These was at least relief in being left alone. The captive artist felt
it so much, that his gaolers had scarcely drawn the key from out the
lock, when he stretched himself along the floor and fell fast asleep.
Some fern-leaves strewn over the stones served him for a couch, though
he was too tired to care much for this.
He did not wake until sunlight, shooting in through the window, fell
slanting upon his face. Then he rose to his feet, and took a survey of
his chamber. A glance convinced him that he was inside the cell of a
prison; for whatever may have been the original design of the room, its
adaptability to this purpose was at once apparent. The window was high
above the level of the floor, and so narrow that a cat could barely have
passed through it. Besides, there was a strong bar set vertically into
the sill, that rendered egress absolutely impossible. The door was
alike forbidding; and ten minutes' contemplation of the place told the
prisoner there was no chance of escape--save in the corruptibility of
his gaolers.
To Henry Harding there was no hope of this, and he did not even think of
it. He saw no alternative but to wait the development of events.
He was hungry, and would have eaten anything. He listened, in hopes of
hearing a footstep--the tread of a brigand bringing him his breakfast.
He could hear a step; but it was that of the sentry outside his door.
It came and went, and came and went again, but no sound of drawing bolt,
or key turning in the lock. An hour was passed in this hungry
uncertainty, and then the tread of the sentry became commingled with
other footsteps. A short parley outside, the key was inserted, the bolt
clicked back, and the door stood open.
"Good mornin', Muster Hardin'. I hope ye ha' passed a pleasant night
o't. Compliments o' Captin, an' wants ye to come an' see him."
Without further speech Doggy Dick seized the prisoner by the collar.
Then, with a spiteful shake, such as might have been given by an irate
policeman, dragged him out out of the cell, and on toward the quarters
of the bandit chief. As a matter of course, these were in the best
house of the place; but the young artist was not prepared to witness
such splendour inside. Not only was the furniture well made, but there
were articles of _luxe_ in abundance--plate, pictures, looking-glasses,
clocks, girandoles, epergnes, and the like, not very artistically
arranged, but plenteous everywhere. It was a somewhat grotesque
admixture of the ancient and modern, such as may be seen in a
curiosity-shop, or the chambers of a London money-lender.
In the apartment to which the prisoner was introduced, there were two
individuals seated amidst the glittering confusion. One was the brigand
chief, whose name he now knew for the first time to be "Corvino." He
knew it from hearing him so addressed by the other occupant of the
chamber, who was a woman, and who in her turn was called by the chief
"Cara Popetta"--the "Cara" being merely a prefix of endearment.
Corvino, the chief, has been already delineated. Popetta, as being his
spouse, also deserves a word. She was a large woman, nearly as tall as
Corvino himself, and quite as picturesquely attired. Her dress was
glittering with beads and bugles; and with her dark, almost
chestnut-coloured skin and crow-black hair, she would have passed muster
among the belles of an Indian encampment. She had once been beautiful,
and her teeth were still so, when displayed in a smile; otherwise, they
resembled the incisors of a tigress preparing to spring upon her prey.
The beauty that had once shone in her countenance might still to some
extent have remained--for Cara Popetta was scarce turned thirty--but for
a scar of cadaverous hue, that traversed the left cheek. This turned
what was once a fair face into one disfigured, even to ugliness. And if
her eyes spoke truth, many a cicatrice had equally deformed her soul,
for as she sat eyeing the prisoner on his entrance, there was that in
her aspect that might have caused him to quail.
Just then he had no opportunity for scanning her very minutely. On the
instant of his stepping inside the room he was accosted by the chief,
and commanded in a hard tone to take a seat by the table.
"I need not ask you if you can write, signor _artista_," said the
bandit, pointing to the "materials" upon the table. "Such a skilled
hand as you with the pencil cannot fail to be an adopt with the pen.
Take hold of one of these, and set down what I indite--translating it,
as I know you can, into your native tongue. Here is a sheet of paper
that will serve for the purpose."
As he said this, the brigand stretched forth his hand, and pointed to
some letter-paper already spread out upon the table.
The prisoner took up the pen, without having the least idea of what was
to be the subject of his first essay at secretaryship. Apparently it
was to be a letter, but to whom was it to be written? He was not long
kept in ignorance.
"The address first," commanded the brigand.
"To whom?" asked the young Englishman making ready to write.
"_Al Signor Generale Harding_!" dictated the bandit.
"To General Harding!" translated Henry, dropping the pen and starting up
from his seat. "My father! What know you of him?"
"Enough, signor _pittore_, for my purpose. Sit down again, and write
what I dictate. That is all I want of you."
