TIDINGS.
Horace was awakened very early on the following morning by the sound
of voices speaking in earnest whispers near him. His rocky recess, as
the reader is aware, was shared by the brothers Goldoni. The struggling
light of dawn was too dim to enable Horace to discern their figures,
but the tones of Raphael's voice in their peculiar sweetness were
distinguishable from all others even in the lowest whisper.
"So young—his poor mother," these were the only words that reached the
captive's ear, but he felt assured that they related to himself. Enrico
seemed to be resisting some urgent entreaty, the nature of which,
however, could not be gathered from his hurried, murmured reply.
"You are to me as a chain—a fetter," said Raphael, still speaking below
his breath.
"It is well that you have one, or you would be using freedom to throw
away your life upon some insane venture," exclaimed Enrico, his
impatience causing him slightly to raise his voice.
Again there was the sound of pleading, low, fervent, as from one who
was wrestling for something dearer than life. It was an entreaty to
a brother, a brother beloved, to have mercy upon his own soul, to
break from the bondage which held him, to grapple with the foe who was
dragging him downwards towards the abyss of destruction.
"To-day may be the turning-point of your existence. As you decide for
good or for evil now, so may the long, endless hereafter be to you an
eternity of bliss or of anguish. There will be some dark deed done
to-day. Those who are watched for will not yield without resistance.
You may have the stain of murder on your soul. Oh, while there is yet
time flee—save yourself—the door of mercy is open to you yet!"
More followed, which Horace could not hear. The tone of Enrico's
replies was agitated; but it seemed as if he lacked resolution to take
some decided step that his brother was urging upon him. The result of
the conversation, and it was a long one, Horace could only guess by
Raphael's closing words:
"Then no resource is left to me but prayer."
The tone in which they were uttered was not desponding, but solemn, as
if, when all earthly hope had failed, he was enabled yet more firmly to
grasp the promise of his God.
Soon afterwards there was a stir in the cave. From their various
lurking-places the robbers came forth, to partake of their morning
meal, and prepare for their expedition. Enrico carefully avoided his
brother; and Raphael, who never joined the banditti at their feasts,
left the cave to follow the daily avocations by which he earned his
scanty subsistence.
The robbers seemed to be aware that the expected travelers were not
likely to be early on the route, or they lingered in their haunt till
past noonday. Horace was, as before, exposed to their coarse jests and
rude banter. Beppo, in particular, took pleasure in trying his mettle,
and raising apprehensions in his mind. The robber described with a
minuteness which almost sickened his hearer, barbarities exercised upon
former prisoners; his memory was well stored with horrors, and he took
care that Horace should have the full benefit of their recital. Beppo
dwelt especially on the miserable fate of Carlo, one of the band who
had attempted to break from the rest, and who had perished by the hand
of the captain.
Horace noticed that Beppo, while telling the tale, often glanced
meaningly at Enrico. Raphael's unhappy brother assumed a defiant,
half-scornful air, boldly commended the murderous deed, and seemed
eager to cast from himself the slightest suspicion of an intention to
follow the example of Carlo.
Right glad was the prisoner when at length the robbers arose, looked to
their guns, examined the priming, and after quaffing large bumpers to
the success of their man-hunt, left him to his quiet solitude.
There is natural elasticity in the mind of the young. As soon as the
form of the last of the band had disappeared behind the trees, Horace
breathed more freely, and the relief which he felt made his spirit
rebound into hope.
"I shall have but three days more of this to endure," thought he; "the
worst half of the trial is ended, and oh, how glorious it will be to
fling these fetters aside, and tread the earth once more as a free man!
To leave behind, once and for ever, this den of misery and horror! I
shall not care to stay longer in Italy; I shall hate the very sound of
the language in which I have heard such things as I have been compelled
to listen to here.
"But I cannot part with Raphael; no! He has quite long enough held
his hopeless post, teaching those who will not learn, pleading with
those who will not hear; he has quite long enough risked his life for
the sake of a worthless brother. With his talents and his earnestness
of purpose, what a glorious career is before him! If his light has
shone even in this dark den, what a luster will it shed in some high
position, where the world can see its brightness! Raphael is so unlike
all other men whom I have met with; wherever he be, he will exercise
power, and that power will be exerted for good. I am sure that my
mother would pay for his expenses at one of our universities. The
Christian soldier will then have a wider battle-field before him; he
has been trained in these wild mountains by hardship and danger for
deeds which, if I mistake not, will one day make his name renowned."
From forming projects for his friend, it was an easy transition to make
some for himself.
But Horace's castles in the air were different now from what they had
been in the days of his careless boyhood. Adversity is a powerful
teacher, and when its lessons are enforced by their visible influence
upon another, when example shows how in the fiery furnace the pure gold
shines more brightly, to a generous spirit, like that of Horace, its
lessons are seldom in vain.
Young Cleveland now thought less of commanding his fellow-creatures
than of serving them; of being a victor in earthly warfare than of
approving himself as a good soldier of the cross. He saw that his
first post of duty must be home—the second, the circle of his school
companions; he felt that his pride and self-will, the sins which most
easily beset him, must be resisted and overcome there. Obedience
to his parent would be the test of his obedience to God. His wild,
undisciplined spirit must be brought into cheerful subjection.
