The brigands returned from their raid two days earlier than they had
been expected.
The captive became aware of their arrival by the increased clamour
outside. On peering through his cell window, he saw the men who had
been upon the expedition. They were all in ill-humour, looking sulky,
and cursing beyond their usual quantity. They had been unsuccessful in
the raid--having found _soldiers_ in the district into which it had been
made. They had, moreover, heard a rumour, that a combined force, both
from the Roman and Neapolitan territory, was marching upon their
mountain retreat.
The captive could hear them talking of treason. He caught sight of
Corvino in front of his window. Something special seemed to have
enraged the chief. He was swearing at Popetta, and calling her foul
names in presence of his followers.
One of the other women--a sort of rival in the regards of the ruffian--
was standing by, and appearing to act as instigator. She talked as if
she was bringing some accusation against the _sposa_ of the _capo_.
The prisoner could see that Popetta was in trouble, though he had no
clue to the cause. They talked so fast--several clamouring at the same
time--that it was impossible for him, with his slight knowledge of
Italian, to make out much of what was said.
Soon the colloquy assumed a different phase, Corvino separating from the
crowd, and, along with two or three others, coming towards the cell. In
an instant the door was dashed open, and the brigand chief stepped
inside the dismal apartment.
"So, signore," he cried, hissing the words through his teeth, "I
understand you've been very comfortable during my absence--plenty to eat
and drink--_rocatti, confetti_, cordials--the best of everything! Ah!
and a companion, too, in your solitude! No doubt, a pleasant companion?
I hope you both enjoyed yourselves. Ha, ha, ha!"
The laugh fell upon the ears of the captive with a fearful significance.
It boded evil either to himself, or Popetta, or both.
"May I ask what do you mean, Captain Corvino?" coolly inquired the young
Englishman.
"Oh! how innocent you are, my beardless lamb--my smooth-faced Adonis.
What do I mean? Ha, ha, ha!"
And again the cell resounded with his fierce, exultant laughter.
"_Cospetto_!" cried the chief, suddenly changing tone, as his eye fell
upon a white object lying in the corner of the cell; "what's this? _Una
lettera_! And _carta bianca_! And here, pen and ink! So, so, signore!
you've been carrying on a correspondence? Bring him out to the light!"
he vociferated. "Bring everything!"
And with a fierce oath he rushed into the open air, one of his followers
dragging the captive after him. Another carried the sheet of paper--
surplus of the supply left by Popetta--as also the ink-horn and pen.
The whole band had by this time gathered upon the ground.
"Comrades!" cried the _capo_, "there's been treason in our absence. See
what we've found. Paper, pen, and ink, in the cell of our prisoner.
And, look--on his fingers the stain! He's been writing letters! What
could they have been about but to betray us? Examine him. See if they
be still upon his person!"
The search was instantly made--extending to every pocket of the
prisoner's dress, every fold where a letter might be concealed. One was
brought to light, but evidently not of recent writing. It was the
letter of introduction to the father of Luigi Torreani.
"To whom is it addressed?" asked the chief, snatching it from the hands
of his satellite.
"_Diavolo_!" he exclaimed, on reading the superscription. "Here's a
correspondence unexpected!"
Without further delay he pulled the epistle out of its envelope, and
commenced making himself master of the contents. He did not communicate
them to the bystanders; but the expression that passed over his
countenance told them that the letter contained something that strangely
interested him. It was like the grim smile of the tiger, who feels that
the prey has been already secured, and lies helpless within reach of his
claws.
"So, signore!" he exclaimed, once more bending his eyes upon the young
Englishman. "You told me you had no friends in Italy. _Una menzogna_
that was. Rich friends you have--powerful friends. The chief
magistrate of a town, with," he satirically whispered, placing his lips
close to the captive's ear, "with a very pretty daughter! What a pity
you did not have an opportunity to present your letter of introduction.
Never mind; you may make her acquaintance yet--soon, perhaps, and here
among the mountains. That will be all the more romantic, _signor
pittore_."
The whispered insinuation, as also the satirical tone in which it was
made, passed like a poisoned shaft through the heart of Henry Harding.
Every hour, since the first of his captivity, his interest conceived for
the sister of Luigi Torreani had been growing stronger, while that
hitherto felt for Belle Mainwaring had passed altogether out of his
mind.
Stung by the speeches of the brigand, he made no reply. Anything he
could have said would have served no purpose, even had there been
opportunity to say it. But there was not. The tormentor thought not of
listening to any response from his prisoner; and, without waiting for
one, he continued:--
"_Compagnos_!" cried he, addressing himself to his band, "you have here
before you the proofs of treason. No wonder the soldiers are gathering
upon our track. It remains for you to discover who have been the
traitors."
"Yes, yes!" cried a score of voices. "The traitors! Who are they? Let
us know that, and we'll settle the score with them!"
