A DASH FOR FREEDOM.
The summer morning had dawned, and though no direct ray could ever
enter the inner cave, Horace could see the reflection of pure rosy
light tinging the rugged stone, hundreds of feet above him, through a
cleft in the rocky roof, which appeared as if it had been rent asunder
by the shock of an earthquake. Most refreshing to the captive's eye
was even that reflected gleam, which showed that the sun was shining
upon earth, though not upon him: and he longed for wings to fly upwards
through that lofty cleft to the glorious daylight beyond.
Horace half raised himself on his elbow and looked around him. Not two
yards from the spot on which he rested, he saw the kneeling form of
Raphael, who was evidently engaged in prayer. The sight of him was to
Horace like the sight of the sun-lit rocks;—something to witness to
the existence of Heaven's light even in this abode of darkness. On the
other side lay Enrico asleep, and the quiet which prevailed through the
cave showed that the day wag but little advanced.
After a brief space of time Raphael arose from his knees, and turning
towards Horace, perceived by the dim light that the captive was awake.
"How have you slept?" he asked in Italian, addressing Horace in the
third person singular, which, in that language, is a token of respect.
Even this trifling mark of courtesy was grateful to the unfortunate
youth.
"I slept but ill," replied Horace; "how could I look for pleasant
slumbers here?"
"The bed is but a hard one," said the Rossignol, "to one who has been
accustomed to a softer pillow, though custom has made its roughness
no hardship to us. Yonder, where the water drips, Nature has formed
a simple basin, where you may find refreshment in bathing your weary
limbs."
Horace attempted to rise, but the clambering of the previous night had
made his fetters gall him so severely, that every movement was pain.
Raphael saw his distress. "I know too well what it is to wear such
anklets," said he.
"Can you not free me from them?" exclaimed Horace.
The Rossignol shook his head. "I cannot free you from them," he said,
"but I can render their effects less painful;" and he drew from a
little hole in the side of the rock some lint and ointment, which,
kneeling down, he at once began to apply to the captive's swollen
ankles. The touch of his hand was gentle as a woman's, and Horace felt
grateful for the relief imparted.
"I regret that I spoke of you as I did yesterday," said the youth,
remembering his insulting manner and the words at the door of the inn.
"It is not at once that we know either our friends or our foes,"
replied Raphael.
"But you will be my friend—I know it—I can trust you!" exclaimed
Horace, an eager hope arising in his heart; and, speaking in English,
in a low, rapid tone, he offered the Italian a large reward—a thousand
ducats—two—three—if he would aid him in effecting his escape, and so
restore him to freedom and safety.
Raphael knitted his brows, and shook his head sadly in reply.
"It would be a noble deed—it would be to rescue a fellow-creature from
danger—"
"And to deliver my only brother to death," interrupted Raphael,
pointing to the sleeper at his side.
"Matteo would never—"
"Matteo has vowed that Enrico shall answer for your safe keeping with
his life: Matteo never breaks such a vow," said Raphael, speaking in
imperfect English.
"But he cannot be such a ruffian as to murder his own follower,"
pursued Horace, who was unwilling to let go his only hope of escape.
"He would do it—nor would it be for the first time," said Raphael, his
face darkening with some recollection of horror; "it was not by the
hand of soldier or executioner that Carlo perished in the wood!"
Horace felt the blood run cold in his veins, yet his intense desire
for freedom made him once more return to the subject. "If Matteo be so
merciless," he said, "how dared you provoke his anger last night?"
"I had my message to give, and I gave it," replied the improvisatore;
"he who builds on the brink of a volcano does so with the knowledge
that the lava may one day overflow. Yet do I stand on vantage ground,
and Matteo would bear from me what he would bear from no one beside."
"Why so?" inquired young Cleveland.
"He has an old wound in his thigh, which, having been imperfectly
healed, has broken out afresh. Having gained, when I was very young,
some slight knowledge of surgery from my grandfather, I am able to
afford him such aid as the chief would be loath to lose. Besides,"
continued Raphael, "Matteo has a passionate love for melody, the one
softening quality yet left him; and words are endured when clothed in
music which, without it, would be perilous in the utterance. I must now
depart; the band usually pursue their work at dusk, but mine requires
the daylight." Raphael now spoke in his native tongue, being so little
conversant with English that he was obliged, when using that language,
to interpolate many words from his own.
"Do not leave me!" exclaimed Horace, who already looked upon the
Rossignol as his only earthly protector.
"There is a villager sick, perhaps dying, whom I must see, and others
who must not vainly expect me. I will, please Heaven, return before
dark; and will, ere I go, bring you food to supply the wants of the
day."
So saying, Raphael with a light step descended the rude steps which led
to the body of the cave, and soon returned with a plentiful supply of
better fare than Horace would have expected to find in such a place.
His appetite was now keen, as he had eaten nothing since he had left
the inn on the mountain.
"How shall I ever repay you for your kindness to a prisoner?" he said
to Raphael.
"I shall ask a favor of you this evening," replied the Rossignol,
"which, if granted, will richly repay any slight services which I can
render. I must go now—the day advances—but I leave you with little
anxiety; while Otto lives, your life is perfectly safe from any deed
of violence. Annoyance or insult you may have to endure, but a brave
youth, as I doubt not that you are, can endure hardness like a good
soldier of the cross."
The last words, and the glance which accompanied them, acted on the
spirit of Horace like the sound of a trumpet. Refreshed by his morning
ablutions and the food of which he had partaken, not only the youth's
bodily frame felt invigorated, but his mind rebounded from its late
depression with all the elasticity of hope. There were a thousand
chances, Horace thought, in his favor. His mother might—would succeed
in her efforts to effect his exchange with the bandit's son, or the
government would be roused to send an overwhelming force to crush the
robbers. Even failing this, Matteo himself might be bribed to release
his captive, or Raphael, moved by generous compassion, aid him to
effect his escape.
