The side conversation between General Harding and his son was at length
suspended by the old soldier facing abruptly towards the stranger, who
all the while had been standing quietly apart.
"You're an impostor, sir!" exclaimed the General. "An impostor, I say!"
"_Molte grazie_, Signor General!" replied the man, without making other
movement than a mock bow. "Rather an uncomplimentary epithet to apply
to one who has come all the way from Italy to do you a service, or
rather your son. Is this all the answer I'm to take back to him?"
"If you take any back to him, that's it," interposed Nigel. "Do you
know, sir," he continued in a threatening manner; "do you know that
you've placed yourself within the power of our laws; that you can be
arrested, and thrown into prison for an attempt to extort money under
false pretences?"
"His excellence, the General, will not have me arrested. First, because
there are no false pretences; and, second, that to do so would be
certainly to seal your son's doom. The moment the news should reach
those who have him in their keeping, that I've been arrested or
otherwise molested here in England, that moment will he be punished far
more than you can punish _me_. You must remember that I am only a
messenger, who have taken upon me the delivery of this letter. I know
nothing of those who sent it, except in the way of my profession, and in
the cause of humanity. I am as much your son's messenger as theirs. I
can only assure you, Signor General, that it is a serious mission; and
that your son's life depends on my safety, and the answer you may
vouchsafe to send back."
"Bah!" exclaimed the old soldier, "don't tell a cock-and-bull tale to an
Englishman. I don't believe a word of it. If I did, I'd take a
different way of delivering my son from such a danger. Our government
would soon interfere on my behalf, and then instead of five thousand
pounds, your beautiful brigands would get what they deserve, and what I
wonder they haven't had long ago--six feet of rope around each of their
necks."
"I fear, Signor General, you are labouring under a false delusion.
Allow me to set you right on this question. Your government can be of
no service to you in this affair, nor all the governments of Europe to
boot. It is not the first time such threats have been used against the
freebooters in question. Neither the Neapolitan Government, in whose
land they live, nor that of his Holiness, upon whose territory they
occasionally intrude, can coerce them, if ever so inclined. There is
but one way to obtain the release of your son--by paying the ransom
demanded for him."
"Begone, wretch!" shouted the General, losing all patience at the
pleading of the _procuratore_. "Begone! out of my house! Off my
premises instantly, or I shall order my servant to drag you to the
horse-pond. Begone, I say!"
"And you would rue it if you did," spitefully rejoined the little
Italian, as he edged off towards the door. "_Buona notte_, Signor
General! Perhaps by the morning you will have recovered your temper,
and think better of my errand. If you have any message to send to your
son--whom it is not very likely you will ever see again--I shall take it
upon myself to transmit it for you, notwithstanding the uncourteous
treatment, of which, as a gentleman, I have the right to complain. I
stay at the neighbouring inn all night, and will not be gone before
twelve o'clock tomorrow. _Buona notte! buona notte_!"
So saying the swarthy little stranger backed out of the room, and,
conducted by the butler, was not very courteously shown into the night.
The General stood still, his beard bristling with passion. For a time
he seemed irresolute, as to whether he should have the stranger
detained, and punished in some summary way. But he thought of the
family scandal, and restrained himself.
"You won't write to Henry?" asked Nigel, in a tone that said, "don't."
"Not a line. If he has got into a scrape for want of money, let him get
out of it again, the best way he can. As to this story about
brigands--"
"Oh, that's too absurd," insinuated Nigel; "the brigands into whose
hands he has fallen are the gamblers and swindlers of Rome. They have
no doubt employed this lawyer, if he be one, to carry out their scheme--
certainly a cunningly-contrived one, whoever originated it."
"Oh, my son! my wretched son!" exclaimed the General; "to think he has
fallen into the hands of such associates! To think he could lend
himself to a conspiracy like this, and against his own father! Oh,
God!"
And the old soldier uttered a groan of agony, as he sank down upon the
sofa.
"Had I not better write to him, father?" asked Nigel. "Just a line to
say how much his conduct is grieving you? Perhaps a word of counsel may
yet reclaim him."
"If you like--if you like--though after such an experience as this I
feel there is little hope of him. Ah, Lucy! Lucy! it is well you are
not here, and that God has taken you to himself. My poor wife! my poor
wife! this would have killed you!"
The apostrophe was spoken in a low, muttered tone, and after Nigel had
left the room--the latter having gone out apparently with the intention
of writing the letter intended to reclaim his erring brother.
It was written that night, and that night reached the hands of the
strange procurator, to whom it was entrusted for delivery; and who, next
day, true to his word, remained at the roadside inn till the hour of
twelve, to receive any further communication. After midday he was seen
driving off in the inn "fly" toward the Slough Station; thence to be
transported by rail and steam to his home in the Seven-hilled City.