If he who had surprised the painter at his task did not present the
exact classic type of the stage bandit, there was one upon the ground
who did. This man stood a little in advance of the others with that
easy air that betokened authority. There was no mistaking his position.
He was the chief. His dress did not differ, in cut or fashion, so
materially from that of his followers; it was only more costly in the
material. Where their breeches were velveteen, his was of the finest
silk velvet. Besides, there was a glitter about his arms and a sparkle
on the clasp which held the plume in his Calabrian hat that bespoke real
jewellery. His face, moreover, was not of the common cast; it was of
the true Roman type, the nose and chin of exceeding prominence, with a
broad oval jaw-bone indicative of determination. He might have been
deemed handsome but for an expression of ferocity--animal, almost
brutal--that gleamed and sparkled in his coal-black eyes. If not
handsome, he was sufficiently striking, and Henry Harding might have
fancied himself confronted by the renowned Fra Diavolo. Had he stepped
from behind the proscenium of the scenic stage, or come bounding from a
"back flat," the Transpontine spectators would have hailed him as the
hero they had come to the theatre to see.
For some seconds there was silence. The first spokesman had slunk into
the rear of the band; and all stood waiting for the chief to commence
speech or action. The latter stood looking at the young artist,
scanning him from head to foot. The scrutiny seemed to give him no
great pleasure. There was not much booty to be expected in the pockets
of such a threadbare coat; and a grin passed over his dark features as
he pronounced, in a contemptuous tone, the word--
"_Artista_?"
"_Si, Signore_," replied the artist, with as much _sang froid_ as if he
had been answering an ordinary question. "At your service, if you wish
to sit or stand for your portrait."
"Portrait? Bah! What care I for your chalks and ochres, signor
painter? Better if you'd been a pedlar with a good fat pack. That's
the sort of toys for such as we. You're from the _cittada_? What's
brought you up here?"
"My legs," replied the young Englishman, thinking that a bold front
might be best under the circumstances.
"_Cospetto_! I can tell that without asking. Such boots as yours don't
look much like the stirrup. But come, declare yourself. What have you
got in your pockets; a scudi or two, I suppose. How much, signore?"
"Three scudi."
"Hand them over."
"Here they are--you are welcome to them."
The brigand took the three coins, with as much nonchalance as if he had
been receiving them in liquidation for some service rendered.
"This all?" he asked, again surveying the artist from head to foot.
"All I have got upon me."
"But you have more in the _cittada_?"
"A little more."
"How much?"
"About four score scudi."
"_Corpo di Bacco_! a good sum; where is it lying?"
"At my lodgings."
"Your landlord can lay hands upon it?"
"He can by breaking open my box."
"Good! now write out an order giving him authority to break open the box
and send you the money. Some paper, Giovanni. Your ink-horn, Giacomo.
Here, signor _artista_, write."
Seeing that it would be useless to make objection, the artist consented.
"Stay!" cried the brigand, arresting his pen; "you have something
besides money at your lodgings? You Ingleses always carry about a stock
of loose property. I include them in the requisition."
"There is not much to include. Another suit of clothes, but a trifle
better than these you see on my back. A score or two of sketches--
half-finished paintings--which you wouldn't value even if the last touch
had been given them."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the brigand, his comrades joining in the laugh.
"You're a good judge of character, signor _artista_. You can keep your
sketches and your spare suit too, neither of which commodities would be
likely to suit our market. Write, then, for the scudi."
Again the artist was about to use the pen.
"Hold!" once more exclaimed the bandit. "You have friends in the
_cittada_. What a mistake I was making not to think of them! They can
give something towards your ransom."
"I have not a friend in Rome; at least not one who would pay five scudi
to rescue me from a rope."
"Bah! you are jesting, signore."
"I am speaking the simple truth."
"If that be so," said the brigand, who seemed to melt a little at
mention of the rope, "If that be so," he added reflectingly, "then--ah,
we shall see. Hark you, signor painter, if what you say be true, you
may sleep in your own lodgings to-night. If false, you will spend your
night here in the hills, and perhaps minus your ears, you understand
me!"
"I should be dull not to do so."
"_Buono--buono_! And now one word of warning. Let there be no trickery
in what you write--no deception in what you say. The messenger who
carries your letter to the _cittada_ will learn all about you--even to
the quality of your spare suit and the value of your pictures. If you
have friends he will find them out. If not, he will know it. And, by
the Virgin, if it turn out that you are playing with us, your ears shall
answer for it!"
"So be it. I accept the conditions."
"Enough! Write on."
As dictated, the requisition was written. The sheet of paper was
folded, sealed with a piece of pitch, and directed to the landlord of
the lodgings in which the English artist had set up his studio.
A man, in the garb of a peasant of the Campagna, was selected from the
band; and, charged with the strange missive, at once despatched along
the road that led towards the Eternal City.
After kicking down the temporary easel which our artist had erected, and
pitching his slight sketch into the torrent below, the brigands
commenced their march up the mountain--their captive keeping them
company, with no very pleasant anticipation in regard to the treatment
that might be in store for him.