Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.]
The Robbers' Cave
A TALE OF ITALY
BY
A. L. O. E.
CHICAGO
The Bible Institute Colportage Association
843-845 North Wells Street
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. THE CALABRIAN INN
II. A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER
III. BITTER WORDS
IV. SEPARATION
V. ROUGH COMPANY
VI. THE ROBBERS' CAVE
VII. MUSIC AND MADNESS
VIII. A DASH FOR FREEDOM
IX. ANXIOUS HOURS
X. THE LONE SENTINEL
XI. THE ORPHAN'S TALE
XII. HOW THE LIGHT WAS LIT
XIII. FAILURE
XIV. TIDINGS
XV. ONWARDS
XVI. A PERILOUS PASS
XVII. ONE EFFORT MORE
XVIII. VICTORY
Printed in United States of America
The Robbers' Cave.
A TALE OF ITALY.
CHAPTER I.
THE CALABRIAN INN.
"Lazy dog! Can't he drive faster—keeping us grilling here in the heat!
I should like to have the use of his whip for a few minutes and try
its effect upon his shoulders!" Such was the impatient exclamation of
Horace Cleveland, as for the third time he thrust his head out of the
carriage window.
"I wish that we had never come to Calabria at all!" sighed his mother.
Horace was resuming his lounging position in the carriage, after
hurling a few Italian words of abuse at the driver, as she added, "It
was a nonsensical whim of yours, Horace, to bring us into this wild
land, when we might have remained in comfort at Naples, with every
convenience around us, such as my weak health so much requires."
"Convenience!" repeated Horace contemptuously. "Would you compare
the luxuries of Naples, its drives, its bouquets, its ices, its idle
amusements, with the glorious scenery of a land like this? Look what
a splendid mountain rises there, all clothed to the very summit with
myrtle, aloes, and cactus, where here and there stands a tall palm,
like the king of the forest, overlooking the rest. And see what an
expanse—what an ocean of olives stretches yonder!"
"I do not admire the olive, with its rugged stem and dull dingy
leaves," observed Mrs. Cleveland.
"Not when the breeze ruffles those leaves, and shows their silver
linings? Look there now,—how beautiful they appear under the brightness
of an Italian sky!"
"I am too weary to admire anything," said Mrs. Cleveland with a yawn,
"and it seems as if we were never to reach the inn at Staiti. The heat
is almost suffocating."
"I say," halloed Horace to the driver, "how long shall we be in
arriving at Staiti?"
The Italian shrugged his shoulders, and without taking the trouble to
turn round made reply, "We shall not be there till twenty-four o'clock,
signore."
"Twenty-four o'clock!" exclaimed Horace; not surprised, however, by the
expression, as the reader may possibly be, as he was familiar with the
Italian mode of reckoning the twenty-four hours from sunset to sunset.
"Is there no inn,—no locanda, where we could rest on the way?"
"Si, signore," answered the Calabrese, pointing onwards with his whip
to a small, irregularly built house, which seemed wedged between two
masses of rock overgrown with cactus, and which was so much of the
color of the cliffs, that one might fancy that it had grown out of them.
"It looks much more picturesque than comfortable," observed Horace,
drawing back his head, and showing the inn to his mother.
"Let's stop there—or anywhere," gasped Mrs. Cleveland, fanning herself
with the air of one whose patience as well as strength is almost
exhausted. "I can go no further to-day."
"We can stop and bait," said Horace; and again he leaned out of the
window to give his orders to the driver in the haughty tone of command
which he seemed to think befitting an English "milordo."
It was clear at a glance that Horace Cleveland regarded himself as one
of the lords of creation, and, from national or family or personal
pride, considered himself superior to all such of his fellow-creatures
as he might meet in Calabria. His manner, even to his mother, was
petulant and imperious. Horace Cleveland had had, indeed, much to
foster his vanity and strengthen his pride. Horace occupied a proud
position in his school, and he plumed himself not a little upon it.
"The boy is father of the man," sang the poet; and on the strength of
that aphorism, Horace built up a high tower of airy hopes. He had been
accustomed to be admired, imitated, followed, in the little world of
a public school, and he expected to hold the same place in the great
world, which he soon must enter. Horace felt himself born to command.
The youth's triumphs at school had hardly tended to make him more
agreeable at home. He was an only child, and his widowed mother
regarded him as her all in all. Very proud was Mrs. Cleveland of his
talents, very proud of his success: with fond admiration she gazed on
his open, handsome countenance,—the high forehead, the clear gray eye,
and thought that amongst all his companions none could compare with her
son. And yet Mrs. Cleveland was by no means altogether contented with
Horace. She would have been better pleased had he exhibited less spirit
and more submission.
Horace was eager to claim a man's independence; Mrs. Cleveland clung to
a parent's authority. It is probable that the lady would have retained
more influence over her boy, had she exercised it more judiciously. She
had been as an unskillful rider, who, instead of keeping a light but
firm hand on the bridle, alternately threw down the rein and caught it
up to jerk the mouth of his restive steed, and irritate its temper.
Delicate health and weak nerves had combined to make the widowed lady
sometimes peevish, and even unreasonable: and her will often clashed
with that of her son to a degree that caused a painful jar upon the
feelings of both. Thus those who were dearer to each other than all the
world besides, were each not unfrequently a source of annoyance and
irritability even to the being best beloved.
"I am sure that it was great folly to come to Calabria at all!"
exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, as the chaise drew up at the door of the inn.
