ONE EFFORT MORE.
We will now return to Raphael, who with keen and breathless interest
had watched from the shade of the forest Horace's passage along the
perilous ledge. When Marco's hand had been laid on the shoulder of
the youth, the Rossignol could hardly refrain from springing forward
to the rescue, and scarcely had Horace himself experienced greater
satisfaction than did his friend when that startling danger was past.
When the fugitive had disappeared from his view, Raphael, for the
first time, appeared to have leisure to think of himself. To aid in
the escape of a prisoner was, as he well knew, a crime to be atoned
for only with life. Raphael was young, and notwithstanding the recent
bereavement, which had been like the wrenching away of a heart-string,
life was to Raphael a precious thing, not to be parted with lightly.
As he stood with folded arms under the of the waving boughs, a sense
of the loveliness of nature came on his poet-soul with a soothing,
softening power. He felt loath to leave God's beautiful world. How
divinely fair looked the scene before him, beneath the silvery rays
of the moon! How wooingly breathed the night-breeze upon his feverish
brow! How sweet sounded the nightingale's song, warbled soft through
the stilly air! Hope, even earthly hope, was not dead in that young
bosom; there was still a desire for human love and for human happiness
there. Raphael thought of Horace, blessed with friends, a mother, a
home; not, indeed, with envy, but with the instinctive yearning of a
tender and loving nature for the sympathy of human hearts, of which he
had known so little.
Thus the improvisatore had no intention of awaiting a violent death
with folded hands; he revolved all possible means of escape. From
Matteo's mercy he expected as little as he would have done from that
of a lioness whose cubs had been slaughtered before her eyes. He must
not await the burst of frantic fury of a father bereaved of his son and
balked of his vengeance. Nor could Raphael count upon the protection
of any of the band, though he knew that on some he had the claim of
gratitude. No, he must rely upon the aid of God and his own efforts
alone.
Raphael resolved to wait just long enough to give Horace a fair start,
which might be essential to his safety, and then to follow himself
in the same track as that which his friend had pursued. It was true
that Marco must be passed on the perilous rock—that the bandit had
pistols in his belt, and that his bullet always levelled his victim.
But Raphael deemed it possible that the man would be reluctant to slay
a comrade, alone and unarmed. Marco was savage, ignorant, blinded by
superstition, a fanatic who regarded murder itself as a venial offence
compared with heresy; but he was not so utterly hardened and depraved
as were Matteo and Beppo. The fate of Enrico had seemed somewhat to
move even his rugged nature. At all events, Raphael felt that of two
dangers the lesser one was to be chosen;—better to try the chance of
passing Marco, than to await the return of Matteo and his gang.
After recommending himself to the protection of his heavenly Father,
in submission to the divine will, whatever that will might appoint,
the young Italian quitted the shrouding shade, and with a firm step
advanced towards the sentinel, whose eyes were at that moment, turned
in an opposite direction. Raphael had, as we have seen, divested
himself both of hat and mantle. His face was calm, but very pale;—the
expression that of a man who knows that he is facing death, but who has
nerved himself to face it without flinching. The mass of rich dark hair
thrown back from his high, pale forehead, fell almost to his shoulders,
damp with the dews of night.
Marco was repeating an Ave for the soul of the miserable Enrico, when,
chancing to turn round, he suddenly beheld the tall figure approaching
him in the moonlight, bareheaded, in its spirit-like stillness and
calmness, with the gaze of its large, thoughtful eyes riveted on his
own. It came along the path by which, not an hour before, he believed
that Raphael had passed. The Rossignol marveled to see the fear which
he was wrestling down in his own heart suddenly transferred to the man
before him. Marco's eyes dilated, his lips parted, his very hair seemed
to rise from his head; he crossed himself with a trembling hand, moved
backwards step by step as Raphael Goldoni drew nearer, but staring at
him still, like the hare fascinated by the gaze of the serpent. At last
with a cry, "'E il suo spirito!" ("It is his ghost!") The strong man
actually turned and fled, overpowered by superstitious terrors.
Then Raphael knew the cause of that before inexplicable alarm which
his presence had inspired, and with thankfulness for the path thus
cleared for him which he could never have reckoned, came a bitter pang
of remembrance, as he thought on his brother, loved and lost! There
appeared to be as little cause to doubt the death of Enrico as there
would have been had he been dashed over the Falls of Niagara; no human
foresight could have calculated upon the singular accident to which he
owed his almost miraculous preservation.
Scarcely had the Rossignol entered the wood on the further side of the
pass, with a feeling of deep melancholy as he approached the scene of
his brother's fall, when he was startled, as Horace had been, by the
sound of distant firing. It was evident that Matteo and his ruffian
band had lighted on no despicable foe—that they were engaged in a
desperate struggle with those who would claim blood for blood, and life
for life.
Raphael and Horace little guessed that a timid delicate woman, foiled
in her efforts to save her son in one way, had attempted another, with
the energy given by desperation to maternal love. There had been a
carriage and a lady within it; there had been postilions and outriders;
the appearance of the equipage had been such as to awake cupidity,
but not arouse alarm. But the banditti were soon to find out that the
hands which held bridles were such as had been accustomed to grasp the
sword. The luggage on the carriage consisted of sabres and carbines;
and the travelers within it, save one, were soldiers chosen for courage
and strength. Gold had, indeed, been lavished with unsparing hand by
the almost despairing mother; and now, notwithstanding constitutional
nervousness and delicacy of frame, Mrs. Cleveland risked her own life
amidst clashing steel and flying bullets in order to lure from their
secret fastness, and draw within reach of the arm of justice, those who
in perilous captivity held her only son!
What was the result of the conflict we shall hear in the following
chapter.