MUSIC AND MADNESS.
"Ha! The Rossignol come at last!" shouted Beppo, as a low, clear
whistle was heard in the dark passage.
Horace looked down eagerly, and saw the slight form of Raphael, as he
came forth from the gloom, bearing his instrument of music.
The young Calabrian looked exceedingly weary. He made a slight
inclination of the head on entering towards the place where Horace knew
that the chief was; he then laid his guitar against the rocky wall and
sat down on a vacant seat beside his brother Enrico.
"What news of Otto?" cried Matteo, whose voice was easily recognized
amongst the rest by its peculiar harshness.
"I could gain no tidings beyond those which have already reached you,"
replied Raphael, in low, rich tones, which formed as strong a contrast
to the discordant sounds which had lately prevailed, as his appearance
did to that of his companions. "He was as you know, conveyed by a
strong military escort towards Staiti; thence to be taken to Reggio. He
had not been able to communicate with any one at the inn, access to him
being strictly forbidden by the officer in charge."
Something that sounded like a curse burst from the lips of Matteo.
"And what are your news?" inquired Raphael, with what seemed to Horace
a somewhat anxious air.
One of the robbers replied with a laugh, "Some good business done
to-day! English travelers are always worth the plucking! It will take
you some time with your curing and your carolling to bring in the value
of a plaything like this;" and he held up the glittering gold chain
which had been torn from the neck of Mrs. Cleveland.
"Any blood shed?" inquired Raphael quickly, resting his clenched hand
on the table, and sternly regarding the last speaker. When a short
account of what had occurred was given to him, the improvisatore looked
relieved, and Horace instinctively felt that he had a friend in the man
whom he had called to his face a low musician, a jailbird, a companion
of thieves.
Raphael bent towards his brother and whispered some question, to
which Enrico replied by glancing up towards the recess occupied by
the captive; then heaping food upon a trencher which was before the
Rossignol, he bade him eat and drink and refresh himself after his long
walk.
Raphael shook his head, and pushed the trencher away.
"If you will not eat, you shall sing," cried Matteo. "Beppo here has a
voice which he might have borrowed from a raven, and Marco's is like a
muffled drum—we've not had a singer worth listening to, since Carlo was
shot in the wood!"
Raphael did not appear much more disposed to sing than to eat, but
Matteo spoke like one whose will was a law which few would have dared
to oppose; and the musician, albeit reluctantly, laid his hand on the
guitar.
"Give us the jovial old Spanish drinking song, with the bolero—give it
out bold and free!" exclaimed Beppo.
"I shall choose my own song," replied Raphael coldly, "and sing it in
what manner I list."
"A madman's theme must be madness," cried the ill-favored robber.
"Be it so," answered the Rossignol; "although I accept not your name—I
take the word as my subject. Madness shall be my theme."
He struck a few chords with a light, bold hand—and the silvery sound
in that fearful place seemed like the tones of an angel's harp. In an
instant, all other noise was so completely hushed that Horace could
hear distinctly the slow drip of water distilling from the roof of the
cave.
The attention of the robbers deepened as, after a short prelude,
Rossignol began to sing. His exquisite voice poured forth in a wild and
original air, sometimes rapid and almost gay, but at the close of every
verse ending in a minor key, and in tones of such deep pathos that they
sounded like a dirge from the dead, or a wail for the lost.
Horace had often listened to music, but he had never before heard such
music as this. In others he had felt sweet song a charm, but in Raphael
it was a power. It was a spell which kept chained in almost breathless
silence the reckless beings whose fierce passions brooked no restraint
either of law or conscience.
MADNESS.
A wanderer stood by a rapid stream,
When a scroll unto him was brought;
'Twas a father's message of love, addrest
To one whose childhood his care had blest.
'Twas an offer of pardon, peace and rest;—
But the prodigal whom he sought,
Only flung the scroll from the river's brink,
And watched it slowly and slowly sink.
Oh! Madman, to break love's golden link!
On a hill stood a poor wayfaring man,
When a parchment to him was given
By which he was proved the rightful heir
To all the broad region before him there,
The wooded valleys, and meadows fair,
Bounded but by the arch of heaven.
But with reckless hand he the parchment tore,
And the breezes afar the fragments bore.
Oh! Madman, that wealth can be thine no more!