Now this was what Horace could not endure to hear, since it had been to
gratify his wishes, and quite against her own judgment, that his mother
had quitted Naples for the mountainous south of Italy. Moreover Horace
had heard that same exclamation nearly ten times already on that day,
and the effect of heat and weariness had drawn largely on his stock
of patience. Ready to vent his ill-humor on the first thing that he
touched, Horace flung open the door of the chaise as he might have hit
at a foe, and rudely pushed aside a young Italian who had come forward
to help the lady to alight.
The hot blood rose to the stranger's sun-burnt cheek, and a look of
anger, instantly repressed, passed like lightning over his face.
Mrs. Cleveland caught the look, transient as it was, and as she walked
into the inn, laid her hand on the arm of her son, and whispered to him
in English:
"For mercy's sake, do not treat these people with rudeness. You
know that all these Italians carry stilettos in their vests; we are
alone—amongst strangers!"
Horace's only reply was a look to express contempt for all Italians
in general, and this one in particular, and a disregard for all
considerations founded upon personal fear. He snatched up a grip, and
one or two shawls from the chaise, and carried them into the locanda,
being too much out of humor to offer his mother the support of his arm.
Mrs. Cleveland was shown into the little inn by its master, who came
forth to meet her. He was a stout, red-faced man with one eye, and a
countenance by no means prepossessing.
"Giuseppina! Giuseppina!" he shouted.
A Calabrese girl, barefooted, attired in a bright blue dress with an
orange border, and wearing large gold ear-rings and chain, came to
answer the call. Guided by her, the weary lady entered a small, close
room which might be termed the parlor, but which was evidently put to
many more uses.
The entrance of the visitors disturbed a hen and a whole brood of
sickly chickens, which cackling and fluttering made a hasty retreat
across the threshold. On one part of the dirty earthen floor was piled
a set of empty wine-skins, the odor from which blended with the more
disagreeable scent from some thousands of silk-worm cocoons, heaped
together in a corner.
"Have you no better quarters to give us than this hole?" cried Horace
to Giuseppina in the Italian language, which he spoke with ease.
"No, signore," replied the girl, as she swept from the table a confused
litter of old sacking, chaff and oakum, in order to make preparation
for the coming meal, which Horace, with a look of disgust, forthwith
proceeded to order. Mrs. Cleveland, being less familiar with the
language, usually left such arrangements to her son.
"What can you give us?" asked Horace.
"Ebene, signore, maccaroni," replied the barefooted maiden.
"Maccaroni, of course, and what besides?"
Giuseppina glanced to the right at the wine-skins, then to the left
at the heap of cocoons, as if to gather from them some culinary idea,
shrugged her shoulders and suggested "omelet," but in a tone expressive
of doubt.
"Omelet then, and anything else that you may have, and be quick, for
the lady is weary and wants refreshment!" cried Horace.
Giuseppina showed her white teeth in a smile, and quitted the parlor.
"One is stifled in this horrible den!" exclaimed Horace, stalking up to
the window, and throwing it open. Very little air was admitted on that
sultry afternoon, but there came the sound of voices from without.
"What are the people doing outside, Horace?" faintly inquired Mrs.
Cleveland.
"Like Italians—doing nothing," was the reply. "They are merely
gathering round that young man whom we saw at the door, apparently to
listen to his singing, for he has a guitar in his hand."
"That Italian whom you struck?" inquired Mrs. Cleveland.
"I did not strike him—I only pushed him back. These fellows must be
taught to know their own place," Horace haughtily replied.
"My dear boy," said Mrs. Cleveland, leaning forward on the chair on
which she had wearily sunk, "you must acquire, indeed you must, a more
gentle and conciliatory manner. In a wild, strange place like this,
altogether out of the bounds of civilization, a thoughtless act might
bring serious trouble—a wanton insult might cost a life!"
Horace did not answer, and as he remained looking out the window, his
mother could not see on his face the effect of her gentle reproof; she
saw, however, that he was impatiently moving his foot up and down,
which was his trick when he had to listen to anything which it did not
please him to hear.
A few chords on a guitar, touched by a skillful hand, were now heard,
and immediately the hum of voices without was silenced.
"I hate to see a man play a guitar!" exclaimed Horace. As he spoke, the
tones of a voice singularly melodious and rich mingled with those of
the instrument, and Mrs. Cleveland, weary as she felt, was lured to the
window to listen.
Surrounded by a group of Calabrese stood the musician. He was simply
but picturesquely attired, after the fashion of his country; the red
jacket, not worn, but carried across the shoulder ready to be put on in
season of rain, left exposed to view the white shirt. A felt hat, of
a somewhat oval shape, shaded a countenance which, with its classical
outlines and thoughtful expression, could have formed a study for an
artist. The song of the young Italian, translated into English, might
run thus:—
If to pine in a dungeon were e'er my fate
When light struggled in through the iron grate,
What view would most soothe my unwearied eye,—
The boundless ocean—the earth—or sky?
Oh! not the ocean!—its ceaseless swell
With my restless grief would accord too well;
The voice of its wild waves would break my sleep,
And the captive bend o'er his chain and weep.
'Twere sweet to gaze on the laughing earth,
And view, though distant, its scenes of mirth.
Ah, no! ah, no! they would but recall
Life's flowers to one who had lost them all.
The sky, the sky, unbounded, bright,
With its silvery moon, and its stars of light,
The blush of morning, the evening glow,
Its passing clouds, and its radiant bow,—
There—there would I fix my unwearied eye,
Till fancy could paint a bright world on high,
And earth and its sorrows would fade in night,
With freedom before me—and heaven in sight!