You are astonished at the young Englishman taking things so coolly? To
be captured by Italian bandits, famed for their ferocity, is not a
trifling affair. And yet so Henry Harding seemed to consider it.
The explanation is simple, and easily intelligible. At any other period
he might not only have chafed at his captivity, but felt fear for the
consequences. Just then he was suffering from two other sorrows, that
made this seem light--to be scarcely considered at all. His
disinheritance by his father was still fresh in his mind--still bitter;
but far more bitter the rejection by his sweetheart.
Tortured by these cruel memories of the past, he recked less of what
befell him either in the present or the future. There was even a time
when he would have courted such a distraction--during the first few
weeks after his departure from home. Twelve months had since elapsed,
and close application to his art had to some extent consoled him.
Perhaps absence had done more than art--of which he was by no means
passionately fond; for he was not one of the thorough enthusiasts who
prate about the divine inspiration of painters. Chance alone had guided
him to this profession, as the only means he could devise for earning
his daily bread--chance, partly directed by taste, and partly by some
previous study of his school-days. So far it had served his purpose,
and, enabling him to visit Rome, he had there imbibed a certain ambition
to excel in it--enough to soften, though not obliterate, the memory of
his misfortunes. This was still keen enough to make him reckless of
what might turn up; hence his cool demeanour in the presence of the
bandits, at which you may have felt surprise.
Up the mountains they marched him, by one of those execrable roads
common in the Papal States, kept, no doubt, in better condition in the
time of the Caesars than at the present day.
He speculated but little on whither he was being taken. Of course to
some forest lair, some mountain cavern, used as a bandits' den. He was
not without curiosity to see such a place; and perhaps it was passing
through his thoughts, that at some future day he might avail himself of
his present experience to paint a bivouac of brigands from real life.
He was very much surprised when a good-sized village came in sight;
still more so on seeing the bandits march boldly into it; but his
surprise became astonishment when he saw them unsling their carbines,
rest them against the walls of the houses, and make other preparations
denoting their intention to pass the night in the place!
The villagers appeared to have little dread of them. On the contrary,
many of the men joined them in their wine-drinking, while some of the
women rather encouraged than resented their rude sallies. Even the
long-robed priest of the village passed to and fro amongst them,
distributing crosses and benedictions; for all of which the brigands
paid him in coin, that had no doubt been taken from the pockets of some
unfortunate traveller--perhaps one of his own sacred cloth!
It certainly was a scene of sufficient originality to interest the eyes
of a stranger, that stranger an artist; and the young Englishman, as he
gazed upon it, for a time forgot that he was a captive. Of this he was
reminded as night drew near. Hitherto his captors had not even taken
the precaution to tie him. His frank acceptance of the situation, with
his apparent indifference to it, had led the chief to think lightly
about his making an attempt to escape. Besides, it could not much
matter. Before he could reach Rome the sham peasant would have been to
his lodgings and rifled the chest of its contents. The scudi would, at
all events, be safe; and beyond these the brigand had formed no very
sanguine expectations. It was not likely there were rich friends, or
any chance of a ransom. The well-worn wardrobe of the painter spoke
against such an hypothesis.
Rather in obedience to habit and usage, than for any other reason, did
his captors determine to tie him up for the night; and just as the sun
was sinking into the Tyrrhenian sea, two men were seen approaching the
place where he had been left, provided with a rope for this purpose. In
one of these he recognised the man who had first saluted him on the
platform. He had not forgotten the conversation that had passed between
them, nor the tongue in which it had been carried on. That being
English, the bandit himself must be an Englishman, as was also evident
from his bright skin, hay-coloured hair, and broad blank face, so unlike
the sharp-featured, dark-visaged gentry who surrounded him.
Though at first not a little astonished at encountering a countryman in
such a place, and especially in such showy guise, so different from the
dull smock-frock the man had once evidently worn, he had ceased for a
time to think of him. Since their first meeting he had not come in
contact with him. The fellow appeared to be amongst the least
considered of the band, only permitted prominence when called up by his
chief, and since the capture his services had not been required. He was
just such a man as one could hardly see without thinking of rope; and
armed with a coil of this, he now approached to execute the order of the
"captin." So said he as he stopped in front of the prisoner, and
commenced uncoiling the cord.
