A PERILOUS PASS.
The parting from Raphael gave a keen pang to Horace. He could scarcely
have believed that in so short a space of time, any human being could
have obtained so strong a hold upon his affections. Pity, gratitude,
admiration had combined in a three-fold cord to knit to his heart the
man whose fate had been so singularly linked with his own, and who was
now freely risking life to save him. But Horace had no time to dwell on
tender recollections at a moment like this. The absorbing instinct of
self-preservation claimed now the first place in his mind. Every minute
of delay increased the danger of the dreaded Matteo's return. Horace
must pass along that perilous ledge, close in front of the ruffian
whose strong arm could, were his slightest suspicion aroused, hurl the
stripling over the beetling precipice to lie a mangled corpse in the
valley below.
"Speranza! Speranza! Hope!" Horace repeated to himself, less from the
fear that in the excitement of the moment the pass-word might escape
his memory, than from an effort to draw encouragement from the sound.
"God be my helper! God be my hope!" And drawing Raphael's mantle yet
more closely round his form, and pulling the hat lower over his eyes,
with a palpitating heart, yet a firm, brave step, Horace Cleveland
strode forth into the moonlight, which had never before appeared to him
so painfully brilliant.
"Ha, Raphael, you are not going thither! It is of no avail! You will
only turn your brain altogether!" exclaimed Marco, as Horace approached
him, and to the no small alarm of the fugitive, the bandit actually
laid a strong, heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Speranza!" muttered Horace, shaking himself loose from a grasp
which seemed to him like that of death. The fugitive could scarcely
believe the evidence of his own senses when he found himself actually
striding onwards beyond the perilous spot. He expected every moment to
be overtaken by a bullet, or to hear a sudden shout of recognition.
He dared not look behind him, nor much quicken his steps, but
instinctively he held his breath till he had gained the wood at the
further end of the ledge. Then, indeed a low, fervent thanksgiving
burst from the lips of Horace, and he felt himself really free.
The sound of falling water had every minute become more and more
distinct. Horace, with eager hope, hurried forward in the direction
from whence it came. Yet a little struggling through bramble and bush,
trying the most direct way rather than the clearest, while still
listening with painful anxiety for sound of pursuit, and the youth
reached the bank of a stream which was rushing on as if eager to plunge
madly down into the valley. The trunk of a tree lay over it, cutting
with its dark, rough outline the path of quivering silver which the
moonbeams had thrown across the waters. Here must have been the scene
of the fearful catastrophe which Marco had related.
Horace shuddered at the sight of those dark, rapid waters in which a
fellow-creature so lately had perished. He had now, however, no time
for reflecting on the untimely fate of the wretched Enrico. Remembering
the directions of Raphael, Horace was about to track the upward course
of the stream, when he was startled by a faint cry, as of a human
voice, which mingled with the rushing noise of the cataract. Horace
was not of a superstitious nature; but it is no marvel that, when his
nerves were quivering from the tension required for a great effort—at
that hour of night—in that desolate place—on the very spot where he
believed that, but a few hours before, a miserable man had been swept
into eternity— that cry should seem to curdle the blood in his veins.
Again it rose, more distinct than before; and now superstition—if such
a feeling had for a moment arisen—gave place to one more worthy. Horace
was many yards from the head of the cataract, though he could see its
spray white in the moonlight; the way to it was very thickly overgrown
with brushwood, through which mortal foot had never yet made its way.
He held a short debate in his mind as to the course which he ought to
pursue; whether he should seek his own safety by going to the right,
or whether he should force a difficult passage to the top of the fall,
in hopes of giving aid to some fellow-creature in distress. Was it not
possible that Enrico, saved by some incomprehensible miracle, might be
there in a position of peril from which he had no power to extricate
himself? Might not Horace give aid to the brother of Raphael? That last
thought destroyed every doubt, every selfish calculation of personal
risk. Horace only considered how he might reach the place, and though
not yet daring to answer the cry, he began with all the activity and
energy on which he once had prided himself, to make his way to the edge
of the cascata.
When the English youth had accomplished his object, how wondrous was
the scene which presented itself to his view as he bent forward to
gaze down the cascade. The body of water was not large, but the depth
of the fall was very great, and one sheet of white foam overspread the
stream which plunged seething, hissing, roaring—down—down—down—till it
was lost in the cloud of spray which, hundreds of feet below, veiled
the bottom of the cataract. Exquisite was the beauty of the fall,
especially as now seen by the misty, silvery light of the moon, which
gave a ghastly grandeur to the wild, bold, wooded rocks, which the
cataract seemed to be cleaving asunder like an archangel's glittering
sword. But the eye of Horace was riveted on one dark object in the
midst of the foam, not many feet below the summit. At the first glance,
he deemed that it might be a fragment of rock that had endured for ages
the dash and fret of the restless waters; but no; it moved—it clung—a
human being, suspended as it seemed by miracle, was living—breathing in
the very heart of the dizzying roar and rush!
"How can I help you?" shouted out Horace, forgetful of everything but
the frightful situation of Enrico.
"A rope—quick—my strength is giving way!" Hollow and strange came the
scarcely articulate sounds.
