THE LONE SENTINEL.
Horace had not been left many minutes to ruminate over the bandit's
parting warning, when the sound of a melody, warbled in rich tones
which, once heard, could ever afterwards be recognized, announced to
his glad ear that the Rossignol was coming through the forest. Little
as the captive had seen of the improvisatore, he yet welcomed him as a
friend.
"I have been impatient for your return," Horace exclaimed, as soon
as Raphael emerged from the trees. "Have you heard any tidings from
Staiti? Can you give me any news of my mother?"
Raphael made a sign in the negative, as he advanced to the foot of the
rocky ascent.
Horace leaned over the rough parapet and said in English, "Could you
not contrive to bear a note or a message from me to my mother?"
"Matteo made me give my word of honor that I would not do so," replied
Raphael. "Had he not bound me by that which he knows that I never
break, he would have detained me in his fastness here, almost as close
a prisoner as yourself."
With the agility of a chamois, the young Italian now ascended the rocks
to gain the platform in front of the cave, unimpeded by his instrument,
which he carried slung behind him. His first glance, on reaching the
spot where Horace awaited him, was directed towards the fettered ankles
of the captive.
"You have been attempting to escape!" he said quickly.
"Is it a crime in your eyes to make an effort for freedom?" asked the
prisoner.
"In your case it is useless—utterly useless—worse than useless," said
Raphael with earnestness. "I know better than you can know, in how
close a clutch you are held; I see, as you cannot see, the pitfalls
surrounding you here."
"But what can I do?" exclaimed Horace impatiently, chafing under the
sense of bondage like a caged lion.
"Trust in God," was the reply: and these three words, uttered with
the manly simplicity of one who in himself had proved their power,
dispelled in the mind of Horace every lingering doubt and suspicion as
regarded the character of Raphael. Wonderingly he resolved the mystery
of the connection of a man of no ordinary earnestness of devotion, with
the lowest and worst of his race. As little would Horace have expected
to find the rich blossoms of the passion-flower twining round a cluster
of poisonous fungi, or a jewel glittering on some heap of corruption,
as a firm, decided Christian man in a den of robbers and thieves. How
could a rain-drop retain its purity when mixed with the stagnant waters
of a pool? How could the spark of faith still live with so fierce a
storm of temptation around it?
While Horace was reflecting on his strange companion, Raphael, laying
aside his guitar, had entered the cave. He soon returned, bearing with
him such liniment as he had used in the morning to relieve the pain
caused to the captive by the chafing of his fetters. Raphael then knelt
down upon the rock, and applied the simple remedy. Horace, unaccustomed
to suffering or restraint, could scarcely endure the pressure of the
iron upon his galled and swollen ankles. He implored Raphael, as he
had urged Enrico, to release him from the torturing bonds. Sadly but
firmly his suit was refused, and when pressed, it only wrung forth the
unanswerable question:
"Would you have me sacrifice the life of my brother?"
When all that was possible had been done for the prisoner's relief,
Horace asked Raphael, with some curiosity, what was the favor which he
had his intention of one day asking.
"I ask it now," replied the Rossignol; and to the surprise, and almost
disappointment of young Cleveland, he drew forth from his bosom a small
English Testament, which bore marks of having been much used.
"I would have left this with you this morning," said Raphael, "but I
feared lest my treasure should be discovered, and taken from you by
force. See, it is in English," he continued, "and the little which I
know of that tongue has been chiefly learnt from its pages; but my
knowledge is very imperfect; oft in vain I struggle to make out the
meaning of a passage, like one groping in the darkness of a cave. You,
who can speak my language as well as your own, will make all clear and
plain to my understanding."
"How did you get this?" asked Horace with interest, turning over to the
title-page, on which the name of Pietro Marino was written.
"Let us leave the tale to another day," replied Raphael; "time is now
precious. I expect that the band will this evening return more early
than usual. Could you know how long and how anxiously I have waited for
such an opportunity as this, you would not marvel at my reluctance to
hazard its loss by delay."
So saying, Raphael threw himself on the rock beside Horace, and eagerly
turning over the pages of the Testament, showed place after place where
he had found difficulties from his imperfect knowledge of English.
Horace had often read the Bible with his mother, often listened to
chapters in church, and had with tolerable regularity, though with
slight attention, perused the Scriptures by himself. But the cold,
lifeless form which the performance of this duty had too often been to
the youth, was something different indeed from the intense earnestness
which he now saw in his strange companion.
