During three days succeeding the tragical event recorded, there was
tranquillity in the bandit quarters--that gloomy quiet that succeeds
some terrible occurrence, alike telling that it has occurred.
So far as Henry Harding saw, the chief kept himself indoors--as if doing
decent penance for the brutal crime he had committed.
On the fourth day there transpired an event which roused the rendezvous
to its usual activity. There was an excitement among the men, under
which the late sanguinary scene was likely to be buried in oblivion.
A little before sunrise, the signals of the sentinel announced the
approach of a messenger; and shortly afterwards a man came into the
quarters. He was in peasant garb--the same who had carried the
requisition on the landlord of the lodgings, and brought back the
three-score scudi. This time he was the bearer of a dispatch of
somewhat portentous appearance--a large envelope, enclosing a letter,
with still another inside. It was addressed to the brigand chief, and
to him delivered direct. The captive knew of the arrival of the
messenger by much excited talking outside, which also proclaimed it to
be an event of importance. He only learned that there was a letter,
when the brigand chief burst angrily into his cell, holding the opened
epistle in his hand.
"So!" cried the latter in fierce vociferation. "So, _Signor Inglese_,
you've quarrelled with your father, have you? Well, that won't help
you. It only shows, that for being such an undutiful son you deserve a
little punishment. If you'd been a better boy, your worthy parent might
have acted differently, and saved you your ears. As it is, you are
about to lose them. Console yourself with the thought that they are not
going out of the family. They shall be cropped off with the greatest
care, and sent under cover to your father. Bring him out, comrades!
Let us have light for this delicate amputation."
Doggy Dick was ordered by the chief to go into the house for a knife;
while two others retained the captive in their grasp, holding him as if
to keep him steady for an operation. A third knocked his hat from his
head, while a fourth pulled his long brown curls up over his crown,
leaving his ears naked for the knife. All seemed to take delight in
what they were doing, the women as well as the men--more especially she
who had been instrumental in causing the death of Popetta. There was
anger in the eyes of all; they were spited at not receiving the
_riscatta_. The renegade had told an exaggerated story of the wealth of
the captive's father, and they had founded high hopes upon it. They
charged their disappointment to the prisoner, and were paying him for it
by gibes and rough usage. They could see his ears cut off without a
single sentiment of pity or remorse.
In a few seconds the knife-blade was gleaming against his cheek. It was
raised to the left ear, which in another instant would have been severed
from his head, when the captive, by a superhuman wrench, released his
left hand, and instinctively applied it over the spot. It was a mere
convulsive effort, caused by the horror of his situation. It would have
been utterly unavailing, and he knew it. He had only made the movement
under the impulse of a physical instinct. And yet it had the effect of
preserving the threatened member.
Corvino, who stood near superintending the amputation, uttered a loud
shout, at the same time commanding the amputator to desist. The cry was
called forth at sight of the uplifted hand, or rather the little finger.
"_Diavolo_!" he exclaimed, springing forward and seizing the captive by
the wrist. "You've done yourself a service, signore--you've saved your
ears, at least for this time. Here's a present for your father much
more appropriate. Perhaps it will point out to him the line of his
duty, which he has shown himself so inclined to neglect. `The hand to
guard the head'--that's the motto among us. We shall permit you to
adopt it to a proportionate extent, by allowing your little finger to be
the protector of your ears. Ha! ha! ha!"
The brigands echoed the laughter of their chief, without exactly
comprehending the witticism that had called it forth. They were soon
enlightened as to the significance of the jest. The scarred finger was
before their eyes. They saw it was an old cicatrice, sure to be
recognised by any father who had taken the slightest interest in the
physical condition of his son. This was the explanation of Corvino's
interference to stay the cutting off of their captive's ears.
"We don't wish to be unnecessarily cruel," continued the chief in a tone
of mock mercy; "no more do we wish to spoil such a pretty countenance as
that which has made conquest of Popetta, and might have done the same
for,"--here he leant close to his captive, and hissed spitefully into
his ear--"_Lucetta_."
The cutting off of one ear, of both of them, would not have given Henry
Harding so much pain as the sting of that cruel whisper. It thrilled
him to his heart's core. Never in all his life had he felt, as at that
moment, the despair, the absolute horror of helplessness. His tongue
was still free, and he could not restrain it. He would speak, though he
knew the words might cost him his life.
