On that same night in which the brigands had strayed into the town of
Val di Orno, the _sindico_ had learned something which caused him more
than ever to fear for the future. The bold, bullying behaviour of the
men was itself sufficient to tell him of his own impotence, in case they
had chosen to violate the laws of hospitality. But he had been told of
something more, something personal to himself, or rather to his family--
that family consisting solely of his daughter Lucetta. She and Luigi
were his only children, and they had been motherless for many years.
What he had learned is already known to the reader--that Corvino had
been seen to cast longing looks upon his child. This is the Italian
parlance when speaking of a preference of the kind supposed to exist in
the bosom of a brigand. Francesco Torreani knew its significance. He
was well aware of the personal attractions possessed by his daughter.
Her great beauty had long been the theme, not only of the village of Val
di Orno, but of the surrounding country. Even in the city itself had
she been spoken of; and once, while on a visit there with her father,
she had been beset by blandishments in which counts and cardinals had
taken part; for these red-legged gentry of the Church are not callous to
the smiles of witching woman.
It was the second time Corvino had seen Lucetta Torreani; and her father
was admonished that he had perhaps seen her twice too often, as that
once more he might bring misery to his house, leaving it with a desolate
hearth. There was no insinuation against the girl--no hint that she had
in any way encouraged the bold advances of the brigand chief. On the
contrary, it was known that she hated the sight of him, as she should
do. It had been simply a warning, whispered in the father's ear, that
it would be well for her to be kept out of Corvino's way. But how was
this to be done?
On the day after the visit of the band, Francesco Torreani noticed
something strange in his daughter's manner. There was an air of
dejection not usual to her, for the pretty Lucetta was not given to
gravity. Why should she be low-spirited at such a crisis? Her father
inquired the cause.
"You are not yourself to-day, my child," he said, observing her dejected
air.
"I am not, papa; I confess it."
"Has anything occurred to vex you?"
"To vex _me_! No, not quite that. It is thinking of another that gives
me unhappiness."
"Of another! Who, _cara figlia_?"
"Well, papa, I've been thinking of that poor young _Inglese_, who was
carried away by those infamous men. Suppose it had been brother Luigi?"
"Ay, indeed!"
"What do you think they will do with him? Is his life in danger?"
"No, not his life--that is, if his friends will only send the money that
will be demanded for his ransom."
"But if he have no friends? He might not. His dress was not rich; and
yet for all that he looked a _galantuomo_. Did he not?"
"I did not take much notice of him, my child. I was too busy with the
affairs of the town while the ruffians were here."
"Do you know, papa, what our girl Annetta has heard? Some one told her
this morning."
"What?"
"That the young _Inglese_ is an artist, just like our Luigi. How
strange if it be so?"
"'Tis probable enough. Many of these English residents in Rome are
artists by profession. They come here to study our old paintings and
sculptures. He _may_ be one, and very likely is. 'Tis a pity, poor
fellow, but it can't be helped. Perhaps if he were a great _milord_ it
would be all the worse for him. His captors would require a much larger
sum for his ransom. If they find he can't pay, they'll be likely to let
him go."
"I do hope they will; I do indeed."
"But why, child? Why are you so much interested in this young man?
There have been others. Corvino's band took three with them, the last
time they passed through. You said nothing about them."
"I did not notice them, papa: and he--think of his being a _pittore_!
Suppose brother Luigi was treated so in his country?"
"There is no danger of that. I wish we had such a country to live in;
under a government where everything is secure, life, property, and--"
The _sindico_ did not say what besides. He was thinking of the
admonition he had recently received.
"And why should we not go to England? Go there and live with Luigi. He
said in his last letter, he has been successful in his profession, and
would like to have us with him. Perhaps this young _Inglese_ on his
return may stop at the inn; and, if you would question him, he could
tell us all about his country. If it be true what you say of it, why
should we not go there to live?"
"There, or somewhere else. Italy is no longer a home for us. The Holy
Pontiff is too much occupied with his foreign affairs to find time for
the protection of his people. Yes, _cara figlia_, I've been thinking of
leaving Val di Orno--this day more than ever. I've almost made up my
mind to accept the offer Signor Bardoni has made for my estate. It's
far below its value; but in these times--what's all that noise in the
street?"
Lucetta ran to the window, and looked out.
"_Che vedette_?" inquired her father.
"Soldiers," she replied. "There's a great long string of them coming up
the street. I suppose they're after the brigands?"
"Yes. They won't catch them for all that. They never do. They're
always just in time to be too late! Come away from the window, child.
I must go down to receive them. They'll want quartering for the night,
and plenty to eat and drink. What's more, they won't want to pay for
it. No wonder our people prefer extending their hospitality to the
brigands, who pay well for everything. Ah, me! it's no sinecure to be
the _sindico_ of such a town. If old Bardoni wishes it, he can have
both my property and place. No doubt he can manage better than I. He's
better fitted to deal with banditti."
Saying this, the _sindico_ took up his official staff; and, putting on
his hat, descended to the street, to give official reception to the
soldiers of the Pope.
"A grand officer!" said Lucetta, glancing slyly through the window-bars.
"If he were only bravo enough to go after those brutes of brigands, and
rescue that handsome young _Inglese_. Ah! if he'd only do that. I'd
give him a smile for his pains. _Povero pittore_! Just like brother
Luigi. I wonder now if he has a sister thinking of him. Perhaps he may
have a--"
The girl hesitated to pronounce the word "sweetheart," though, as the
thought suggested itself, there came a slight shadow over her
countenance, as if she would have preferred knowing he had none.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, once more looking out of the window. "The grand
officer is coming home with papa; and there's another--a younger one--
with him. No doubt they will dine here; and I suppose I must go and
dress to receive them."
Saying this, she glided out of the room; which was soon after occupied
by the _sindico_, and his two soldier-guests.