ONWARDS.
When Marco had reached the top of the parapet, Horace drew a little
hope from the trivial circumstance that the bandit did not look at him,
nor appear to notice his presence. He addressed himself at once to the
improvisatore.
"Your preaching to the living is over, you may now pray for the dead,"
he said in a hollow, sepulchral voice, crossing himself as he spoke.
"Explain yourself!" exclaimed Raphael.
"Your brother is—" Marco pointed downwards—"with the souls in
purgatory."
Raphael uttered an exclamation which was almost like a cry. "Not by
violence, not by violence?" he gasped forth.
Marco gloomily shook his head, and muttered between his teeth, "The
Cascata della Morte!"
"How did it happen?" exclaimed Horace, giving voice to the question
painted on Raphael's agonized face.
"We were all on our way to the high road," said Marco, "when some one
proposed that instead of following the bend of the river, it would be
well for one or two of our party to cross it, so that by making a round
to the left, we might come on the travelers from behind, while the rest
attacked them in front. Enrico and I had orders to cross.
"You know," continued the robber, addressing himself to Raphael, "that
the only bridge there is, the trunk of the tree, thrown across from
bank to bank, some twenty yards above the Cascata. Enrico went first,
I lingered to tighten my belt, which was loose. I know not whether
he was taken with giddiness at seeing the waters rushing on so madly
beneath him, or whether he stumbled on the rough bark, but I saw Enrico
suddenly go down splash into the current. He gave a cry and struggled
desperately, but the rush there is so strong and rapid that no swimmer
could stem it; the water bore him on as if he had been a reed on the
surface, on—over—you know the depth of the fall, and may judge whether
he could reach the bottom alive."
Raphael closed his eyes, as if to shut out a vision of the awful
scene—the precipice and the victim dashed over it.
"Not time for a single Ave or Paternoster," said the bandit, "even had
he had the grace to repeat one; but I trow that you had made half a
heretic of him. There was not a saint who would help him in his need,
or he would not have come to so awful an end."
Raphael turned and rushed into the cave, to hide himself from the
sunshine, and give vent in solitude and darkness to the first burst of
uncontrollable grief.
"Ay, ay," said Marco, following him with his eyes; "if ever one brother
loved another, that brother was Raphael. He is always teaching and
preaching about submission, but I take it that when it comes to a
sharp, sudden trial like this, the heretic's faith and trust will be
whirled away, like that poor struggling wretch who has just been dashed
to pieces over the fall. It was an awful sight, even to one used like
myself to rough work," added the bandit, wiping his brow; "and often
when I stand sentry within sound of that deathly cataract, I shall
fancy that I hear again the last cry of the miserable Enrico."
"Is Matteo returning soon?" asked Horace, who could not forget his own
perilous position even in his interest in the fate of the sufferer.
"He will come when he has done his business," was the surly reply.
"The sun has nearly sunk behind the hills, but the expected party have
not yet appeared. The band will keep on the watch, and perhaps pass
the night in the woods. I am appointed sentinel at the rock-pass till
they return, and I have come to fill my wallet and my flask, as it is
uncertain how many hours I may have to remain and keep guard."
So saying, the robber went to the entrance to the cave, pushed aside
the plants which almost concealed it, and stooping his tall, gaunt
figure, entered in. Horace felt an almost irresistible impulse to try
once more the descent of the rocks, impossible as he had found it to
be to climb down while the shackles confined his ankles. He was almost
bewildered by what he heard, evil tidings succeeding evil tidings with
a rapidity which had overpowered for a time the stronger nature of
Raphael, disciplined as it had been by conflict and suffering.
Horace attempted to pray, but could not collect his thoughts; only the
only words of Scripture that came into his mind were,—
"'Oh, that I had wings like dove!"
And that aspiration, the poor doomed captive uttered from the depth of
his soul.
In about a quarter of an hour Marco emerged from the cave, and
proceeded towards his allotted post. He stopped as he was about to pass
Horace, and looked at him with a scrutinizing eye.
"One might deem that you had been the one to lose a brother," he
observed, "or that you had just seen the ghost of Enrico. You look
white as a corpse on the bier."
Horace made no answer, and the robber went on his way.
Scarcely had Marco reached the wood, when Raphael came forth from the
cave. He was now perfectly calm, but almost stern in his sadness,
and Horace saw more distinctly than he had ever seen it before, the
Rossignol's likeness to his brother. Raphael made a gesture to the
prisoner to place his foot upon a large stone which was near, and then,
to the surprise of Horace, threw himself on his knees beside him.
"When I besought God to make the path plain before me, I thought not of
this answer," said Raphael in a low tone; "but just and true are his
ways;" and the moment after, with a file which he had brought in his
hand, he was working at the chain of the captive.
The mingled feelings of hope, fear, delight, impatience, which
struggled together in the bosom of Horace pass description. Thought
Raphael filed with the full power of his right arm, it seemed to Horace
as though the stubborn iron would never give way, and the noise caused
by the instrument sounded to him so loud, that he was in terror lest
it should reach Marco, and awake his suspicions. At the first pause
made by Raphael, though it was but to shake back the dark locks that
had fallen over his brow as he stooped, Horace caught the file from
his hand and used it himself with the desperate energy of one who felt
that his life might be the sacrifice of even a few minutes' delay; but
he found that better progress was made when he resigned it again to
Raphael.
Not a single word was uttered by either until the work was completed,
and Horace stood unfettered beneath the deep blue sky, which was
already darkening into night. He would have leaped and bounded in the
rapture of recovered freedom, but for an instinctive delicacy which
forbade demonstration of joy in the presence of the bereaved brother of
Enrico.