But why should he wait for Raphael?—The thought darted into the mind of
Horace as he concluded his substantial meal. Could he not, without any
assistance, recover the freedom which he had lost?
Young Cleveland glanced eagerly around—below—his heart throbbing high
at the idea of such a feat as would establish his reputation as a hero
for the rest of his days. The cavern was still perfectly quiet—the very
bats had retired to rest—there was nothing but the sleeping figure of
Enrico to betoken that the place was inhabited by any living creature
but himself. The entrance was not bolted or barred, when Raphael had
departed through the aperture, which was only distinguishable from
the walls of the cave by its more intense blackness, no sentinel had
challenged him for a pass-word.
Horace recollected, indeed, with uneasiness, that a robber had kept
guard on the ledge of rock; but he hoped that at an hour so early as
the present, no such precaution might be deemed needful. There must
be danger, indeed, in an attempt to escape, but had not the peril in
itself a certain indefinable charm? Horace had often longed for an
adventure—here was one which had in it enough of romance to satisfy the
most chivalrous spirit.
The only thing which presented any real difficulty to the boy's
sanguine mind, was the bondage of his fetters; they not only cruelly
impeded his movements, but made such a clanking as he walked, that it
was certain to rouse the robbers. If Horace were once beyond the cave,
the noise would signify less, but in that vaulted, echoing chamber,
every sound was trebled. As his only resource, the youth half reclined
on the rock and holding up the chain with one hand, so that the iron
should not touch the stone, with the other, he helped to propel himself
along in a slow and most uncomfortable manner.
Tedious and awkward as was this method of progression, it had at least
the merit of being noiseless, and every yard crept over seemed to
Horace to be a gigantic stride towards freedom. But oh, how distant
seemed that yawning chasm through which the fugitive must make his way!
How often he stopped in breathless anxiety to listen for sounds of
pursuit!
At length the nearer end of the rocky passage was gained, and still
perfect quiet reigned around; after their midnight revel, the bandits'
slumbers were heavy and long. Horace had not crept far through the
passage when the increasing light and the freshening air told of his
approach to the outer world. He was so eager and impatient to reach it
that the crouching position and slow progress to which he was confined
became almost intolerably irksome. Horace had a vivid recollection
of Enrico's threat; and the idea of being struck down like a rat in
its hole, or shot in the back without the possibility of flight or
resistance, increased the intensity of his desire to get beyond the
perilous passage.
Horace reached the outer cave, which was light in comparison to that
which he had quitted, though the entrance was much overgrown with
plants. It opened upon the radiant east, and vivid though broken rays
of sunshine were streaking with bright lines the rugged pavement and
walls. "O blessed sunlight!" exclaimed the prisoner with transport, as,
pushing the mantling foliage aside, he made his way into the open air,
and sprang to his feet, feeling in the action as though he already were
almost free!
Bright was the morning, splendid the view which the rocky platform
without the cave commanded! An ocean of waving forest spread
downwards—almond, olive, and palm, with a thick growth of underwood
between, a wilderness of foliage, a labyrinth of wood, clothing the
mountain-side, more than half-way up which the robber's den was
situated. Horace had, however, no time now to indulge in admiration,
or even to enjoy the sensation caused by the delicious air, and the
knowledge that one great difficulty had been surmounted; he began at
once to search anxiously for a downward path. The platform in front of
the cave could only be quitted by descending such a rough, precipitous
wall of rock, that a false step must have been fraught danger. Horace,
twelve hours before, might with have gone down rapidly enough, but what
was practicable to unfettered limbs was utterly impracticable to him
now.
"I should but break a limb by attempting to get down!" exclaimed the
almost despairing youth, after surveying again and again the rugged
steep. "I cannot conceive how I ever mounted these rocks. Enrico
dragged me up by sheer strength, or even his benevolent hint as to
the quickening power of Matteo's stiletto would never have enabled me
to climb. And even were I unshackled, and able to spring from rock to
rock, by what clue could I find my way through that dense woodland
before me? It shuts me in as effectually as bars and bolts could do.
Oh, misery, to be thus mocked with the hope of freedom, only to find
that, after all my exertions, it is impossible to escape!"
Horace was startled by a rough grasp on his shoulder. Turning sharply
round, he beheld Enrico.
"So you thought to give us the slip!" exclaimed the bandit,
significantly pointing to a pistol he carried in his belt. "Think you
that if there had been a chance of our bird's escaping, we should not
have clipped his wings more closely?"
"O Enrico!" exclaimed Horace with passionate earnestness, "you can
help me—you can set me free. A file would be worth its weight in gold!
Strike off my fetters—guide me through the wood, and the richest
reward—"
"Name it again and I'll strike you dead!" cried Enrico, his sallow
countenance assuming almost a livid hue.
"You are miserable here—your life is—"
Enrico gnashed his teeth with passion. "Whatever my life here may be,"
he exclaimed, "I am not going to fling it away in a mad attempt to
rescue a stranger. Miserable I may be, but not insane enough to draw
down upon my head the vengeance of a man who never forgives, and who,
when he singles out a foe, never fails to make him a victim. Have I not
seen Carlo lying in his blood? There is not one man in the band who
would aid you to baffle Matteo, though you should promise him to fill
that cave to the roof with silver and gold."
And with these words on his lips, the robber turned, and retired into
the darkness of the cavern, leaving Horace to meditate on the desperate
character of his own situation.