THE ROBBERS' CAVE.
Enrico, followed by his prisoner, groped his way through the cave, and
then along a passage in the rock too low to admit of their standing
upright. The dampness of the air, the darkness of the place, made the
unhappy Horace feel as though he were entering a tomb. They soon,
however, emerged into a very spacious cavern of irregular shape, at one
side of which was some light. This light, as Horace soon perceived,
came from two wax tapers, burning in front of an image of the Virgin.
The feeble gleam served only to make "darkness visible," not reaching
at all to the roof of the cave, and showing but little even of its
brown rugged wall. The place was tenanted by bats, which wheeled around
in circling flights, seeming to Horace's fevered imagination like
spirits of evil haunting the robbers' cave. The youth watched with
curiosity to see whether Enrico would cross himself or bow on passing
the image, and as he did neither, the prisoner ventured upon a remark.
"I should hardly have expected to see that here," he said, pointing to
the shrine.
"Why so?" asked his companion.
"Because," answered Horace, trying to put his reply in the least
offensive form, "I should not have thought Matteo a man to care for
religion."
"That shows how little you know about him," said Enrico. "Some of your
mother's good ducats will go to a fat friar for masses, that the rest
may be enjoyed with an easy conscience; and though Matteo has not
scrupled to rob a traveler on this Friday, nothing would persuade him
to touch a morsel of meat.
"Is it possible," exclaimed Horace, "that a man can so deceive his own
soul?"
"None of that talk here," cried Enrico, with gesture of irritation; "we
have more of it than we like, and will never stand it from you!"
"From whom can they hear it?" thought the astonished Horace. "One would
as little expect to hear truth as to find honesty in a den like this!"
Enrico now lighted a torch which was fastened in the rock a few feet
above a long low table, which Horace now for the first time perceived,
and which, with the rude benches on each side of it, seemed to form all
the furniture of the place. On it were ranged sundry flagons, bottles
of wine, and other preparations for a meal.
"I suppose that while you are our prisoner, you will partake of our
fare," said Enrico. "Will you join our jovial party at supper to-night,
or shall I at once introduce you to the luxuries of our private
apartment—the elegant chamber which you are to share with me and my
brother?" Enrico's tone was satirical, and there was indescribable
bitterness in his smile.
"If you could possibly keep me apart from the band to-night, I should
be thankful," said Horace, "I am parched with thirst, but I have not
the slightest inclination to eat food."
Enrico went up to the table, and filled a large tankard with water,
which Horace eagerly drained. He then bade the prisoner to follow him,
and a little more—to Horace—painful clambering up rude stony steps
brought them to a recess in the side of the cave, about ten feet above
the floor, and overlooking the table.
It was so utterly dark, that it was by feeling and not by sight that
young Cleveland became aware that there was a heap of dry leaves upon
the rocky floor.
"As the Rossignol has not returned," said Enrico, "you may take
possession of his bed. I warrant it that you have been accustomed to a
more soft and dainty couch! I must go below to prepare the banquet."
So saying, Enrico groped his way back to the floor of the cavern; while
Horace, dizzy and bewildered by the strange events of the night, gave
a deep sigh of relief at finding himself in comparative solitude. He
threw himself down on the heap of leaves, resting his burning forehead
on his arm, and tried to collect his scattered thoughts and realize his
position.
"What a strange, wild place this is! Shall I ever leave it alive?—Shall
I ever look upon the sunshine, or feel the pure breath of heaven? What
horrors these walls may have witnessed! Could they speak, what fearful
tales of crime might they disclose! And it is more than probable that,
ere a week shall have passed, another may be added to the list."
Horace changed his position in feverish restlessness, and a sharp
thrill of pain reminded him of the fetters on his limbs. "There would
be none to lift a hand, or to speak a word in my defence; no, nor to
feel pity for my youth, whatever I might have to endure! Even this
Enrico, who seems somewhat less brutal than the rest, would shoot me
dead on the spot rather than suffer his captive to escape. Oh, my
mother, my poor mother, how little you ever expected your son to be in
such a situation as this!"
Then Horace recalled how, ever since he could remember, his parent had
been wont to come and sit at night by his bed-side, stroke back his
curly hair, and talk to him of holy things, and tell him how much she
loved him. These nightly visits, once a pleasure to both, had within
the last year become a cause of painful feeling between Horace and his
mother. The youth had grown jealous of being treated like a child; it
had annoyed him to be disturbed from his desk or some interesting book
by the entrance of his mother at her regular hour; to be chidden for
sitting up late, or warned of the danger of fire. Horace had become so
impatient et the interruption, the reproof and the warning, that he had
at last actually locked his door, answering his mother's "good-night"
without turning the key to admit her.
Mrs. Cleveland had been deeply wounded, Horace hardly guessed how
deeply, but it was agony now upon this his first night of captivity to
recall the sound of her step in the passage, the tone of her plaintive
"good-night," and to think that that step—that voice—might be heard by
his ear no more. Oh, why had he not loved her better?—Why, why had he
not always welcomed the presence of one so dear?
With this train of thought came linked another; it was not only in
filial piety that Horace Cleveland had failed: his neglect had not been
only towards his mother. Carefully brought up as he had been, the youth
had, with tolerable regularity, observed the outward forms of religion,
and conscience had been easily satisfied that all was right with his
soul.
Horace had mistaken reverence for devotion, and belief in God's truth
for faith. But such a shadow of religion could not support him under
the pressure of real trials, or make tolerable the prospect of death:
it had no strength or solidity in it. Horace could not realize the
presence of a heavenly Father in the dark, gloomy cave, nor was the
psalmist's assurance his,—
"The Lord is my light and any salvation, whom shall I fear? the Lord
is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?"
In courage and spirit he was by no means deficient—but human courage
and spirit will bend under the pressure of protracted trial; that
terrible walk in shackles had for the time exhausted the energies of
Horace, and in that gloomy abode of evil, he felt desolate and wretched
indeed.
Even the comfort of silence was soon taken from the prisoner. Before
many minutes had elapsed, a wild uproar of voices announced the
approach of the band. One by one the robbers emerged from the low
passage which united the outer and inner caves, some bearing spoil, and
some bearing torches, which threw a wild, red glare on their dark faces
and picturesque dress. Horace counted eight bandits, including Enrico.
The men sat noisily down at the table. Matteo and some others had their
seats near the wall, and were so immediately under Horace that he could
not see them, without stretching his head so far forward that he would
himself have been exposed to the observation of the robbers, which he
anxiously desired to avoid; but while remaining under cover of the
darkness of his recess, Horace had full view of Enrico and three of his
companions, who sat opposite to their chief.
I shall not enter into details of what—with disgust and horror—Horace
saw and heard on that night; the oaths, the tales, the songs of the
coarsest description, the sounds of wild revel, the burst of laughter
strangely echoing through the recesses of the vaulted cave, till it
seemed as though fields unseen shouted and laughed again. Enrico,
laying aside his former manner, appeared to be the gayest of the gay,
plunging into the torrent of unholy mirth as though he sought to drown
all memory and all remorse.
Horace tried to shut out from his own ears the sounds of profane
merriment, but he tried in vain. It seemed to his loathing mind that
if one black spot were to be found on earth, where evil, unmixed evil,
reigned triumphant, where faith was quite shut out, where heavenly hope
could not come—that spot was the robbers' cave in the depth of the
Calabrian mountain!