There was one who witnessed the scene with a sympathising heart. It is
almost superfluous to say that it was a woman; for no man in that
community would have dared to take side against the brigands. While in
it, these ruffians were complete masters of the place, and out of it
their authority was little less. Their den was not distant, and on any
day they could descend upon the unprotected town, and vent it with the
torch of destruction.
The woman who sympathised with the young Englishman was still only a
girl; and although a daughter of the _sindico_, or chief magistrate, of
the place, she could do nothing to rescue him from his persecutors.
Even the intermittent authority exercised by her father would have been
unavailing; and her sympathy for the stranger only existed in the secret
recesses of her heart.
Standing in a balcony of what appeared the best house in the village,
she presented a picture that may be seen only in a town of the Roman
Campagna--a combination of those antique classic graces which we
associate with the days of Lucretia. Beauty of the most striking type,
innocence of aspect that betokened the most perfect purity, and below, a
street crowded with striding Tarquins!
She looked like a solitary lamb in the midst of a conglomeration of
wolves, feebly shepherded by her father and the village priest--by the
Law and the Church, both on the last legs of a decadent authority.
It was a singular picture to contemplate; nor had it escaped the notice
of the young Englishman.
The girl had been observed in the balcony ever since his arrival; and as
her position was not very far from the place where the brigands had
permitted him to take a seat, he had a fair view of her, and could note
her every action. He could see that she was not accosted like the
commoner maidens of the village; but, for all this, bold glances were
occasionally given to her, and brutal jests uttered within her hearing.
She had looked towards the captive, and he at her, until more than once
their eyes had met; and he fancied that in hers he could read signs of a
sympathetic nature. It may have been but pity for his forlorn
situation, but it was pity that expressed itself in a most pleasing way.
While gazing on that dark Italian girl, he thought of Belle Mainwaring;
but never, during the whole period of his self-exile, had he thought of
her with less pain. As he continued to gaze he felt a strange solace
stealing over his thoughts, and which he could only account for by the
humiliation caused by his captivity--by a sorrow of the present
expelling a sorrow of the past. Something whispered him that the relief
might be more than temporary, he could not tell why. He only knew, or
thought, that if he could be permitted to look long enough into the eyes
of that Roman maiden he might think of Belle Mainwaring with a calmer
spirit--perhaps forget her altogether. In that hour of imprisonment he
was happier than he had been for the past twelve months of free,
unfettered life. From the contemplation of that fair form, posed in the
balcony above him, he had, in one hour, drawn more inspiration than from
all the statues seen in the Eternal City.
One thing interfered with his newly-sprung happiness. He observed that
the girl only looked upon him with glances of stealth; that the moment
their eyes met, hers were quickly withdrawn. This might have gratified
him all the more, but that he had discovered the cause. He saw that she
was under surveillance. Had it been her father who was watching her
there would have been nothing to cause him pain. But it was not. The
eyes that seemed so vigilantly bent upon, her were those of the bandit
chief; who, wine-cup in hand, sat outside the little inn, with his face
constantly turned towards the house of the _sindico_.
The young girl seemed uneasy under his glances, and at length retired
from the balcony. She came out again at the noise caused by the binding
of the captive.
In the midst of the _melee_ Henry Harding had his eyes upon her even
after he was bound and beaten. He bore all this the better from the
glances she gave him. They seemed to say--
"I would spring down into the street and rush to your rescue, but my
doing so might be the sealing of your doom."
So construed he the expression upon her face--a construction that
imparted pleasure, but was also accompanied by a painful reflection.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The shadows of night descended over the town. There were no street
lamps, and the graceful shape in the balcony, gradually blending with
the gloom, became lost to Henry Harding's eyes. The bandits had entered
the inn, where they were joined by the more _bizarre_ of the village
belles. Soon came forth the sound of stringed instruments, the violin
and the mandolin, mingled with the treading and shuffling of feet.
Occasionally loud talking could be heard, along with the clinking of
cups; then came cursing and quarrels, one of which terminated in a
street-fight and the shedding of blood.
All this the young Englishman heard or saw from the place where he had
been left bound--outside the open window of the inn. He was not there
alone. Two bandits stood sentry over him, watching him with a vigilance
in strange contrast with the negligence before displayed. The captive
took note of this change in the behaviour of the brigands towards him.
Still more when the chief, staggering past at a late hour, addressed
some words to the two men who had him in charge. He could hear what was
said. It was in the form of an injunction, terminating in a threat to
the effect, that if he, the prisoner, should not be forthcoming the next
day, they, the sentries, might expect punishment of the severest kind--
in short, they would be shot. So hiccuped out their intoxicated chief,
as he went reeling away in company of one of the flaunting belles who
had taken part in the bandits' ball.
That it was no empty threat made under the influence of drink became
evident to the captive, in the increased vigilance with which he was
tended. As soon as their chief was out of sight, the two sentries made
a fresh examination of his fastenings, re-tightened the cords wherever
they had become loose, and added others for greater security. Skilled
in this peculiar craft by long practice, their prisoner was left but
little chance of releasing himself, had he been ever so much inclined
towards making the attempt.
And now he was, if he had not been before, not only inclined, but
eagerly desirous, of making his escape. The stringent orders of the
chief, with the elaborate precautions taken by the two sentries, had
naturally awakened within him a degree of apprehension. Such pains
would scarce have been taken for the sake of merely keeping him all
night and letting him free in the morning. Moreover, the messenger who
had been sent to the city had already returned. He had seen the man go
into the inn while the dance was in progress, and no doubt he had
delivered his fourscore scudi to the chief. It could not be this that
was waited for to obtain his delivery.
There was to be another chapter added to his imprisonment--perhaps some
cruel torture in store for him. He could easily imagine this after the
incident that had occurred while he was being bound. The knock-down
blow given to Doggy Dick would be looked upon as an insult to the whole
band, and little as that English renegade might be esteemed by his
Italian comrades, he would still have sufficient influence to instigate
them to hostility against their captive. This was the cause to which
Henry Harding ascribed the altered treatment he was receiving, and he
now regretted having given it.
Could he have guessed the true reason he might have spared himself all
self-recrimination. The prolonged imprisonment before him--and such in
reality there was--had for motive a scheme far deeper than the hostility
of Doggy Dick--either on account of the conflict that had occurred
between them, or that of older and earlier date. It was a scheme likely
for a long time not only to keep the captive from being restored to
liberty, but that might deprive him of his life.
Though apprehensive of receiving some severe castigation at the hands of
the brigands, he still did not believe himself to be in any great
danger; and he was hindered from sleeping less by the prospect of
punishment, than the pain caused by the cords too tightly drawn around
his limbs. Despite this, despite his hard couch, which was the stone
pavement of the street, he at length fell asleep; and slept on till the
crowing of the village cocks, aided by a kick from one of the brigand
sentries, aroused him once more to a consciousness of his uncomfortable
situation.