For some time the young Englishman sat, where he had sunk down, in a
state of mind not far removed from bewilderment. His captivity, if
irksome before, was now changed to torture. Of his own misfortunes he
no longer thought, nor cared. His soul was absorbed in contemplating
the perils that beset the sister of his friend--that fair young girl--
that although seen, but for a moment, and then looked upon in the light
of a stranger, had made such an impression upon his heart; and, even
without knowing that she was Luigi's sister, what he had just heard was
of itself sufficient to make him unhappy in her behalf. He knew the
terrible power exercised by these bandits. He had proofs of it in his
own experience. A power all the more dangerous, since to men with lives
already forfeit, there can be no restraint arising from fear of the law.
One crime more could not further compromise them; and to commit such
crime there needed only the motive and opportunity. In this case both
appeared to be present. He had himself seen something of the first, in
the behaviour of the brigands on the night of their bivouac in the
village. Perhaps he might have seen more, but for the presence of
Popetta, who in their late maraud had made one of the band. What he had
now listened to placed the thing beyond doubt. The eyes of Corvino had
turned longingly on the sister of Luigi Torreani. What must be the
sequel when the wolf thus looks upon the lamb? Only destruction!
About the opportunity there was not much left to conjecture. It
appeared like a sheep-fold without either watch-dog or shepherd. The
behaviour of the bandits, while occupying the town, told that they could
re-occupy it at any moment they had the mind. They might not be allowed
long to remain there; but the shortest flying visit would be sufficient
for a purpose like that. Such _razzia_ and rapine were but the ordinary
incidents of their life, the tactics of their calling, and they were
accustomed to execute them with the most subtle skill and celerity.
Corvino and his band could at any moment carry off Lucetta Torreani with
half the damsels of Val di Orno--the captive artist now knew this to be
the name of the village--without danger of either resistance or
interruption. After such an outrage they _might_ be pursued by the
Papal gendarmes or soldiery, and they might not. That would depend upon
circumstances--or whether the _manutangoli_ willed it. There would be a
show of pursuit, perhaps; and perhaps with this it would end.
In his own land the young Englishman would not have given credit to such
a state of things. He could not, nor would his country men until a late
period, when it was brought home to them by testimony too substantial to
be discredited. Besides, since his arrival in Rome he had become better
informed about the status of Italian social life and the behaviour of
these banditti. He had no doubt, therefore, about the danger in which
stood the sister of Luigi Torreani. There seemed but one who could save
her from the fearful fate that hung over her head, and that one a
woman--if this word can be used in speaking of such a creature as Cara
Popetta.
To the brigand's wife, companion, or whatever she was, the thoughts of
the captive turned as he sat reflecting, and devising schemes for the
protection of Lucetta Torreani. If he were only free himself, knowing
what he now did, the thing might have been easy enough, without
appealing to such a protector. But his freedom was now out of the
question. He felt convinced that from that prison he would never go
forth, but to be carried to one equally secure--until the messenger
should return from England bearing the ransom for which he had written.
And now, for the first time, did he feel satisfied at having written as
he had done. Had he known what he now knew, it would have needed no
dictation of the bandit chief to strengthen that appeal to his father.
He earnestly hoped that the appeal he had made would receive a
favourable response, and the money arrive in time to make liberty worth
regaining. He had fixed upon the purpose to which he would devote it.
What if it came not at all? There was too much probability in this.
Formerly he had felt reckless, from the curse that had been resting upon
him; that is, the remembrance of Belle Mainwaring, and the
disinheritance he had deemed so cruel. And there was the still later
act of paternal harshness, in his father's refusal to advance the
inconsiderable legacy he had promised to leave him. In like manner his
father might refuse to pay the ransom demanded by the brigands.
All that night the captive remained in his cell without sleep. Now and
then he paced the fern-covered floor, by the movement hoping to
stimulate his thoughts into the conception of some plan that would
ensure, less his own safety than that of Lucetta Torreani. But daylight
glimmered through the little window, and he was still without any
feasible scheme. He had only the slender hope, that the ransom might
arrive in time; this and the equally slender expectation of assistance
from "Cara Popetta."