Quickly and surreptitiously as was that glance exchanged between them--
Henry Harding and the _sindico's_ daughter--it did not escape the notice
of Captain Guardiola. Warned by the conversation that had passed, he
was watching for it. It gave him the cue for a swaggering exercise of
his authority.
"Where have you taken this ragged fellow?" asked he of the sergeant,
nodding superciliously towards the prisoner.
"We found him skulking into the town."
"Skulking!" cried the young Englishman, turning upon the man a look that
caused him to quail. "And if I am a ragged fellow," he continued,
directing his speech to the officer, "it is not to your credit--much
less that you should taunt me for it. If you and your valiant followers
were to perform your duty a little more efficiently, there would have
been less chance of my getting my clothes torn."
"Zitti! zitti!" hissed out the officer. "We don't want such talk from
you, fellow. Reserve your speech till you are questioned."
"It is my place to ask the first question. Why am I here a prisoner?"
"That remains to be seen. Have you a passport?"
"A rational interrogatory to put to a man who has just escaped out of
the clutches of brigands!"
"How are we to know that, signore?"
"Well," said the young man, "I assert it. And," he continued, looking
quizzically towards his own person, "I think my appearance should
corroborate the assertion. But, if not, I shall make my appeal to the
signorina here; whom, if I mistake not, I have had the honour of seeing
before. She, perhaps, may remember me, since for some hours I had the
misfortune to furnish her with a melancholy spectacle while stretched
upon the pavement underneath her balcony."
"I do remember you!--I do, signore! Yes, papa, it is the same."
"And I also saw him, Captain Guardiola. He was carried through here by
the bandits. He is the English artist of whom we have been just
speaking."
"That may be," rejoined Guardiola, with an incredulous smile.
"Englishman, artist, and prisoner to the banditti--all these in one.
But the gentleman may still have another character, not yet declared."
"What other?" demanded the gentleman in question. "_Una spia_."
"Spy!" echoed the prisoner. "For whom--and what purpose?"
"Ah! that is just the question!" sarcastically rejoined Guardiola. "It
is for me to discover it. If you'll be frank, and declare yourself, you
may perhaps get better treatment; besides, it may shorten the term of
your imprisonment."
"My imprisonment! By what right, sir, do you talk to me of
imprisonment? I am an Englishman; and you, I take it, are an officer in
the Pope's army--not a captain of banditti. Make me a prisoner, and it
shall cost you dear."
"Cost what it may, signore, you are my prisoner; and shall remain so
till I can ascertain in what character you have been travelling through
these parts. Your story is suspicious. You have passed yourself off
for an artist."
"I have not passed myself off for one, though I am so--in an humble
sense. What has that to do with the affair?"
"Much. Why should you, `_un povero pittore_'"--this was said
sneeringly--"be straying out here in the mountains? If you are an
English artist, as you say, you must have come to Italy to paint ruins
and sculptures, not rocks and trees. What then is your errand up here?
Answer me that, signore!"
The young artist hesitated. Should he make a clean breast of it, and
declare his errand? Had the time come? Why should he not? He was in a
dilemma, out of which he might escape more easily than he had done from
the brigands' den. Why should he prolong the continuance of his second
captivity?--for it was clear that the officer intended continuing it. A
word would release him--so, at least, he presumed. There seemed no
reason why it should not be spoken. After a moment's reflection, he
determined on speaking it.
"Signor Captain," said he, "if in the execution of your duty you must
necessarily know why I am here, you shall be welcome to the information.
Perhaps my answer may give surprise to the Signor Francesco Torreani,
and also to the Signorina Lucetta!"
"What! _Signor Inglese_!" exclaimed the _sindico's_ daughter, "you know
our names then?"
"I do, signorina."
"From whom have you heard them?" inquired the father.
"From your son."
"My son! He is in London."
"Just so; and it was there I first heard of the Signor Francesco
Torreani and his daughter, the Signorina Lucetta."
"You astonish us. You know Luigi then?"
"As well as one man may know another who for twelve months has been his
daily companion; who has shared his apartment and his studio, who--"
"Saved his purse--perhaps his life," interrupted the _sindico_,
approaching the Englishman, and warmly grasping his hand. "If I mistake
not, you are the young gentleman who rescued my son from thieves, London
bandits. It is you of whom Luigi has often written to us. Am I right
in my conjecture, signore?"
"Oh yes!" exclaimed Lucetta, also coming nearer, and contemplating the
stranger with renewed interest. "I'm sure it is, papa. He is so like
the description brother Luigi has given of him."
"Thanks, signorina," answered the young artist, with a smile. "I hope
you except my habiliments. As for my identity, Signor Torreani, I might
have been better able to establish that, but for my kind friend Corvino;
who, not satisfied with taking the little cash I had, has also stripped
me of the letter of introduction I brought from your son. I intended to
have presented it in person, but have been hindered by the circumstances
of which you are already aware."
"But why did you not make yourself known to me while you were here?"
"I did not then know you, signore. I was even ignorant of the name of
the town into which my captors had carried me. I had not then the
slightest idea that its chief magistrate was the father of Luigi
Torreani--much less that the fair young lady I saw standing in a balcony
was the sister of my dearest friend."
At the conclusion of this complimentary speech, Lucetta's cheek showed a
slight tinge of red--as if from some souvenir of that balcony scene.
"What a pity," said the _sindico_, "I did not know this before! I might
have done something to get you off."
"Thanks, Signor Torreani. But it would have cost you dearly--at least
30,000 scudi."
"Thirty thousand scudi!" exclaimed the company.
"You put a high price upon yourself, _signor pittore_?" sneeringly
insinuated the officer.
"It is the exact sum fixed by Corvino."
"He must have mistaken you for some _milord_. I suppose he has
discovered his error, and let you off scot free?"
"Yes; and finger free too," rejoined the escaped captive in a jovial
tone--as he said so presenting his left hand to the gaze of the company.
Lucetta screamed; while her father leant forward, and examined the
mutilated hand with a compassionate air.
"Yes," he said; "this is indeed a proof that I could have done little
for you. But tell us, signore! How did you escape from those cruel
wretches?"
"Time enough for that to-morrow," interposed Guardiola, who seemed stung
with the sympathy the stranger was receiving. "Sergeant!" he continued,
turning to the soldier, "this interview has lasted long enough, and to
little profit. You can take your prisoner back to the guard-house. I
shall examine him more minutely in the morning."
"Prisoner still?" was the surprised interrogatory of the _sindico_ and
his daughter.
"I warn you against what you are doing," said the Englishman, addressing
himself to the officer. "You will find that even your master, the Pope,
will not be able to screen you from punishment for this outrage on a
British subject."
"And your master, Giuseppe Mazzini, will not be able to protect you for
acting as a revolutionary spy, Signore Inglese."
"Mazzini! Revolutionary spy! What do you mean?"
"I think, Captain Guardiola," interposed the _sindico_, "you are
altogether mistaken about this young man. He is no spy; but an honest
English _galantuomo_--the friend of my son, Luigi. I shall be
answerable for him."
"I must do my duty, Signor Torreani. Sergeant! do yours. Take your
prisoner back to the guard, and see that you bring him before me in the
morning."
The order was obeyed. The prisoner offered no resistance to it. There
were other soldiers outside the door; and, as any attempt to escape
would have been idle, Henry Harding had to submit to this additional
degradation. He did not leave the room before exchanging a look with
Lucetta that consoled him for the insult, and another with Captain Count
Guardiola, that disturbed his countship's equanimity for the remainder
of the evening.