"Henceforth, I will be a different son to my mother," thought Horace;
"she shall never again shed a tear for word or for action of mine."
Thus in pleasing and not unprofitable musings passed the hours of the
summer afternoon. Ever and anon Horace turned his watchful eye towards
the wood, and listened for the sound of signal-whistle or pistol-shot
in the distance. There was nothing, however, to tell that anything of
human guilt was marring the peace of that beautiful scene. All was
tranquil in the rich glow of sunshine; and but for the chains on his
ankles, Horace could have enjoyed the sense of calm repose in that
bright, luxurious clime.
There was something of romance in his own situation which was not
without its charms; and the youth smiled to himself as he thought what
a theme for a tale of stirring interest his adventures would be when
the social circle of friends should be gathered round the blazing logs
of a Christmas fire. None of his companions would be able to tell of
such hair-breadth escapes, or a life so wild and so strange. It was
very amusing to Horace to see in imagination the wondering, curious,
half-incredulous looks on familiar faces, and to fancy that he could
hear his mother's ejaculations, now of thankfulness, now of terror.
As he was busy drawing these pictures of imagination, Horace saw the
figure of the improvisatore coming toward him from the wood. At first
glance, he was struck by a change in the mien of Raphael, perceptible
even at a distance. The firm, elastic tread habitual to him was
exchanged for a slow, lingering step, like that of an invalid, and
twice he raised his hand to his forehead as if oppressed by dizziness
or pain.
Horace left his seat beneath the oak, and advanced to meet Raphael as
far as the rocky parapet, beyond which he could not proceed. He called
out the Rossignol's name, but Raphael neither replied nor raised his
face to greet him with his usual kindly smile. Instead of mounting
the rough mass of rocks almost with the lightness and ease that wings
might have given, Raphael seemed for the first time to experience some
difficulty in climbing, and Horace observed, as he gained the top, that
the face of the young Italian was even more pale than usual.
"Raphael, you are ill!" exclaimed Horace.
The Rossignol shook his head.
"Something painful, I am certain, has happened. Come, sit down on this
rock; or shall we go yonder to our favorite oak?"
Raphael seated himself on the rock, and turned his face from his friend.
"You have had something to grieve or to alarm you? The lad whom you
visited is dead?"
"He is better," the Rossignol replied.
"But you feel dull and gloomy, as I felt yesterday; such a cloud came
over me then, it seemed as if everything were dark around. You cheered
me then, Raphael, it is my turn to cheer you now. I have been forming
such golden plans for the future, plans for you as well as for myself;"
and in a few rapid sentences Horace described some of the hopes which
had been brightening his solitary hours.
Raphael only responded with a sigh so deep-drawn that Horace saw at
once that no light trouble, no passing cloud could cast such a shadow
on his soul.
"You have heard bad news," cried young Cleveland; "do they regard
yourself or—or me?"
Raphael's silence was sufficient reply.
"Tell me the whole truth!" exclaimed Horace.
"Could you bear it?" answered Raphael, slowly turning round, and fixing
his large dark eyes upon Horace with a gaze of unutterable sadness.
"Yes; I can bear all, must know all!" exclaimed Horace. His heart was
beginning to throb fast, while a sensation of cold crept over him,
assuredly not caused by the weather.
"All is said in few words—Otto was hanged this morning."
Prepared as he was for a painful communication, the tidings came upon
Horace like a blow. He had been so full of hopeful anticipation, he had
had such confidence in the power of his mother's tears, and her gold,
that he had little reckoned upon having to suffer anything beyond a
seven days' captivity. Now Matteo's horrible threat, that threat which
he had not dared to translate to his mother, rose up in his mind like a
spectre.
"Are you quite certain—quite certain that the tidings are true?"
"Quite certain," was the mournful reply.
"Does Matteo know all?"
"He can hardly know it, or—or I should not have found you here alone.
But he will be sure to know it before the morning; evil tidings fly on
swift wings."
Horace grasped the hand of his friend with a convulsive pressure. "Oh,
Raphael, you will not—cannot see me murdered in cold blood by that
merciless man. For my mother's sake—for God's sake—for the sake of Him
whom you serve—release me—save me from this horrible fate!"
The earnest, imploring gaze was met by one of anguish.
"We can fly together," continued Horace, speaking with eager rapidity.
"Once out of the forest we are both safe, both happy—"
Raphael interrupted him with a single word, "Enrico!"
In that name were expressed all the difficulties of his position, at
least all such as might be regarded as insuperable. The fearful choice
to Raphael lay but between his brother and his friend. To save the one
was to sacrifice the other.
It was a moment of exquisite pain to the captive and his companion. So
great was the tension of their nerves, that the sound of a whistle from
below made them both start, as if it had been a death-signal.
"They come—all is lost!" exclaimed Horace.
"No—not so—there is but one man—it is only Marco," said Raphael, as the
powerful form of the bandit appeared advancing to the rock.
"But he knows all—I see it in his face; he comes a death-messenger!"
cried Horace.
And certainly the dark, saturnine countenance of the robber wore a
deeper shade of gloom than usual, such as could not escape the notice
of the anxious eyes that sought to read in it their fate.
"He may know nothing, do not betray your own secret," whispered
Raphael, who, however, could not but draw the same conclusion as young
Cleveland had done from the bandit's appearance.