Horace struck his brow with his hand. "What can I do? Oh, what can I
do? A rope were worth the ransom of a king!"
"I can't hold out long; the rush will bear me down." The voice was
fainter than before.
Horace drew Raphael's mantle from his shoulders; he tore from it strip
after strip; he could think of no other means of saving the perishing
man. With fingers which trembled with nervous haste, he proceeded to
tie together these unmanageable substitutes for a rope. Tightly, he
knotted them, and tried each knot; for the awful consequences, were a
single one to give way, were too terrible to think of. His movements
were quickened by the horrible dread that he would see Enrico,
exhausted and despairing, whirled down to certain death at the very
moment when deliverance appeared at hand.
"Haste, or I'm lost!" cried the voice from the fall.
Horace was engaged in fastening one end of his improvised rope round
a tree which bent over the cataract. The stem was so slender that he
almost feared lest its roots should give way with the strain which
would be upon it, but there was no other tree sufficiently close to the
edge to serve his purpose.
"Now!" exclaimed Horace, as he flung the thick knotted rope towards the
spot where the indistinctly seen form of Enrico broke the long line of
foam.
At that moment a cloud passed over the moon, which had till then been
shining in untroubled brightness.
"Where is it? I can't find it!" cried Enrico, in a tone of anguish.
Horace's interest rose to agony. He had done all that he could do—he
had strained every nerve—he had now nothing left but the means of
prayer. Fervently he prayed for light—light on the fearful, the fatal
darkness. Like a film the cloud rolled away; he looked down—almost
fearing to look—Enrico was still clinging below.
"I see it, but I can't reach it!" shrieked the miserable man; the dark
line of the rope lay on the foam just beyond his outstretched hand.
Horace was almost in despair; he had no power to throw it nearer; the
current of the waters was gradually drawing the life-rope further away
from their victim.
"Make a spring at it!" exclaimed Horace, and shuddered at his own
words, lest Enrico should obey, miss the rope, and be dashed to pieces
down the fall.
"He has done it! Oh, merciful Heaven!" gasped the youth, almost
faint with extreme excitement. "Hold on, hold on for your life!"
And with a strength beyond his years—a strength which seemed to be
superhuman—Horace, throwing his whole weight on the upper end of the
rope, drew it hand over hand towards him. He was in momentary dread of
feeling it suddenly become light from the yielding of a knot, or from
the numbed hands below giving up their desperate grasp; he was not
without an undefined sense of terror lest he should be overbalanced
himself, and instead of saving Enrico, be dashed with him over
the abyss. Not even when Horace had passed Marco in safety had he
experienced a feeling of relief so intense as when Enrico's dripping
head appeared above the fall, and, a moment after, with a tremendous
effort, he swung himself on the bank.
"Thank God! Oh, thank God!" exclaimed Horace.
Enrico lay motionless, senseless. His failing powers had been
concentrated on that one effort, and he swooned as soon as it had been
made.
Horace did all that he could to fan the flickering spark of life. He
first dragged Enrico a few paces from the edge; for in that moment of
dizzy horror, he could not disconnect nearness to the Cascata della
Morte from the idea of danger; he longed to get beyond hearing of
its roar. He then removed part of the clothes of the half-drowned
man, which were torn, saturated, and dripping with water. He chafed
Enrico's limbs, breathed on his lips, tried to impart warmth to the
bruised and benumbed frame. He wrung the water from the long black hair
which hung in tangled strands over the ghastly face, which even in its
senselessness retained a look of distress which told of the agony of
the late struggle for life.
While Horace is thus engaged, I will relate how Enrico had come
into the strange and fearful position from which he had been thus
wonderfully rescued.
Slipping on the rough tree-bridge and losing his balance, Enrico had
fallen into the stream, struggling in vain with the current, and
had been (as Marco had described), borne onward to the edge of the
cataract. In vain had he attempted to catch at the reeds of grasses
near, in vain he had shrieked for help. He had been whirled on, and
then over in that awful plunge which involved almost inevitable
destruction!
From the centre of the rock wall that backed the cataract, and not
very far from the summit, jutted out small fragment of crag, round and
over which the furious waters had for centuries dashed, bearing away
articles of the solid stone by ceaseless wear, yet leaving a tooth-like
projection, only visible when the flood was not full, though its
opposition always whirled the spray in wider circles from that spot.
On this projection the unfortunate Enrico was dashed, stunned, and
bruised. Caught by his clothes, he had been suspended for some minutes
in an almost unconscious state, unable even to utter a cry. He revived,
indeed, but only to become aware of the full horrors of his situation.
His eyes being, from his position, turned below, he beheld the awful
depth down which he expected every moment to be hurled, as the fierce
hissing waters, with unceasing flow, seemed like merciless enemies
determined to tear him down, to wrench him away from the one little
point of refuge afforded by the projecting crag to which he now wildly
clung.
