The prisoner had started up, and was standing in the centre of his cell.
"Don't be alarmed, _Signor Inglese_," said his strange visitor, in a
half whisper.
While speaking she had groped her way through the gloom, and was now so
near that he felt her breath upon his cheek, while her hand was laid
gently upon his shoulder.
"What is it?" he asked, starting at her touch, and slightly recoiling,
though not through fear.
"Do not be alarmed," she said soothingly: "I am not a man come to do you
an injury. Only a woman. It is I, Popetta,--you remember me?"
"I do, signora; you are the wife of the chief Corvino."
"Wife! Ah! if you'd said _slave_, it would be nearer the truth. No
matter about that. It can signify nothing to you."
A sigh, distinctly audible in the still darkness, accompanied the
speech.
The captive remained silent, wondering what was to come next. She had
taken her hand from off his shoulder, or rather it had slipped from it
as he drew back.
"You'll be surprised at my coming here," she continued, speaking in the
tongue and tone of a lady. "From what you have seen you will think
there can be no compassion in a heart like mine. You may well think
so."
"No, no," asseverated the captive, now really feeling surprise; "no
doubt, you have been unfortunate."
"That's true," she hurriedly rejoined, as if not caring to dwell upon
some recollection called up by his speech. "Signore, I am here, not to
talk of the past--my past--but of _your_ future."
"Mine!"
"Yes, yours. Oh, it is fearful!"
"In what way fearful?" asked the young Englishman. "Surely, I shall
soon be set free? Why need I care for a few days, or even weeks, of
imprisonment?"
"_Caro signore_, you deceive yourself! It is not imprisonment, though
you may find that hard enough; and harder still when _he_ comes back
again--brute that he is!"
Strange language for a wife to use towards her husband, thought Henry
Harding.
"Yes, harder," continued she, "if the letter you have written receive no
response--I mean if it bring no ransom. Tell me, signore, what did you
say in that letter? Tell me all."
"I thought you were acquainted with its contents. It was dictated in
your hearing, and penned in your presence."
"I know, I know; but was that all? I saw that you were unwilling to
sign it. You had a reason?"
"I had."
"Some difference with your family? You are not friends with your
father--am I right?"
"Something of that," answered the young Englishman, knowing no reason
why he should conceal a quarrel--so far away from those whom it might
concern.
"I thought so," said the woman. "And this," she continued, changing her
tone to one of greater earnestness, "this quarrel may prevent your
father from sending the _riscatta_."
"Possibly it may."
"Possibly it may! You treat the matter lightly; you have done so all
along. I have noticed it. One cannot help admiring your courage; I
cannot. Perhaps that is why I am here."
Again there was something like a sigh, which added to the surprise of
the captive, something of embarrassment.
"You know not," continued Popetta, "the fate that is before you if the
_riscatta_ should not come."
"What fate, signora?"
"As I have said, a fearful one."
"Tell me what it is. By your words it seems to be already determined
upon."
"It is determined--always determined. It is the decree of Corvino."
"Explain yourself, signora."
"First, your ears will be cut off; they will be enclosed in a letter,
and sent to your father. The letter will be a renewed demand for money.
And then--"
"Then?" demanded the captive, with some impatience--for the first time
giving credence to the threat that had already been twice spoken by
Corvino himself.
"If the money be not sent, you will be still further mutilated."
"How?"
"Signore, I cannot tell you. There are many ways. I may not mention
them. Better for you if your father's answer leave no hope of a ransom.
You would then escape torture, by being immediately shot!"
"Surely, signora, you are jesting with me?"
"Jesting! Ah! it is no jest. I have witnessed it once--twice--often.
It is the invariable custom among these wretches with whom I have the
misfortune to be associated. It is one of their laws; and will be
carried out to a certainty!"
"You come to me as a friend?" inquired the captive, as if to test the
sincerity of his visitor.
"I do! You may believe me."
"You have some advice to give me, signora? What is it?"
"It is that you should write again--write to your friends. You must
have some friends--you the son of a great _galantuomo_, as your
countryman, Ricardo, tells us you are. Write to these friends--tell
them to see your father, and urge upon him the necessity of sending the
ransom demanded. It is your only chance of escaping from the fate I
have told you of--that is, from being fearfully mutilated, first
tortured and then shot."
"Surely, there is another?" said the captive, for the first time
speaking in--a tone of appeal to his strange counsellor.
"Another! If you think so, tell me what it is."
"Your favour, signora!"
"How?"
"_You_ can find me the means of escaping from this prison."
"Ah! that is just possible, but not so easy. If I succeeded, it could
only be by giving my life for yours! Would you wish me to do that,
signore?"
"No--no!"
"Such a sacrifice would be certain. You know not how I am watched.
'Tis only by stealth, and a bribe to Tommaso, I've been able to enter
here. Corvino's jealousy--ah, _Signor Inglese_, I have been deemed
handsome!--_you_ may not think so."
Her hand once more rested on the young Englishman's shoulder--once more
to be repelled, but this time with greater gentleness. He feared to
wound her self-esteem, and stir the tigress that slumbered in that
darkened Italian heart. He made reply as he best could, without
committing himself.
"Even were he to know of this interview," she continued, still speaking
of Corvino, "by the law of our band my life would be forfeited. You see
that I am ready to serve you!"
"You would have me write, then? How is it to be done? Can a letter be
sent?"
"Leave that to me. Here are some sheets of paper, ink, and a pen. I
have brought them with me. You can have no light now; I dare not give
it you. Corvino's captives must not be made too comfortable--else they
would be less urgent for their friends to set them free. When the
morning sun shines in through your window, then write. Tommaso will
bring you your breakfast, and take your letter in exchange. It will be
my care to see that it be sent."
"Oh, thanks, signora!" exclaimed the grateful captive, seizing hold of
the offered gift with an eagerness he had not hitherto shown. A new
idea had come suddenly into his mind. "A thousand thanks!" he repeated;
"I shall do as you say."
"_Buono notte_!" said the brigandess, putting the writing materials into
his hand, at the same time pressing it with a fervour that betrayed
something more than pity. "_Buono notte, galantuomo_!" she added.
"Sleep without fear. If it should come to that, you may command even
the life of her you have heard called _Cara Popetta_."
Henry Harding was but too happy when she permitted him to disengage
himself from her clasp; which, though scarce understood, filled him with
a feeling somewhat akin to repulsion. He was happier still, when she
stole silently out of his cell, and he heard the door, closing behind
her.