At daybreak the brigands were upon the march. The town where they had
spent the night was not one of their safe places. They might halt there
for a day, or a night, and refresh or amuse themselves; but a prolonged
stay in it might subject them to a surprise by the Papal troops, when
these chanced to be on the alert. This was only upon occasions when
some unusual outrage committed by the bandits called the troops forth to
make a _feint_ at chastising them.
Something of the kind was just then reported upon the _tapis_. He who
had gone to rifle the chest of the poor artist had brought back word of
it. Hence their quick decampment.
When the villagers made their appearance upon the street, they could
congratulate one another on a happy riddance of their ruffian guests;
though there were some among them to whom this would be no
satisfaction--the keepers of the wine-shops for example. To them
robbers' gold was as good as any other.
The band proceeded through the hills, evidently making homeward. They
were already laden with booty, captured before they had fallen in with
the artist. It was, in fact, the report of this foray that was tempting
the troops to pursue them.
They had no prisoners--only plunder, in the shape of plate, jewellery,
trinkets, and other light personal effects. The _villa di campagna_ of
some old Roman noble had been the scene of their late raid, and they
were carrying the spoils to their den.
That this was in some secluded part of the country was evident from the
road taken to reach it. Now it was a rough causeway traversing a ridge;
anon a mere _scorzo_, or cattle-track, zigzagging through the hills, or
following the bed of a rivulet.
Long before reaching the end of their journey, the captive was fatigued
and footsore. His shoes, none of the strongest, had yielded to the
abrasion of the sharp stones; while the long tramp of the preceding day,
with a half sleepless night on the street pavement, to say nothing of
the beating the brutes had given him, had but ill prepared him for such
an irksome march. His hands, too, were tied behind his back; and this,
spoiling his balance, made progress still more difficult and
disagreeable. The terrible depression of his spirits also detracted
from his strength.
He had good reason for being dispirited. The rigorous watch, kept upon
him all along the route, told him that he was not going to be easily let
off. Already the brigands had broken faith with him; for he knew that
the courier had come back, and of course brought back the scudi along
with him.
Once only had he an opportunity of talking to the chief, just before
starting away from the village. He reminded him of his promise.
"You have released me," cried the ruffian, with a savage oath.
"In what way?" innocently asked the young Englishman.
"_Hola_! how simple you are, _Signor Inglese_! You forget the blow you
gave to one of my band."
"The renegade deserved it."
"I shall be judge of that. By our laws your life is forfeit. With us
it is blow for blow."
"In that case I should be absolved. Your fellows gave me twenty for
one--good measure, as I can tell by my aching ribs."
"Bah!" contemptuously rejoined the bandit, "be satisfied that it is no
worse with you. Thank the Virgin you're still alive; or perhaps you may
come nearer the mark by thanking that scar upon your little finger."
The look with which these last words were accompanied spoke of some
secret meaning. The captive could not tell what it was; but it gave him
food for reflection that lasted him for some time after. Taken in
connection with the close watch kept upon him, he could forbode no good
from it. On the contrary, there was evil in the innuendo, though of
what sort it was beyond his intelligence to discover.
On the second day from their leaving the town, the march continued on
through a mountainous country, most of it covered with forest. The
track was rougher and more difficult to travel--at times ascending
slopes almost precipitous, at others winding through clefts of rock so
narrow as only to admit the passage of one at a time.
Both brigands and captive suffered from thirst; which they were at
length enabled to quench with the snow found upon the colder exposure of
the ridges.
Just before sunset a halt was made, and one of the bandits was sent
forward as a scout. A mountain summit, shaped like a truncated cone,
was seen a short distance in front, and towards this the path appeared
tending.
About twenty minutes after the scout had disappeared from view, the howl
of a wolf came back from the direction in which he had gone, while
another similar cry was heard still farther off. Following this, there
was the bleating of a goat; on hearing which the brigands once more
resumed their march.
Bounding an angle of rock, the face of the conical hill was seen from
base to top, scarred by a deep ravine that led to its summit. Up this
lay the path, until the highest point was reached; then a strange
picture lay spread before the eye of the captive. He was looking down
into a cup-like hollow, nearly circular in shape, with sloping sides,
covered with a thin growth of timber, in places packed into groves. At
the bottom there was a pond of water, and not far from its edge, through
the trees, some patches of grey wall, with smoke rising above, declared
the presence of human habitation. It was the rendezvous of the bandits,
which they reached just before the going down of the sun.
Their home, then, was no cave, no mere lair, but something that more
resembled a hamlet or village. Two or three of the houses were
substantial structures of stone; the rest were simple _pagliatti_, or
straw huts, such as are common in the remote mountain districts of the
Italian peninsula. A forest of beech trees overshadowed the group,
while the ridges around were covered with a thick growth of ilex and
pine. A deep, dark tarn glistened in the centre, looking like some
long-extinct crater, that acted as a reservoir for the rain and melted
snow from the surrounding slope.
The stone houses could never have been built by the bandits. The straw
cabins may have been erected to afford them additional accommodation;
but the more substantial dwellings told of times long gone by, before
the enervating influence of a despotic government had brought decay upon
the territory of Italia. Some miner, perhaps, who extracted ore from
the neighbouring mountains, had found here a convenient smelting-place
in proximity to the tarn.
Around, the land sloped up into a circular ridge--a sort of
amphitheatre, with apparently two passes leading outward--one to the
north, the other to the south. By both of these passes was a peak that
rose bald and herbless above the fringe of the forest, and on each of
these, close to the extreme summit, could be seen the figure of a man,
visible only from the valley below. They were the bandits' pickets upon
their post. Now and then, as they changed attitude, their accoutrements
and carbine-barrels could be seen glancing in the golden sunset.
The young Englishman noted all this as he stood in the open piazza of
the robber quarters. It recalled the song of the famed Fra Diavolo, and
a night at Her Majesty's Theatre--his box shared by Belle Mainwaring.
He was not long allowed to indulge in such reminiscences--at least in
the open air. Acting under orders from the chief, two of his captors
conducted him into a dark chamber in one of the stone houses; and,
giving him a push that almost sent him face forward upon the floor,
closed the door behind him.
There was the harsh grating of a bolt, and then all was silence. For
the first time in his life, Henry Harding felt the sensation of being
inside a prison!