Thus commanded, the artist resumed his seat; and once more taking up the
pen, wrote the address thus dictated. As he did so, he thought of the
last time he had penned the same words, when directing that angry letter
from the roadside inn near to his father's park. He had no time to give
way to reminiscences, for the bandit exhibited great impatience to have
the letter completed.
"_Padre caro_!" was the next phrase that required translation.
Again the secretary hesitated. Again went his memory back to the
writing from the English inn, where he had commenced that letter without
the prefix "Dear." Was he now to use it at the dictation of a brigand?
The command was peremptory. The bandit, chafing at the delay, repeated
it with a menace. His captive could only obey, and down went the words
"Dear Father."
"And now," said Corvino, "continue your translation; don't stop again.
Another interruption may cost you your ears."
This was said in a tone that told the speaker was in earnest. Of
course, in the face of such a terrible alternative, the young artist
could do no less than continue the writing of the letter to its end.
When translated into his own tongue, it ran as follows:--
"Dear Father,--
"This is to inform you that I am a prisoner in the mountains of Italy,
about forty miles from the city of Rome, and upon the borders of the
Neapolitan territory. My captors are stern men, and, if I be not
ransomed, will kill me. They only wait till I can hear from you; and
for this purpose they send a messenger to you, _upon whose safety
while in England my life will depend_. If you should cause him to be
arrested, or otherwise hindered from returning here, they will
retaliate upon me by a torture too horrible to think of. As the
amount of my ransom, they demand thirty thousand scudi--about five
thousand pounds. If the bearer bring this sum back with him in gold--
a circular note on the Bank of Rome will do--they promise me my
liberty; and I know they will keep their promise, for these men,
although forced to become bandits by cruel persecution on the part of
their government, have true principles of honesty and honour. If the
money be not sent, then, dearest father, I can say with sad certainty,
that you will never more see your son."
"Now sign your name to it," said the brigand, as the writing was
completed.
Henry Harding once more started from his chair, and stood irresolute,
still holding the pen in his hand. He had written the letter as
dictated, and, while occupied in translating it into his native tongue,
he had given but little heed to its true signification. But now he was
called upon to append his name to this piteous appeal to his father.
With the remembrance still vivid in his mind of the defiant epistle he
had last penned to him, he felt something more than reluctance--he felt
shame, and almost a determination to refuse.
"Sign your name!" commanded the brigand, half rising from his seat.
"Sign it, I say!"
The young Englishman still hesitated.
"Lay down the pen again, without putting your _firma_ to that letter,
and, by the Holy Virgin, before the ink become dry, your blood will
redden the floor at your feet. _Cospetto_! to be crossed by a poor
devil of a _pittore_--a cur of an _Inglese_!"
"O signor," interposed the brigand's wife, who up to that moment had not
spoken a word, "do as he bids you, _buono cavaliere_! It is only his
way with every one who strays here from the great city. Sign it _caro_,
and all will be well. You will be free again, and can return to your
friends."
While delivering this appeal, Popetta had risen up from her chair, and
laid her hand upon the Englishman's shoulder. The tone in which she
spoke, with a certain expression detectable in her fiery eyes, did not
seem altogether to please her _sposo_, who, rushing round the table,
seized hold of the woman and swung her to the farthest corner of the
room.
"Stay there!" he shouted, "and don't interfere with what's no concern of
yours."
Then suddenly turning upon his prisoner, and drawing a pistol from his
belt, he once more vociferated, "Sign!"
The obstinacy that would have resisted such an appeal could be only true
foolhardiness--a reckless indifference to life. There could be no
mistaking the intent of the robber, for the click of his cocked pistol
sounded sharp in the captive's ear. For an instant the young
Englishman, whose hands were for the time untied, thought of flinging
himself upon his fierce antagonist and trying the chances of a struggle.
But then outside there was Doggy Dick, with a score of others, ready to
shoot him down in his first effort to escape. It was sheer madness to
think of it. There was no alternative but to sign--at least none except
dying upon the spot. The young artist was not inclined for this; and,
stooping over the table, he added to what he had already written, the
name "Henry Harding."
Doggy Dick, styled "Signor Ricardo," was called in and asked if he could
read.
"I beant much o' a scholard," replied the renegade, "but I dar' say I
can make out that bit o' scribble."
The letter was slowly spelt over and pronounced "All right." It was
then enveloped and directed, Doggy Dick giving the correct address.
After which, the next duty this Amphitryon was called upon to perform
was the retying of his captive, and transporting him back to his cell.
That same night the epistle, that had come so near costing Henry Harding
his life, was despatched by the peasant messenger to Rome, thence to be
forwarded by a postman of a different character and kind.