Several days had elapsed without any change either in the prisoner's
prospects or situation. He had come to the conclusion that his capture
was no longer a farce, nor his imprisonment likely soon to terminate.
The stories of brigand life he had heard told during his short sojourn
in Rome, and which like others of his incredulous countrymen he had been
loth to believe, were no longer doubted. He was himself a sad example
of their reality, and could almost feet angry at his friend Luigi for
having given him that letter of introduction, which had introduced him
to such a pitiful dilemma. It was still upon his person; for, beyond
robbing him of his slender purse and other metallic movables, the
brigands had left everything untouched.
By way of passing the time, he took the letter out and re-read it. One
paragraph, which he had scarcely noticed before, now particularly
impressed him. "I suppose my sister Lucetta will by this time be a big
girl. Take good care of her till I come back, when I hope I shall be
able to carry all of you out of that danger we dreaded."
When Henry Harding first read these words on his way to Rome--for the
letter of introduction was an open one--he thought nothing of their
signification. He supposed it could only refer to the straitened
circumstances of his family which the young artist expected at some time
to relieve, by the proceeds of his successful pencil. Besides, Belle
Mainwaring was too much in his mind to leave room for more than a
passing thought of anything else, even for the little sister of Luigi,
big as she might be at the writing of the letter--since still unknown.
Now, however, reflecting in his lone cell, with the image of that fair
face first seen on the day of his captivity, and since constantly
recurring to his thoughts, he began to shape out a different
interpretation to the ambiguous phrase. What if the danger spoken of
was less of poverty than peril--such, in short, as appeared to threaten
that young girl, the daughter of the village _sindico_? To reflect even
upon this gave the captive pain. How much more would he have been
pained to think that the sister of his dear friend, Luigi Torreani was
in like peril.
Sunset, declaring itself by the increasing gloom of his cell, caused him
to refold the letter, and return it to his pocket. He was still
pondering upon its contents, when voices outside the window attracted
his attention. He listened--anything to vary the monotony of his prison
life--even the idle talk of a brace of bandits; for it was two of these
who were speaking outside. In less than ten seconds after he was
listening with all his ears; for in the midst of their conversation he
fancied he heard a name that was known to him.
He had just been thinking of Luigi Torreani. This was not the name that
passed from the lips of the bandit; but one of like signification--
Lucetta. He knew it was the name of Luigi's sister, of which he had
just been reminded by the letter.
Henry Harding had often heard his friend speak of this sister--his only
one. It was not strange, therefore, he should listen with quickened
attention; and so did he, grasping the solitary bar of his window, and
placing his ear close up to the sill. True there might be scores of
Lucettas in that part of the country; but, for all this, he could not
help listening with eager interest.
"She'll be our next _riscatta_," said the brigand who had pronounced the
name; "you may make up your mind to that."
"_E por che_?" inquired the other. "The old _sindico_, with all his
proud name and his syndicate to boot, hasn't enough to pay ransom for a
rat. What would be the object of such a capture?"
"Object! Ah, that concerns the capo, not us. All I know is that the
girl has taken his fancy. I saw it as we passed through the town the
other night. I believe he'd have then carried her off, only for fear of
Popetta. She's a she-devil, is the signora; and, though generally she
takes kindly to her kicks and puffings, she wouldn't if there was a
woman in the case. Don't you remember when we had the dancing-bout down
in the valley of Main? What a row there was between our captain and his
_cara sposa_!"
"I remember. What was it all about? I never heard?"
"About a bit of kissing. Our capo was inclined upon a girl; that
coquettish little devil, the daughter of the old charcoal-burner Poli.
The girl seemed kindly. He had slipped a charm round her neck, and I
believe had kissed her. Whether he did that or no, I won't be certain,
but the charm was seen and recognised by the signora. She plucked it
from the girl's neck; as she did so almost dragging her off her feet.
Then came the scene with the _capo_."
"She drew a stiletto upon him, did she not?"
"Ay, and would have used it, too, if he had not made some excuse, and
turned the thing into a laugh. That pacified her. What a fury she was
while the fit was on her. _Cospetto_! Her eyes glittered like hot lava
from Vesuvius."
"The girl stole away, I think?"
"That did she, and a good thing for her she did; though if she had
stayed I don't think Corvino would have dared look at her again that
night. I never saw him cowed before. He lost both his sweetheart and
his gold charm; for his Cara Popetta appropriated that to herself, and
wears it regularly whenever he holds festa among the peasant girls, by
way of reminder, I suppose."
"Did the captain ever see Poli's daughter again?"
"Well, some of us think he did. But you remember, after you left us we
moved away from that part of the country? The soldiers became too
troublesome about there, and there was a whisper that the signora had
something to do with making the place too hot for us. After all, I
don't think Corvino cared for the _carbonero's_ daughter. It was only a
short-lived fancy, because the girl showed sweet upon him. This of the
sindico's chicken is a very different affair; for I know he's fond of
going in that direction, and shouldn't wonder if we get into danger by
it. Danger or no danger, he'll have her sooner or later, take my word
for it."
"I don't wonder at his fancy; she a sweet-looking girl. One likes her
all the better for being so proud upon it."
"Her pride will have a fall, once Corvino gets her in his clutches.
He's just the man to tame such shy damsels as she."
"_Povera_! it is a pity, too."
"Bah, you're a fool, Thomasso. Your sojourn in the Pope's prison has
spoilt you for our life, I fear. What are we poor fellows to do, if we
don't have a sweetheart now and then? Chased liked wolves, why
shouldn't we take a slice of lamb when we can get it? Who can blame the
_capo_ for liking a little bit of tender chick? And such a sweet bit as
Lucetta Torreani."
Henry Harding, who had been all this time listening with disgust to the
dialogue between the two brigands, felt as if a huge stone had struck
him. The presentment that had just commenced shaping itself in his mind
appeared all at once to be circumstantially confirmed. The young girl
spoken of was Lucetta Torreani. It could be no other than the sister of
Luigi, whom he had seen standing in the balcony at Val di Orno, and who
so often since had been occupying his thoughts.
It was a singular collocation or coincidence of circumstances, and
painful as singular. Under the blow, he relaxed his hold of the bar,
and staggering back, sank down upon the floor of his cell.