ANXIOUS HOURS.
How unwilling is youth to part with hope—how it clings even to its
shadow! Believing against the evidence of his senses that what was so
desirable could not be impossible, Horace only desisted from attempts
to descend the rocks, when, in making them, he had hurt his ankle so
severely that he would have cried aloud with anguish had he not feared
that the sound might be overheard by the robbers. With a very heavy
heart, the unhappy captive then dragged his chain to a little cleared
space, a few yards higher than the entrance to the cave, where the
roots of an oak offered a rude seat. Here Horace Cleveland rested his
aching limbs, and leaning his head on his hands, gave himself up to
anxious thought.
Still his mind was running upon chances of escape. Horace recalled the
words of Raphael which had surprised him when they were uttered,—"I
shall ask a favor of you which, if granted, will richly repay any
services that I can render." What favor could a prisoner possibly have
it in his power to grant? Raphael must be anticipating his release,
and his restoration to a position in which he could largely reward any
kindness which he now might receive. Perhaps the young Italian hoped
that Horace might procure his pardon from the king of Naples for some
crime, the commission of which had driven one born for better things to
seek the shelter of a robber's den. Perhaps the free pardon of Enrico
might be the desired boon. Horace's thoughts rambled on through paths
almost as mazy as the forest before him. He would place Raphael in the
way of distinguishing himself. Raphael was the son of an officer, and
bore the stamp of a gentleman; with his singular talents, he would
grace any society, and might raise himself to a high position.
Horace had already begun to feel a strong interest in his mysterious
friend, whose character and situation afforded to the youth's mind
an enigma which he was curious to solve. Raphael certainly kept evil
company, and a man may be known by his chosen associates; the girl
at the inn had more than hinted doubts regarding his character; the
Rossignol had himself confessed that he had once worn shackles, which
confirmed Giuseppina's report that he had known the inside of a
prison. But, on the other hand, Horace recalled the song of Raphael;
he remembered how his presence, like that of some being of higher and
purer nature, had checked the foul flood of vile conversation which had
flowed amongst the banditti, and how in the dim twilight, he on that
morning had seen the young Italian kneeling in prayer.
That last recollection raised in the bosom of Horace, a feeling of
self-reproach. Except a few instinctive ejaculations, which could
hardly be called prayers, since his capture he had neglected the duty
of devotion. He had been so much taken up with his own hopes and
fears, his difficulties and dangers, so great had been his eagerness
to escape, and the excitement caused by the strange scenes passing
around him, that Horace had not bent his knee in prayer, as he had been
accustomed from childhood to do.
And yet, never through the course of his life had Horace had greater
need of Divine protection. He had tried all earthly means for his
deliverance, and all having failed, nothing remained for the prisoner
but to turn unto Him in whose hands are the issues of life and death.
Under the spreading branches of the oak, in the stillness of that wild
and desolate spot, the young captive knelt down and prayed. Horace
prayed for his mother—for himself—more for rescue from earthly trials
than for grace and strength to endure them, for the youth was yet
ignorant of human weakness, and of the objects for which affliction is
sent to the sons of men.
"Ha, ha! See the heretic at his beads!" exclaimed the mocking voice of
Beppo, who, with two or three of his companions, had sauntered lazily
forth into the sunshine.
Horace was on his feet in a moment, ashamed—strange cause for shame!—at
having been discovered by these men in the act of prayer. The scornful
laugh of the robbers brought the blood to his cheek.
The banditti had merely come out of the cave to sun themselves in the
morning beams, and enjoy in the open air the dolce far niente of which
the Italians are so fond. They stretched themselves on the ground
in front of their den, and the better to beguile the time, amused
themselves by asking the young stranger a number of questions regarding
his country, its customs, its people, its ruler, making their comments
upon his replies in a half jocular, half insulting manner, which sorely
tried his patience. Common sense, however, showed Horace that there was
little to be gained by quarreling with men who held his life in their
hands, and that it was better to bear an insulting jest than to try
whether the robbers' stilettos had keener edge than their wit.
Partly to change the current of conversation, and partly to gain
information on a subject that interested him, Horace suddenly asked
Beppo where the Rossignol had learned the song which he had sung on the
preceding night.
"Who ever asked where the nightingale learns its lay?" answered the
robber, whose face looked even more repulsive when seen by the clear
light of day, than it had done by torch-gleam. "And yet notes of his
sort suit our wild haunts so ill, that I trow that he learned it in his
cage!"
"He has been in prison then?" asked Horace.
"Oh, he, like most of us, has known what it is to lodge free, gratis,
and for nothing at the expense of our gracious King Francis," laughed
Beppo, "and has found the bedchamber none of the airiest, and the royal
fare none of the daintiest!"
"And for what offense?" began Horace.
But Enrico, who had joined the party, fiercely cut his questioning
short.
"There be ways of shackling tongues as well as limbs!" he exclaimed,
resting his right hand on the butt of his pistol, and glaring at young
Cleveland as if he had touched a wound.
Horace made no attempt to pursue the conversation so rudely
interrupted. The banditti began to amuse themselves with dirty cards,
gambling away their ill-earned spoils; and Horace, as he sat watching
them in silent disgust from under his tree, saw many things that had
belonged to himself and his mother staked and lost in play.
Then came the noonday meal of maccaroni and the peculiar fruit of the
cactus, which was eaten in the open air, and of which the prisoner,
with a rude hospitality, was invited by the robbers to partake. The day
had now become oppressively hot, and the banditti, after the fashion
of their country, stretched themselves on the ground to enjoy their
afternoon siesta.
Horace did not sleep; even had he been in the habit of conforming to
this Italian custom, he would now have felt too restless and anxious to
do so. In a half-recumbent position he remained listening to the loud,
monotonous noise of the cicala, a kind of beetle that all day long
fills the air with its harsh grating sound, and watching the lizards
as with quick motion, their lithe, slender forms glanced in and out of
holes in the rock. Familiarity with the sight of the robbers had rather
lessened his fears of danger from them, and though Horace had small
hope of effecting his escape by any efforts of his own, he had strong
expectations that the unwearied exertions of his mother would avail to
procure his release.
When the sun, sloping towards the west, was throwing the broad shadow
of the mountain across the valley which stretched in front of the cave,
the banditti prepared to start upon some lawless expedition. The day of
listless indolence and reckless gambling was probably to be succeeded
by an evening of crime. Horace was well pleased to find that Matteo had
no intention of dragging his captive with him into the woods. The youth
had exchanged no word with the chief on that day, but before the robber
quitted his mountain haunt, he strode up to Horace, and addressed him
with an expression of savage determination upon his hard features, that
was calculated to inspire more fear than the tenor of his words.
"I need hardly command you, boy, not to stir beyond this platform of
rock, as—even were you unfettered—it would be impossible for you to
find your way through yon forest without a guide. It may be as well,
however, to remind you, that these woods are our familiar haunts, that
watch is kept there by night and by day, and that a network surrounds
you there which you would feel before you saw it. Were you detected in
any insane attempt to break through the toils, short and sharp would
be the means taken to curb your restless humor. You are not the first
prisoner whom I have kept for ransom, and I have found a little iron in
the foot a more effectual restraint than a great weight of iron around
it."
"Ay," joined in Beppo, who had overheard the threat, "the procuratore
of Garda will go halting for the rest of his life, as a token that he
passed one night in the den of the wolf, and tried to make his escape
in the morning!"