THE ORPHAN'S TALE.
A strange Sabbath was that to Horace which commenced with the dawning
day. He closed his eyes on the rude and gloomy cave around him, and
tried to make memory and fancy replace the hateful scene; he sought to
shut his ears to the noise of oaths, profane talking, and wrangling.
Sadly he recalled privileges unprized and too often neglected when he
had had the power to enjoy them. He had frequently been weary of the
quiet monotony of the holy day, desiring more active amusements, more
exciting pursuits, and now remembered the peaceful Sabbaths in his home
almost as though they had been spent in paradise, and sighed when the
doubt presented itself whether he would ever be permitted to know such
Sundays again.
It need scarcely be said that the Sabbath was no holy season to
the robbers. It was passed with rather more of noisy riot than the
preceding day had been. There was more of the wild mirth so forcibly
described as "the crackling of thorns under the pot," the laughter
which makes the thoughtful listener more sad than sounds of woe. The
robbers gambled, danced, reveled, swore.
Raphael was the especial target for their coarse jests, which he bore
as one who was accustomed to endurance, a veteran in suffering, though
young in years. Horace marveled how long the improvisatore had been
subjected to the daily martyrdom of such an existence, a constant
chafing and fretting like that of the waves against some solitary
headland.
Raphael, during the first part of the day, appeared to avoid the
society of the prisoner; he neither addressed nor even looked towards
him. It seemed to Horace that the young Italian did not wish his
comrades to see that there was any community of thought or sympathy
between them; and Horace felt that to have been recognized as the
friend of the Rossignol would have increased the difficulties of his
own position. It would have been like leaning on a lightning conductor
while thunder was growling above.
When gambling had succeeded to more noisy revels, the improvisatore
approached Enrico, who was seated amid a group of his rude companions
outside the cave. Horace, from his favorite seat under the oak, where
he enjoyed comparative seclusion, watched with interest the movements
of the brothers, though he could not overhear their conversation.
Raphael laid his hand on Enrico's shoulder, stooped down, and whispered
something in his ear. Enrico, who had a dice-box in his hand, frowned
and shook his head with a gesture of impatience. Again there was a low
whisper, and the robbers around burst into mocking laughter. Distress,
indecision were stamped upon the face of Enrico, and as Horace viewed
on the one side the anxious, pleading look of the brother, on the other
the dark glances of his reckless companions, he seemed to behold,
in human embodiment, spirits of good and of evil contending for the
possession of a soul. This time the good appeared to gain the mastery,
for Enrico, suddenly flinging dice and dice-box on the ground, sprang
to his feet, and followed his brother down the rocks into the forest,
in whose recesses they were soon lost to view.
They were absent for more than an hour, and on their return Enrico
looked sadder and more subdued, with folded arms and downcast eyes,
he emerged from the shadow of the trees. Horace suspected that the
interview had had some relation to himself, for Enrico, after mounting
to the rocky platform, stood for some moments before his prisoner,
surveying him with a fixed and inquiring gaze, then, as if answering
some question to himself, he shook his head and turned sadly away.
When, in the hottest and most oppressive part of the day, the banditti
retired for their accustomed siesta, the improvisatore joined Horace
under the oak. Again was the Testament produced, and again the prisoner
and his companion drank deeply of its life-giving truths. He who has
never known severer thirst than that which makes a draught of cold
water refreshing on a summer's day, can scarcely conceive the feverish
eagerness of the traveler in the desert, when, exhausted and parched
with thirst, he bends over the lonely well. Raphael was treading the
wilderness of life, the scorching sun of temptation above him, the
burning sands of tribulation beneath his feet, and the Scriptures were
to him as the cooling waters to the pilgrim ready to perish.
"I wish," said Horace, when at length there was a pause in the reading,
"that you would tell me how you ever came to lead this strange life
amongst robbers, and what induces you, unfettered as you are, to remain
in this horrible place. Enrico has told me that your father was an
officer of gentle birth. How came the sons of such a man to dwell in
the haunts of banditti?"
Raphael sighed as he made answer. "My father was of an honorable
family; but his own heroic virtues would have ennobled any descent.
He was 'without fear and without reproach'; his name had never been
coupled with disgrace. I was but a child when I last saw my father, but
well do I remember—never can I forget—how I used to clamber on his knee
and play with his sword-knot; and how he would lay his hand on my head
and tell me that I should one day serve the king, and that the duty of
a brave soldier is simply prompt, unswerving obedience—obedience even
unto death.
"And the lesson which my father gave to his child, he sealed with his
blood. He received orders to defend a mountain pass from the enemy
with a small body of troops that were placed under his command. I know
not—it was never clearly ascertained—whether in the confusion of a
general retreat that small band was actually forgotten, or whether the
commander had found it impossible to send reinforcements to its aid;
but it was isolated, unsupported, and attacked by a greatly superior
force.
"Some of those under my father's command urged the necessity of
retreat; resistance, they said, was hopeless; to attempt to defend the
pass was but to throw away the lives of his men.
"'I was placed here to hold this post,' was the gallant reply; 'and
till I receive orders from my leader to quit it, here I am bound to
remain. It is his office to command, and mine to obey.'