It was evident that to Raphael, religion was a living reality,
something that engaged all the powers of his mind as well as all the
affections of his soul. The Bible was to him as the Father's letter,
treasured in the bosom of the Son; as the charter by which he held all
his dearest hopes; as the "pardon signed and sealed" granted to the
prisoner by the grace of his King.
The Rossignol and Horace read together as long as the daylight lasted,
and when that failed they returned to the cave, and pursued their
occupation by the gleam of the tapers which were lighted in front of
the Virgin's shrine.
Horace was well versed in Scripture history, but he had only a very
superficial knowledge of the Epistles of St. Paul. The glowing, fervent
spirit of devotion breathing through them had found no response in
his heart. He read now, almost as though they were new to him, the
soul-stirring words of the apostle and martyr, proclaiming the blessed
truths which he so joyfully sealed with his blood—
"Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong!"
Horace felt that the Italian at his side was not merely reading this as
a chronicled address to suffering saints of old, but receiving it as a
rousing call to himself, a watchword to be used on the field of battle,
a command from a leader to a soldier of the cross.
"Is it true," asked Raphael, when at last he paused in his reading—"is
it true that in your blessed land these Scriptures are open to all?"
"The poorest can have a Bible," replied Horace.
"What a power must be wielded there for the truth!" said the Italian,
laying his hand upon the open Testament. "In this country there is but
a man here and there, like a picket in a hostile land, a sentinel on a
post of danger, to grasp with a feeble hand the sword of the Spirit,
the Word of God, standing forth in a cause which, were it not the cause
of the Almighty, he might well consider to be desperate; but with you,
how strong, how united a phalanx must hold the ground against all
opposers, and go forward conquering and triumphant in the great battle
that is waged on earth!"
"Of what battle do you speak?" said Horace, rather to draw forth an
answer from Raphael than from any difficulty as to his meaning.
"The great battle between truth and error, Light and Darkness, God and
Satan," replied Raphael; "that battle in which every individual must be
enlisted on one or the other side."
"Not necessarily to take any very active part," observed Horace, who
felt as regarded himself there had been little interest, and certainly
no great effort in the strife.
Raphael fixed his large, earnest eyes upon the speaker with an
expression of grave surprise. "In the world's warfare," said he,
"what do we esteem a soldier who shrinks from taking his part in the
struggle, who obeys not his leader, who deserts his banner at a period
of danger?"
"We esteem him a coward," replied Horace.
"And if he takes part with the enemy?"
"He has the name, and deserves the fate of a traitor."
"And what shall we call those who, enlisted from infancy to oppose sin
and Satan, are content to remain mere spectators of the strife, or who
actually join the ranks of the foe?"
"Nine-tenths of the Christian world do so," observed Horace, "and
certainly look upon themselves neither as cowards nor traitors. Few
consider that there is any battle to be fought at all. Men follow their
own pleasure, do their own will, and doubt not but that all will be
well in the end."
"You do not think so?" said Raphael.
Horace knew not what to reply. He was too conscious that he had
been describing his own state of mind, and felt that if a brave,
earnest, self-sacrificing spirit of devotion be necessary to the
Christian soldier, he was unworthy of the name. Willing to change the
conversation, he said abruptly:
"You must be indeed as a sentinel in a hostile land; I wonder how you
can keep your ground at all in this the very stronghold of the enemy."
"I can but grasp my sword, and look to my Leader," said Raphael. "I am
sometimes well-nigh ready to give up all in despair, but He can keep me
from falling."
"I marvel why you remain here," began Horace, when he was prevented
from concluding his sentence by the sound of a shrill whistle from the
wood, and Raphael, hastily rising, thrust his Testament into his bosom.
"I knew that they would return soon," he said; "see where yonder they
come."
The banditti returned in a very discontented mood. They had found
no prey, and brought back no booty. The only consolation which they
found under their disappointment, was that of exercising the power of
tormenting, and their unfortunate prisoner had to run the gauntlet of
every kind of annoyance.
Horace, little accustomed to insult, chafed with impotent rage.
He glanced at Raphael, as though to claim his protection, and the
Rossignol, without appearing to notice the appeal, came to his relief
in the only effectual way. The liquid tones of his guitar were heard
through the noisy uproar, and the tumult suddenly lulled. The notes
exercised such a spell as fable ascribes to that of Orpheus, and almost
as savage an auditory as that which listened to the ancient bard,
gathered around the Rossignol as he poured forth his thrilling lay:—
There is a sword of glittering sheen—
All unite to defend the right!