It was the first time Henry Harding had been threatened with the
degradation of being bound. To an Englishman, these is something
disagreeable in the very idea of it; but to a young gentleman lately the
presumed heir to 50,000 pounds, and who had never known a more irksome
restriction than the statutes of Eton and Oxford, there was something
repulsive in the prospect. At first he indignantly refused to submit to
his wrists being corded, protesting that there was no need for it. He
had no intention of attempting to escape. He would stay with the
brigands till morning, or the morning after that--any time till the
messenger returned. Besides, they had promised him liberty, on
conditions that would be kept on his side, and he hoped on theirs.
His remonstrances were in vain.
"Damn conditions," roughly replied the man occupied in getting ready the
rope; "we know nothin' 'bout them. Our business is to bind ye; them's
the orders of the captin."
And so saying, he proceeded to carry them out.
It looked hopeless enough; but still there might be a chance in an
appeal to the feelings of a countryman. The captive determined on
making trial of it.
"You are an Englishman?" he said in his most conciliatory tone.
"I've beed one," gruffly answered the bandit.
"I hope you still are."
"I'deed, do ye? What matters that to you?"
"I am one myself."
"Who the devil says you ain't? D'ye take me for a fool not to see it in
yer face, and hear it in the cursed lingo that I'd hope never to lissen
to again?"
"Come, my good fellow; it's not often that an Englishman--"
"Stash yer palaver, dang yer! an' don't `good fellow' me! Spread yer
wrists now, an' get 'em ready for the rope. Just because you're English
I'll tie 'em all the tighter--daang me if I don't!"
Perceiving that remonstrance was thrown away upon the renegade ruffian,
and that resistance would only lead to ill-treatment, the young
Englishman extended his hands to be tied. The bandit seized hold of him
by both wrists, and commenced twisting them so as to turn them back to
back. The moment his eyes rested on the left hand--upon the little
finger showing a red longitudinal scar--he dropped both as if they had
been bars of hot iron, at the same time starting backwards with a cry.
It was a cry that betokened recognition, mingled with malignant joy!
The surprise which this occasioned to the captive was followed by
another springing from a different cause. He, too, had effected a
recognition. In the brutal brigand before him, he identified the
ex-gamekeeper, poacher, and murderer--Doggy Dick!
"Ho! ho!" cried the latter, dancing over the ground like one who had
gone frantic from receiving news of some unexpected fortune. "Ho! ho!
You it be, Muster Henry Hardin'! Who would 'a expected to find you here
among the mountains o' Italy i'stead o' the Chiltern Hills, where ye
were so snug an' comfortable! An' wi' such a poor coat upon yer back!
Why, what ha' become o' the old General, an' his big property--the park,
the farms, the woods, the covers, and the pheasants? Ah! the pheasants!
You remember them, don't ye? And so do I too. So do Doggy Dick--
daangd well!"
As the renegade said this, a grin of diabolical significance made itself
perceptible on his otherwise inexpressive features. Henry Harding
perceived it, but made no remark. He knew that words would be of no
use.
"I dar' say Nigel, that sweet half-brother o' yours, has got 'em all--
the park, and the farms, and the woods, and the covers, and the
pheasants. Ah! and I'd take my affedavy o' 't he's got that showy gal--
she you were so sweet upon, Muster Henry. She warn't likely to cotton
to a man wi' such a coat on his back as you have on yourn. Why, it look
like it had come out o' a pawn-shop!"
By this time the blood of the Hardings had got up to boiling point.
Despite his stupidity, Doggy Dick perceived it. He saw that he had gone
too far in his provocation, and regretted having done so, before making
fast the hands of him he had provoked. He would have retreated, but it
was too late. Before he could turn, Henry Harding's left hand was upon
his throat, the scarred finger pressing upon his larynx, and with the
right he received a blow on his skull that felled him to the ground,
like an ox under the stroke of a pole-axe.
In an instant the young Englishman was surrounded by the bandits and
their wine-bibbing associates. Half-a-score flung themselves
simultaneously upon him. He was soon overpowered, bound hand and foot,
and then beaten in his bonds--some of the village damsels clapping their
hands, and by their cries applauding the conquest of brute strength over
injured innocence.