A doomed man crouched o'er his prison fire,
His heart for his fate he steeled;
Already he heard the castle bell
Boom drearily forth his dying knell,
When his eye on a royal writing fell;
'Twas his pardon, signed and sealed!
But he flung the pardon into the flame,
And so went forth to a death of shame.
Oh! Madman, well hast thou earned the name!
"Almost as well," exclaimed Beppo, "as the rhymer who could make such a
song! Sing to us of men of flesh and blood, for the world holds no such
fools as those in your ballad—they be more unnatural than the ghosts
and goblins of nursery rhymes."
"For the matter of that," observed Marco, another of the robbers,
"there's many a prodigal I wot of, has thrown his father's letter away."
"But to tear a deed of inheritance—throw a pardon into the fire—nothing
so wild, so improbable was ever yet said or sung. Such mad freaks as
those are not played by men even in their dreams."
"Are you sure of that?" asked the Rossignol, while his fingers, as if
unconsciously, wandered over the strings of his guitar.
"Is the song ended?" said Matteo.
"Not ended—but you have heard enough," was the answer of the
improvisatore.
"Let's hear it out," cried the chief.
"Let's hear it out," echoed the bandits.
Again rose the rich, full tones, but with deeper emphasis, more
thrilling expression.
Such madmen amongst us live and dwell
Such madmen amongst us die;
A father's message is heard—forgot;
A treasure offered—accepted not;
Men wildly prefer the demon's lot,
To freedom and life on high!
A king's free pardon—a parent's stay,
Infinite wealth may be theirs to-day.
Oh! Madmen, to cast them all away!
The song ceased. There was an instant of deep stillness, and then Beppo
flung a tankard at the head of the speaker, as his comment on a moral
so unwelcome.
By a quick movement, Raphael avoided the blow; Enrico glanced fiercely
at Beppo; the Rossignol laid his hand on his brother's arm, as if to
restrain him from expression of anger, and without taking any other
notice of the insult, arose from his seat.
The countenances of the banditti, as Horace looked down upon them,
would have been a study for a painter. The music had a very different
effect upon its various hearers. Beppo's face was flushed with passion,
while over that of Marco, a powerful man who sat next to him, gathered
a gloomy scowl. A third wore a mocking sneer, a glance that seem to say
that while he admired the music, he cared nothing for the moral of the
song.
Enrico's expression, after the glance of indignation had passed away,
was that of silent misery which he made a vain effort to conceal. The
bow might have been drawn at a venture, but in one heart the barbed
arrow was rankling.
And there stood the Rossignol, calm and intrepid, as one not
unconscious of danger, but raised above its fear. Horace looked with
wondering curiosity at the man who could dare to sing such a lay in
such a place, and marveled what mysterious link could bind his fate
with that of ruffians with whom it appeared that he could have no
feeling in common. Even as regarded Enrico, when Horace now looked upon
the two brothers, and contrasted them with each other, he could hardly
conceive how he had ever traced a resemblance between them.
The noise of the falling tankard clattering on the rocky floor, was
succeeded by that of the fist of Matteo coming heavily down upon the
table, as if in anger; when the chief spoke, however, he made no
allusion to the song; that it had offended him could only be gathered
from the increased savageness of his tone.
"It is time to disperse. Mountain-wolves, away to your dens!"
The command was instantly obeyed. For a few moments, noise and uproar
prevailed, and as the wild band scattered in various directions,
torches flashed hither and thither in the hot murky air. Horace watched
the retreating form of Beppo, as the light which he carried showed a
deeper recess of the cave than he had been able to see before, with
glistening stalactites hanging from the roof; and when he turned to
look for the Rossignol, found that he had disappeared from his view.
Remembering that Raphael was to share his own rocky chamber, Horace
awaited his coming with interest and impatience. There was a step on
the rough stair (if such that might be called, that seemed framed by
nature and not by man), which led to the upper recess, and some one
entered, but in the darkness Horace knew not whether it were Raphael
or Enrico. The comer threw himself down on a heap of leaves not far
from Horace, and either imagining the captive to be asleep, or (as was
more probable) forgetting his presence altogether, gave a heavy groan
as if in pain. That sound assuredly did not come from the Rossignol's
lips. Horace lay for some time perfectly still, listening to the drip
drip of water, and the deep sighs of his unseen companion, and awaiting
the coming of Raphael, till, weary as he was, sleep overcame the young
captive.