Enrico's soul sickened, his brain reeled; the din of the torrent
rushing, rolling, roaring—above, below—almost maddened the wretched
man! A strange idea possessed his mind, that it was Raphael's prayer
which suspended him now, as it were, by a hair above the gulf, of
not only temporal but eternal destruction. If Raphael should cease,
even for a moment, to pray, the half-frenzied Enrico believed that
the waters would have their wild will, and bear him crashing down to
perdition, swathed in the white shroud of their foam!
Thus passed the fearful time till brief twilight deepened into night.
Still Enrico clung to his crag, its shape enabling him so to support
his person that its weight did not rest on his hands, though all their
strength was needed to enable him to resist the constant pressure of
the furious waters. He was contending with a foe that could never grow
weary. Often Enrico cried aloud for help, with a bitter consciousness
of the improbability that such cry would reach a human ear, since he
had never yet known any one come to the top of the cliff, less from the
difficulty of reaching it, than from a superstition which clothed the
Cascata della Morte with supernatural terrors. The forest path, indeed,
was not far distant, but it was lonely and wild, and never trodden
save by members of the band. It seemed to Enrico as if the din which
perpetually roared in his ears completely drowned the sound of his
voice. He could hardly hear it himself; how could it reach a distant
ear?
The robber had become calmer, though not less wretched. His mind
now reverted to the past. Each event of his life—every error—every
sin—seemed to rise up before him distinct as the white spray in the
moonlight, hissed in his ears with the roar of the fall. Had not his
position for years been imaged by his position now? Carried away by his
passions as by the flood, hurled over the brink of crime in full rapid
career towards endless ruin, yet caught—suspended—restrained—as it
were, by the prayers, entreaties, example, of one who remained amid the
whirl, the rack, and the rush, yet unshaken and firm as the crag.
In that hour of extremest peril, the sinner's cry arose to his God.
Raphael had spoken of mercy; might not that mercy be extended even unto
him, not perhaps to save him from impending death, but from the more
fearful death of the soul? Words that his brother had read from the
Scriptures flashed back on the mind of Enrico:
"'He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God
by Him.'"
The drowning soul clung to that truth, even as the numbed hands clung
to the rock. Enrico knew the utter impossibility now of saving himself;
he felt that he deserved no mercy from an offended God; but there was
One who could save "to the uttermost," One who had died to save, One
who could draw him yet out of the horrible pit, and set his feet on a
rock, and order his goings.
While thus hanging, as it were, between earth and heaven, Enrico heard
the call of Horace. He doubted not for a moment that the Almighty
had sent his brother to his aid. When the rope of knotted strips was
thrown down the cascade, it seemed to the poor penitent as an emblem of
heavenly hope. Then sudden darkness hid it from his view, and in vain
his hand groped in the chill waters to find it. The gloom of despair
seemed to settle on his soul. The cloud rolled away, and the straining
eyes of Enrico beheld the rope once again. He sought to grasp it, and
failed.
Was it that mercy, even the mercy held out to all contrite sinners, was
not to be reached by him—that he who for so long had tried the patience
of a long-suffering God, was to perish at last even in sight of the
means of salvation?
"Raphael is praying, and I will hope," thought the struggling sufferer;
and when Horace shouted down the direction to spring. "Raphael bids me,
I obey," was the reflection which nerved him for the one desperate leap
upon which he staked his existence.
Even when the rope was grasped, so great was the sufferer's exhaustion,
so benumbed and stiffened were his fingers by the drenching of the
flood, that he could scarcely retain his hold. Yet it was as though
an angel whispered as he was dragged upwards through the dash and the
foam, "Hold fast—hold fast the hope set before you!" It was not merely
the action of a drowning man grasping a cord, but of a perishing soul
clinging to its last hope of grace.
As soon as the fearful effort was crowned with success, exhausted
nature gave way. In a stupor which must have had fatal consequences had
it overwhelmed him two minutes earlier, Enrico lay with his dripping
head supported on the knee of Horace Cleveland. The stupor continued
for some time. At length the pale lips parted and sounds came forth.
Horace bent down to listen, and caught the words,—
"Oh, Raphael, I knew it was your prayer!"
Then the large black eyes suddenly opened. They rested not on Horace,
but looked wildly around, as if seeking some other face; and half
raising himself on his arm, Enrico exclaimed:
"Where is he—where is my brother?"
Horace did not answer, for at that instant his attention was arrested
by the sound of a distant report. He sprang to his feet—there came
another—another—then the rattling sound of a volley, all in the
direction of the high road.
"Ha!" exclaimed Horace Cleveland, "The hunters lay in wait for a deer,
but they seem to have fallen in with a lion."
Then, for the first time, Enrico recognized his deliverer. "The
prisoner, and free!" he exclaimed in accents of alarm.
"Ay, free—free as the air, and not likely to be soon in bondage again,
if that sound of musketry, as I believe, tells that soldiers are at
hand."
Enrico struggled to his feet, passed his hand across his brow, and
listened with a look of bewilderment and fear.
"Enrico, you also are free—free from worse bondage than mine. Remember
that the robbers will deem your life forfeited. Surrender yourself up
to justice, and I pledge my honor that every effort shall be made to
secure your safety and your pardon."
"Pardon!" Enrico repeated the word, clasped his hands and looked
upwards;—he was not thinking of the pardon of man.