"The men," continued Raphael with emotion, "were not inspired by their
captain's heroism. False to their trust, one by one they deserted
their banners. A single brave man remained firm as a rock at the post
of duty; where my father had planted his colors, there he fought, and
there—he fell!"
"And did not your king reward such generous devotion by caring for the
fatherless children of such a man?" exclaimed Horace, as Raphael with a
deep sigh closed his brief account.
"Earthly princes do not resemble Him who keeps a record of every act
of obedience," replied Raphael. "There were a few words of praise, a
ribbon, and a cross, and then all appeared to be forgotten. My brother
and I might have starved in the streets of Naples but for the kindness
of our mother's father, a physician, who supported and educated us for
the sake of a daughter whose loss he yet mourned.
"Enrico became weary of the monotony and restraint of the life which he
led in the good old man's home. He spent much of his time away from it,
and became acquainted with some who made no good use of the influence
which they acquired over his generous and confiding nature.
"When I had reached the age of fifteen, my grandfather died; I was with
him at the last, received his parting blessing, and closed his eyes.
All my earthly comfort was buried in his grave. I will not dwell on the
events of the following year."
Raphael chose not to unveil to the eye of a stranger scenes of riot
and selfish profusion in the house which the memory of a venerable
relative had to him rendered sacred. He would not relate how Enrico
had recklessly squandered his young brother's inheritance as well as
his own, exposing the orphan left to his guidance to the contamination
of such society as might have ruined his soul as well as his fortunes.
Raphael was tender of the reputation of a brother whom he yet loved
with the strength of that affection which can bear all, hope all,
endure all. But though the Rossignol purposely left out all the darker
shades of the picture, Horace had already seen enough of Enrico to fill
up the outlines for himself. After a brief pause, Raphael continued his
narration:
"I was sleeping one night in my chamber, when I was startled from
slumber by the sudden entrance of my brother. It was the hour before
dawn, when darkness is deepest; I could not see his face, but I was
alarmed by the grasp of his icy hand, and the strange, altered tone of
his voice.
"'Raphael,' he exclaimed, 'we must fly! I am a ruined man! The
bloodhounds are already on my track!'
"I found afterwards that my unfortunate brother had been mixed up in
a night brawl, in which a man of high rank had been killed, and that
Enrico was suspected—falsely suspected—" Raphael laid strong emphasis
on the word—"of having dealt the fatal blow. Enrico had no means of
proving his innocence; he had little money left, and no friends. He had
been the victim of men more unscrupulous and reckless than himself, who
were willing to screen their own guilt by sacrificing their dupe.
"Why should I dwell on a painful theme? Before morning we fled from
Naples. Pursued by the ministers of the law, Enrico took refuge in
these mountains of Calabria, and, driven to desperation, in an evil
hour joined himself to a band of outlaws. I accompanied his steps and
shared his fortunes."
"Then it was through no error of your own that you became associated
with these men of blood?"
"I say not so," replied Raphael, quickly, "nor can attempt to justify
my weak compliance. I was young and inexperienced, indeed, but not
so young nor so ignorant as not to see the snares into which I was
running. I was carried on by an impetus which I had not sufficient
strength of principle to resist. My own views of religion and duty
were dark. My conscience, indeed, was not dead; but while I could
stifle its reproaches by supposed good deeds, while Latin prayers and
long fastings could, as I thought, atone for sharing the booty of the
robber (in his worst crimes, thank God, I never shared!), I pursued
my course with but little remorse. I will not weary you with accounts
of pilgrimages to holy shrines made with bare and bleeding feet, nor
tell you how many hours at night were often spent in reciting prayers
that I understood not. Vain superstition! Miserable opiates to put to
sleep the restless monitor within! I was a favorite with Matteo and
his followers. My youth, and perhaps my love of music, and my slight
knowledge of the healing art, won for me more kindness and indulgence
than it might have been supposed that such men could have shown. I
ministered to their pleasure and to their comfort; they loved my jests
and my songs. I might say whatever I liked—almost do whatever I liked;
I was as the spoiled child of the band."
Horace felt no surprise that the gifted boy, attractive in person and
winning in manner, should have exercised powers of fascination over the
rough spirits around him. The prisoner had himself begun to feel in the
society of Raphael a kind of magnetic influence, which made him watch
every look, and listen for each word, with a strange interest for which
he could scarcely have accounted. Circumstances, however, had evidently
altered as regarded the connection of Raphael with the banditti, and
Horace remarked to the Rossignol that he seemed to be now rather
tolerated than liked.
"How is it," asked young Cleveland, "that the once 'spoiled child of
the band' is now treated with such harshness, and even brutality,
that it seemed to me to-day as though your very life were scarcely
worth a day's purchase? How is it also that you have learned to put
away superstition, to see the folly of dead forms, and have become so
earnest in the service of God, that you are ready to hazard all for his
sake?"
"It is a long story," replied Raphael, "and I hear by the sound of
voices in the cave that the bandits' siesta is over. We must not be
seen together," he continued, rising hastily from his seat; "you have
perils enough to encounter as an Englishman, a Protestant, and a
prisoner, without its being added to your list of offenses that you can
call Raphael a friend."
Horace was disappointed at the interruption to the tale of the
improvisatore, and awaited with curiosity and interest a fitting
opportunity to hear its conclusion.