"Brute!" he vociferated, fixing his eye full upon the brigand chief; "if
I had you upon fair ground, I'd soon change your sham exultation to an
appeal for mercy. You dare not give me the chance. If you did, I would
show these ruffians around you that you're not fit to be their captain.
You killed your wife to make way for another. Not you, madame," he
continued, bowing derisively to the betrayer of Popetta, "but another,
whom God preserve from ever appearing in your place. You may kill me--
cut me into pieces, if you will--but, depend upon it, my death will not
go unavenged. England, my country, shall hear of it. Though you now
fancy yourselves secure, you will be tracked into the very heart of your
mountain fastnesses--hunted up, and shot down like dogs--like wolves, as
you are--That's what will come to every one of you."
Ha was not allowed to proceed. Three-score angry voices breaking in
upon his impetuous speech put an end to it.
"What care we for your country," cried they. "England, indeed!"
"Damn England!" shouted Doggy Dick. "_Inglaterra al inferno_!"
vociferated others. "France and Italia the same! The Pope, too, if you
choose to throw him in. What can they do to us? We are beyond _their_
power; but you are in _ours_, signore. Let us prove it to him!"
A score of stilettos, suddenly and simultaneously drawn, were gleaming
in the eyes of the captive as he listened to these words. He had half
repented his hasty speech--believing it would be his last--when he saw
the brigand chief interfering. He saw this with surprise: for Corvino
had quailed before his challenge with a look of the most resentful
malice. His surprise was of short duration. It ended on hearing what
the chief had to say.
"Hold!" shouted he, in a voice of thunder. "Simpletons that you are, to
care for the talk of a cur like this. Your own captive, too! Would you
kill the goose that is to lay us golden eggs--a nest of them worth
thirty thousand scudi? You're mad, _compagnos_. Leave me to manage the
matter. Let us first get the eggs, which, by the grace of God and the
help of the Madonna, we shall yet extract from the parental bird, and
then--"
"Yes, yes!" cried several, interrupting this figurative speech of their
leader; "let's get the eggs! Let's make the old bird lay them! Our
comrade Ricardo here says he's rich as King Croesus."
"That do I," interposed Doggy Dick. "And I should know something about
the eggs he's got, since once on a time I was his gamekeeper."
At this _jeu d'esprit_, which seemed rather dull to his Italian
audience, though better understood by the captive, the renegade laughed
immoderately.
"Enough," cried Corvino; "we're wasting our time, and perhaps," he
added, with a ferocious leer, "the patience of our friend the artist.
Now, signore! we shall leave that handsome head unshorn of its auricular
appendages. The little finger of your left hand is all we require at
present. If it don't prove strong enough to extract the eggs we've been
speaking of, we shall try the whole hand. If that too fail, we must
give up the idea of having an omelette."
A yell of laughter hailed this sally.
"Then," continued the jocular ruffian, "we shan't have done with you.
To prove to the grand _Inglese_, your father, that we are not spiteful,
and how far we Italians can outdo him in generosity, we shall send him a
calf's head, with skin, ears, and everything attached to it."
Boars of laughter succeeded this fearful speech, and the stilettos were
returned to their respective sheaths.
"Now," commanded the chief, once more calling the knife into
requisition, "off with his finger. You needn't go beyond the second
joint. Cut off by the knuckle, which I've heard is in great request
among his countrymen. Don't spoil such a pretty hand. Leave him a
stump to fill out the finger of his glove; when that is on, no one will
be the wiser of what's wanting. You see, signore," concluded the
wretch, in a taunting tone, "I don't wish to damage your personal
appearance any more than is absolutely necessary for our purpose. I
know you are proud of it; and considering what has happened with
Popetta, I should be sorry at any mutilation that might debar you from a
like success with Lucetta."
The last speech was delivered in a satanic whisper, again hissed into
the ear of the captive. It elicited no reply; nor did the young
Englishman make either remark, or resistance, when the cruel executioner
caught hold of his hand, and severed from it the little finger by a
clean cut of the knife-blade!
The amputation was the cue for terminating this strange scene. As soon
as it was over, the captive was conducted back to his gloomy chamber,
and left to the contemplation of a hand rendered unsymmetrical for life.