, no doubt, deeply

immersed in sad thoughts and recollections, which this unexpected

interview with the woman he once loved so tenderly had recalled from

oblivion.