"Now, put on my mantle and hat," said Raphael.
"Why so?" asked Horace. "Surely we shall escape together; I shall have
your guidance through the forest?"
"Through the most intricate part you shall have it; but when we reach
the post guarded by Marco, we must separate; it is only wrapt in
disguise that you will be able to pass him."
"He is but one man—there are two of us," began Horace, all his natural
courage rising at the prospect of a struggle.
"One man—but with two pistols at his belt, and with a hand that, when
it draws a trigger, never fails to hit its mark. Remember also that the
sound of a shot would be sufficient to draw the whole band upon us. Do
not delay putting on this disguise; time is precious to you now."
Horace promptly obeyed. Though he had not yet attained the stature of
Raphael, the difference between their heights was not great enough to
be striking, and the almost sudden darkness of southern latitudes was
now falling upon earth.
"There is the moon," observed Horace; "her light will serve to guide us
on our way."
"I need it not," the Rossignol replied, "every step of that way is
familiar to me;" and he began descending the rocks.
Horace followed, rejoicing in his newly-restored powers of activity,
though their exercise was cramped not a little by the necessity of
moving with caution in the darkness. Before he clambered over the rocky
parapet, he turned one last glance towards the old oak, the dim outline
of whose branches he faintly could trace.
"Farewell," thought the released captive, "farewell for ever to the
place where I suffered so much of evil, and learned so much of good;
where I have seen more of the wickedness of man, and more of the grace
of God, in a few days, than in all my former lifetime!"
In profound silence, save when a pebble fell, dislodged beneath a
climbing foot or hand, the twain descended those rocks down which the
prisoner had so often gazed, measuring their depth with an anxious
and at length a hopeless eye. A few more steps, and the fugitives had
entered the depths of the forest. Here the light was almost entirely
shut out, for rarely was a glimpse of the silver moon seen behind
the thick branches. Over moss-grown roots, between the knotted,
gnarled trunks of old trees, now bending low to avoid being struck by
their boughs, now thrusting aside plants whose long trailing tresses
concealed all trace of a path even during the day, Raphael guided his
companion.
Occasionally there was a rustle as they started some wild creature from
its lair, or a frightened bird rose on the wing. A single nightingale
was pouring forth its soft, melancholy lay; other sounds there were
none, till a faint noise, as of a distant waterfall, reached the
listening ear. A sudden turn at length brought the fugitives to a
break in the forest, and Horace saw before him the same ledge of rock
overhanging a precipice which he so well recollected traversing under
the guidance of Enrico.
The moon, almost at the full, in unveiling brightness shone on the cold
gray stone, veined with green moss and lichen, and the wooded heights
which rose on one side above it, and even revealed the awful beauty
of the deep gorge on the left, glimmering on a stream which, hundreds
of feet below, wound like a thread of silver through the dark valley.
Distinct in the moonshine, which threw his black shadow on the rock
wall behind him, rose the gaunt form of Marco the bandit. He stood at
so narrow a part of the ledge, that though he was almost close to the
rock, the precipice in front of him yawned scarcely more than a yard
from his feet. He could hardly be passed without being touched, and
Horace perceived at once that, without the protection of a disguise,
the attempt to cross in front of the watchful sentinel must bring
inevitable destruction.
"Draw your hat lower over your brow," whispered Raphael; "the pass-word
is 'Speranza.' If Marco speak to you, do not reply. Silence on my part
would cause no surprise after all that has passed. The sound of water
will be sufficient to guide you, till you reach the bank of the stream.
Do not attempt to cross it," Raphael's voice faltered as he spoke,
"turn to the right and follow its course till you reach the high road,
which crosses it by a bridge. And now—God's blessing go with you!" and
extending his hand to Horace, Raphael added, "here we must part."
"O Raphael!" exclaimed the young Englishman, grasping it with emotion,
"I cannot desert you thus, I cannot leave you to the vengeance of
Matteo—I feel that your blood would be on my head—I would rather go
back to the cave!"
The two hands were yet clasped in each other, and Horace felt the warm
pressure of his friend's as he replied, "You would have no chance
of mercy; your young life would be the certain sacrifice; I have a
thousand advantages which you do not possess. I know every man in
the band—I have put most of them under obligation; every path in the
forest is familiar to me as well by night as by day. If you knew the
mountain's weight which will be removed from my heart by your flight,
you would not dally thus with your fate."
"But do I not leave you to danger—the most terrible danger?"
"You leave me to the care of my heavenly Father. He is with me, I have
nothing to fear."
"But," began Horace, still retaining his hold of the hand of Raphael,
"if you should suffer for this generous act, I never should know peace
any more."
"Say not so," murmured the Rossignol, with more than his usual
sweetness of tone; "if anything should happen to me, think that the
lone, desolate wanderer has found at last rest and a home; that the
dreary warfare is ended—the long life-struggle over. I am not, as you
are, a mother's hope, and pride, and comfort; I now stand alone in the
world."
"I will be your brother!" exclaimed Horace. "Oh, I cannot, will not
desert you!"
"You could not serve me, even were you to return to the cave," said
Raphael; "I could not replace the chains; the Rubicon was passed when
I filed them asunder. My chance of escape would be greatly lessened by
my having to care for your safety as well as my own. Therefore go, my
friend—my brother!"
Raphael drew Horace to his heart, and pressed him to it for a moment
in a close embrace; then suddenly unloosing it, he turned around and
buried himself in the wood.