"Our prisoner here," continued the chief, "has written a letter--as you
can all see for yourselves. It has been despatched, too: since it is
not upon his person. To whom has it been sent? Who carried it? Who
supplied him with pen, ink, and paper? These are the questions to be
considered."
"Who was left to keep guard over him?" inquired one of the men.
"Tommaso!" answered several.
"Where is Tommaso?" shouted a score of voices.
"I am here!" responded the brigand who bore that name.
"Answer us then. Did you do this?"
"Do what?"
"Furnish the writing materials to our prisoner?"
"No," firmly replied Tommaso.
"You need not waste your time questioning him," interposed a voice,
recognised as that of Popetta. "It was I who furnished them."
"Yes," said the rival brigandess, speaking aside to several members of
the band, "not only found them, but carried them to the cell herself."
"_Tutti_!" cried the chief, in a voice of thunder, that stilled the
murmurs produced by this communication. "For what purpose did you
supply them, Cara Popetta?"
"For the common good," replied the woman, seemingly with the intent to
give justification for what she had done.
"How?" shouted a score of voices.
"_Cospetto_!" exclaimed the accused, "the thing is simple enough."
"Explain it! Explain it!"
"_Buono! buono_! Listen, and I will. Well, like yourselves, I want to
procure the _riscatta_. I didn't think the _Inglese_ would get it for
us. The letter directed by him wasn't strong enough. While you were
gone, having nothing else to think of, I prevailed upon the _galantuomo_
to write another. What harm was there in that?"
"It was to his father, then?" asked one of the spokesmen.
"Of course it was," replied Popetta, with a scornful inclination of the
head.
"How was it sent?"
"To the _posta_ at Rome. The young man knew how to address it."
"Who carried it to Rome?"
To this question there was no answer. Popetta had turned aside, and
pretended not to hear.
"_Compagnos_!" cried the chief, "make inquiry, and find out who of those
left behind has been absent while we were gone."
A man was pointed out by the accuser of Popetta. He was a greenhorn--
one of the recent recruits of the band, not yet admitted to the
privileges of the "_giro_." The cross-questioning to which he was
submitted soon produced its effect. Notwithstanding the promise of
secrecy given to her who had selected him for a messenger, he confessed
all. Unfortunately for Popetta, the fellow had been taught to read, and
knew enough arithmetic to tell that he carried _two_ letters instead of
_one_. He was able to say that one was for the father of the prisoner.
So far, Popetta had spoken the truth. It was the second letter that
condemned her. That had been directed to Signor Torreani.
"Hear that!" cried several of the brigands, as soon as the name was
announced, and without listening to the address. "The Signor Torreani!
Why, it is the _sindico_ of Val di Orno! No wonder we're being beset
with soldiers! Every one knows that Torreani has never been our
friend!"
"Besides," remarked the brigandess who had started the accusation, "why
such friendship to a prisoner? Why has he had all the _confetti,
rosalio_, the best things in the place--to say nothing of the company of
the signorina herself? Depend upon it, _compagnos_, there has been
treasonable conspiracy!"
Poor Popetta! her time was come. Her husband--if such he was--had found
the opportunity long wanted--not to protect, but get rid of her. He
could now do so with perfect impunity--even without blame. With the
cunning of a tiger he had approached the dread climax; with the ferocity
of a tiger he seized upon the opportunity.
"_Compagnos_!" appealed he, in a tone pretended to be sad; "I need not
tell you how hard it is to hear these charges against one who is dear to
me--my own wife. And it is harder to think they have been proved. But
we are banded together by a law that cannot be broken--the law of
self-preservation. That must be mutual among us. To infringe this law
would lead to our dissolution--our ruin--and we have sworn to one
another, that he, or she, who does aught contrary to it, shall suffer
death! Death, though it be brother, sister, wife, or mistress. I, whom
you have chosen for your chief, shall prove myself true. By this may
you believe me."
While in the act of speaking the last words, the brigand sprang forward,
until he stood by the side of his accused wife--Popetta. Her cry of
terror was quickly succeeded by one of a different intonation. It was a
shrill scream of agony, gradually subdued to the expiring accents of
death, as the woman sank back upon the grass, with a poniard transfixed
in her heart!
The scene that followed calls for no description. There was sign of
neither weeping, nor woe, in that savage assemblage. There may have
been pity; but if there was, it did not declare itself. The murderous
chieftain strode quietly away to his quarters, and there sought
concealment. He was too hardened to have remorse. Some of his
subordinates removed from the spot the ghastly evidence of his crime--
burying the body of the brigandess in a ravine close by. But not until
they had stripped it of its glittering adornments--the spoils of many a
fair maiden of the Campagna.
The prisoner was carried back to his cell, and there left to reflect on
the tragedy just enacted--on the fate of poor Popetta. To his excited
imagination it appeared but the foreshadowing of a still more fearful
fate in store for himself.