Its blade is bright, and its edge is keen,
But the wound it gives is a wound unseen,
And who would flinch in the glorious fight?
There is a foe—a ruthless foe—
Such unite to oppose the right!
In secret ambush he croucheth low,
And the blow he strikes is a deadly blow,
But who would flinch in the glorious fight?
There is a banner floating wide—
All unite to defend the right!
The blood of martyrs its folds has dyed
When the best and the bravest fought side by side.
For who would flinch in the glorious fight!
There is a Leader exalted high!
All unite to defend the right!
Through Him His followers hosts defy.
Through Him they learn to do and to die,
And scorn to flinch in the glorious fight!
There is a palm—a victor's palm—
All unite to defend the right!
'Twill be given in realms of peace and calm
To the steadfast spirit, the stalwart arm
That never flinched in the glorious fight!
Then shall lips touched with living flame
In song unite—in the world of light,
"In our Leader's strength, in our Leader's name,
We fought—we struggled—we overcame—
And victors stood in the glorious fight!"
So spirited was the air, so flowing the measure, that Matteo himself
beat time with his heavy hand on the table, and several of the banditti
actually joined in the burden. Horace saw, however, by the glances
directed towards the improvisatore, that the words were only tolerated
on account of the music; and Enrico, as if the strain were hateful to
him, quitted the table before the song was ended.
On the mind of the young prisoner himself the effect of the lay was
powerful. He felt his spirit roused by the music, which seemed to
burst forth from the singer's soul rather than from his lips. Horace
realized, as he had never done before, his own responsibilities as a
sworn soldier of Christ. Had he not been enlisted to serve under the
banner of the cross, to fight manfully against the world, the flesh,
and the devil? And how had he kept his vow—how had he fought under that
banner? What interest had he taken in the holy cause—what had he ever
sacrificed in order to spread its conquests?
It was not needful for Horace to compare himself with missionaries
spending their strength and hazarding their lives to win heathen
lands for their Leader; nor with the devoted men and women who in
densely crowded cities lead the assault against the enemy's mightiest
strongholds; such may be termed the forlorn hope of the Christian host,
the Gideons or Davids of the army; but had he shown himself worthy to
be counted even amongst the common rank and file? Had he ever struck
one good blow for the sake of religion against a besetting sin? Had
he cared even to keep his sword bright? Had he not felt ashamed on
that morning at being discovered in the act of prayer? Could he regard
himself as other than a coward, even if he deserved not the name of
traitor?
How the lay rang that night in the ears of Horace! The music haunted
him when he retired with Raphael to the rocky recess, whither they had
been preceded by Enrico. Horace there found a fresh bed of fragrant
herbs, which had been gathered for him, over which was thrown a mantle
which he had seen on the shoulders of Raphael.
In silence the Rossignol knelt down to pray, and the young Englishman
knelt beside him. Horace expected some taunt from Enrico, who lay
stretched on his heap of leaves; but the bandit watched them in sullen
silence, by the light of a torch which he had stuck on the wall.
As Raphael was making his simple preparations for the night,
in removing a portion of his dress, he bared his shoulder, and
accidentally displayed to the view of Horace a hurt which he had
received on it, a purple contusion, as from some blunt but heavy
instrument. The injury had evidently been both recent and severe.
"No light hand left such a mark as that?" exclaimed Horace.
"It was Matteo's work, it is no prison-scar upon me," replied Raphael,
covering the evidence of the chief's brutality.
"And do you know how he won that scar?" exclaimed Enrico with
vehemence. "In coming between the wolf and his prey, in trying to save
that poor wretch Carlo from destruction. His attempt was in vain, all
that he does is in vain; the hand that left that mark will fall more
heavily upon him one day."
It was long ere Horace could sleep. The sight of that bruised,
lacerated shoulder had brought more vividly before him the savage
nature of the man in whose absolute power he lay than aught he had seen
or heard.
"Raphael must indeed," thought the captive, "be as a sentinel on a post
of danger, as a soldier isolated from his comrades in an enemy's land."
Horace looked at the young Italian, stretched in peaceful slumber on
his rocky bed, and wondered how his repose could be so serene and
untroubled. It was the consciousness of the presence of a watchful
Guardian that gave to the soldier of the cross calm sleep in the
robbers' den. His last waking thought had been—
"'The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord
is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?'"