A week elapsed from the day the brigands had got back to their mountain
den. The plunder had all been appropriated by three or four, to whom
fortune had been most favourable. These were already the richest
individuals in the band; for amid the mountains of Italy, as in the
towns of Homburg and Baden, the banker in the end is sure to sweep in
the stakes of the outsiders. Dame Fortune may give luck for a run; but
he who can afford to lose longest will outrun her in the end.
Among the winners was the brigand chief, and Cara Popetta put fresh
rings upon her fingers, new brooches upon her breast, and additional
chains around her neck.
Another expedition began to be talked about, to provide fresh stakes for
the game of _capo_ or _croce_. It was not to be either a grand or
distant one--only a little spurt into one of the neighbouring valleys--
the capture, if chance allowed it, of some petty proprietor, who might
have ventured from the great city to have a look at his estates, or the
seizure of such chattels as might be found in a country village. It was
chiefly intended to fill up the time, until the return of that secret
messenger who had been despatched to England, and from whose mission
much was expected.
Their English _confrere_ had given the brigands a hint of the great
wealth of their captive's father, and all were hopeful of receiving the
grand ransom that had been demanded by the _capo_. With five thousand
pounds (nearly thirty thousand _pezzos_), they might play for a month,
and go to sleep for another, without troubling themselves about the
soldiers in pursuit.
The little expedition, that was to form the interlude while this was
being waited for, was soon organised--only about three-fourths of the
band being permitted to take part in it. On this occasion the women
were also left behind, Cara Popetta among the rest.
The captive, inside his cell, only knew of its having started by the
greater tranquillity that reigned around the place. There were still
quarrels occurring at short intervals; but these appeared to be between
the women, whose voices, less sonorous, were not less energetic in their
accents of anger, or more refined in their mode of expressing it. Like
their short-cropped hair, their vocabulary appeared to have been shorn
of all its elegance--both, perhaps, having been parted with at the same
time. Had Henry Harding been in a mind for amusement, he might have
found it in witnessing their disputes, that oft occurred right under his
window. But he was not. On the contrary, it but disgusted him to think
of the degradation to which the angel woman may reach, when once she has
strayed from the path of virtue.
And many of these women were beautiful, or had been before they became
vicious. No doubt more than one had been the fond hope of some doting
parent, perhaps the stay of an aged mother, and the solace of her
declining days, and who, having one day strayed beyond the confines of
her native village, like the daughter of Pietro, returned "home sad and
slow," or never returned at all!
The heart of the young Englishman was lacerated as he reflected upon
their fate. It was torture, when he thought of them in connection with
Lucetta Torreani. To think of that pure, innocent girl--the glance he
had had of her convinced him that she was this--becoming as one of those
feminine fiends who daily jarred and warred outside his window! Surely
it could never be. And yet what was there to hinder it? This was the
inquiry that now occupied his attention, and filled him with dread
forebodings.
Since the departure of the expedition a ray of hope had shone into his
cell. It was bright as the sunbeam that there entered. For the mind of
the captive, quickened by captivity, like a drowning man, will catch
even at straws; and one seemed to offer itself to the imprisoned artist.
In the first place, he perceived that there was a chance of corrupting
his gaoler. This was no longer the morose, taciturn fellow, who had
hitherto attended upon him, but one who, if not cheerful, was at least
talkative. On hearing his voice the prisoner could at once recognise it
as that of one of the brigands who had held conversation under his
window. It was the one whose sentiments showed him the less hardened of
the two, and whom the other had called Tommaso. The captive fancied
something might be done with this man. From what he had heard him say,
Tommaso did not appear altogether dead to the dictates of humanity.
True, he had made confession to having spent some time in a Papal
prison. But many a martyr had done that--political and otherwise. The
worst against him was his being where he now was; but this might have
come from a like cause.
So reflected Henry Harding; and the more did he think of it, after his
new gaoler had held converse with him. But he had found something else
to reflect upon, also of a hopeful character. The breakfast brought by
Tommaso--which was his first meal after the departure of the band--was
altogether different from those of former days. Instead of the macaroni
_pasta_, often unseasoned and insipid, there were broiled mutton,
sausages, _confetti_, and a bottle of _rosolio_!
"Who sent these delicacies?" was the interrogatory of him who received
them. He did not put it until after eating his dinner, which in a like
way differed from the dinners of previous days. Then he asked the
question of his new attendant.
"_La signora_," was the answer of Tommaso, speaking in such a courteous
tone, that but for the small chamber and the absence of furniture the
captive might have fancied himself in an hotel, and especially cared for
by one of its waiters.
Throughout the day did this solicitude show itself; and at night the
signora herself brought him his supper, without either the intervention
or attendance of Tommaso. Shortly after the sun had gone down the young
Englishman started at seeing a woman make her way inside his cell; for
it was an apparition strange as unexpected.
The small chamber in which he was imprisoned was but the adjunct of a
larger apartment--a sort of storeroom, where the brigands kept the
bulkier articles of their plunder, as also provisions. In this last was
a large window, through which the moon was shining; and it was only on
the door of his cell being thrown open that he perceived his feminine
visitor. Though she was but dimly seen in the borrowed light of the
outer chamber, he could tell that it was a woman.
Who was she?
Only for a second was he in doubt; her large form, as she stood outlined
in the doorway, as also the drapery of her dress, told him it was the
wife of the chief. He had observed that only she, of all the women
belonging to the band, affected female habiliments.
Yes, his visitor was Cara Popetta. He wondered what she could want with
him; all the more as she came stealing in apparently in fear of being
watched, or followed by some one outside. She had noiselessly opened
the outer door, as noiselessly closed it behind her, and in the same way
opened and closed that communicating with his cell.
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