"So be it. I accept the conditions."

"Enough! Write on."

As dictated, the requisition was written. The sheet of paper was folded, sealed with a piece of pitch, and directed to the landlord of the lodgings in which the English artist had set up his studio.

A man, in the garb of a peasant of the Campagna, was selected from the band; and, charged with the strange missive, at once despatched along the road that led towards the Eternal City.

After kicking down the temporary easel which our artist had erected, and pitching his slight sketch into the torrent below, the brigands commenced their march up the mountain--their captive keeping them company, with no very pleasant antic.i.p.ation in regard to the treatment that might be in store for him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

AN UNLUCKY RECOGNITION.

You are astonished at the young Englishman taking things so coolly? To be captured by Italian bandits, famed for their ferocity, is not a trifling affair. And yet so Henry Harding seemed to consider it.

The explanation is simple, and easily intelligible. At any other period he might not only have chafed at his captivity, but felt fear for the consequences. Just then he was suffering from two other sorrows, that made this seem light--to be scarcely considered at all. His disinheritance by his father was still fresh in his mind--still bitter; but far more bitter the rejection by his sweetheart.

Tortured by these cruel memories of the past, he recked less of what befell him either in the present or the future. There was even a time when he would have courted such a distraction--during the first few weeks after his departure from home. Twelve months had since elapsed, and close application to his art had to some extent consoled him.

Perhaps absence had done more than art--of which he was by no means pa.s.sionately fond; for he was not one of the thorough enthusiasts who prate about the divine inspiration of painters. Chance alone had guided him to this profession, as the only means he could devise for earning his daily bread--chance, partly directed by taste, and partly by some previous study of his school-days. So far it had served his purpose, and, enabling him to visit Rome, he had there imbibed a certain ambition to excel in it--enough to soften, though not obliterate, the memory of his misfortunes. This was still keen enough to make him reckless of what might turn up; hence his cool demeanour in the presence of the bandits, at which you may have felt surprise.

Up the mountains they marched him, by one of those execrable roads common in the Papal States, kept, no doubt, in better condition in the time of the Caesars than at the present day.

He speculated but little on whither he was being taken. Of course to some forest lair, some mountain cavern, used as a bandits' den. He was not without curiosity to see such a place; and perhaps it was pa.s.sing through his thoughts, that at some future day he might avail himself of his present experience to paint a bivouac of brigands from real life.

He was very much surprised when a good-sized village came in sight; still more so on seeing the bandits march boldly into it; but his surprise became astonishment when he saw them unsling their carbines, rest them against the walls of the houses, and make other preparations denoting their intention to pa.s.s the night in the place!

The villagers appeared to have little dread of them. On the contrary, many of the men joined them in their wine-drinking, while some of the women rather encouraged than resented their rude sallies. Even the long-robed priest of the village pa.s.sed to and fro amongst them, distributing crosses and benedictions; for all of which the brigands paid him in coin, that had no doubt been taken from the pockets of some unfortunate traveller--perhaps one of his own sacred cloth!

It certainly was a scene of sufficient originality to interest the eyes of a stranger, that stranger an artist; and the young Englishman, as he gazed upon it, for a time forgot that he was a captive. Of this he was reminded as night drew near. Hitherto his captors had not even taken the precaution to tie him. His frank acceptance of the situation, with his apparent indifference to it, had led the chief to think lightly about his making an attempt to escape. Besides, it could not much matter. Before he could reach Rome the sham peasant would have been to his lodgings and rifled the chest of its contents. The scudi would, at all events, be safe; and beyond these the brigand had formed no very sanguine expectations. It was not likely there were rich friends, or any chance of a ransom. The well-worn wardrobe of the painter spoke against such an hypothesis.

Rather in obedience to habit and usage, than for any other reason, did his captors determine to tie him up for the night; and just as the sun was sinking into the Tyrrhenian sea, two men were seen approaching the place where he had been left, provided with a rope for this purpose. In one of these he recognised the man who had first saluted him on the platform. He had not forgotten the conversation that had pa.s.sed between them, nor the tongue in which it had been carried on. That being English, the bandit himself must be an Englishman, as was also evident from his bright skin, hay-coloured hair, and broad blank face, so unlike the sharp-featured, dark-visaged gentry who surrounded him.

Though at first not a little astonished at encountering a countryman in such a place, and especially in such showy guise, so different from the dull smock-frock the man had once evidently worn, he had ceased for a time to think of him. Since their first meeting he had not come in contact with him. The fellow appeared to be amongst the least considered of the band, only permitted prominence when called up by his chief, and since the capture his services had not been required. He was just such a man as one could hardly see without thinking of rope; and armed with a coil of this, he now approached to execute the order of the "captin." So said he as he stopped in front of the prisoner, and commenced uncoiling the cord.

It was the first time Henry Harding had been threatened with the degradation of being bound. To an Englishman, these is something disagreeable in the very idea of it; but to a young gentleman lately the presumed heir to 50,000 pounds, and who had never known a more irksome restriction than the statutes of Eton and Oxford, there was something repulsive in the prospect. At first he indignantly refused to submit to his wrists being corded, protesting that there was no need for it. He had no intention of attempting to escape. He would stay with the brigands till morning, or the morning after that--any time till the messenger returned. Besides, they had promised him liberty, on conditions that would be kept on his side, and he hoped on theirs.

His remonstrances were in vain.

"d.a.m.n conditions," roughly replied the man occupied in getting ready the rope; "we know nothin' 'bout them. Our business is to bind ye; them's the orders of the captin."

And so saying, he proceeded to carry them out.

It looked hopeless enough; but still there might be a chance in an appeal to the feelings of a countryman. The captive determined on making trial of it.

"You are an Englishman?" he said in his most conciliatory tone.

"I've beed one," gruffly answered the bandit.

"I hope you still are."

"I'deed, do ye? What matters that to you?"

"I am one myself."

"Who the devil says you ain't? D'ye take me for a fool not to see it in yer face, and hear it in the cursed lingo that I'd hope never to lissen to again?"

"Come, my good fellow; it's not often that an Englishman--"

"Stash yer palaver, dang yer! an' don't 'good fellow' me! Spread yer wrists now, an' get 'em ready for the rope. Just because you're English I'll tie 'em all the tighter--daang me if I don't!"

Perceiving that remonstrance was thrown away upon the renegade ruffian, and that resistance would only lead to ill-treatment, the young Englishman extended his hands to be tied. The bandit seized hold of him by both wrists, and commenced twisting them so as to turn them back to back. The moment his eyes rested on the left hand--upon the little finger showing a red longitudinal scar--he dropped both as if they had been bars of hot iron, at the same time starting backwards with a cry.

It was a cry that betokened recognition, mingled with malignant joy!

The surprise which this occasioned to the captive was followed by another springing from a different cause. He, too, had effected a recognition. In the brutal brigand before him, he identified the ex-gamekeeper, poacher, and murderer--Doggy d.i.c.k!

"Ho! ho!" cried the latter, dancing over the ground like one who had gone frantic from receiving news of some unexpected fortune. "Ho! ho!

You it be, Muster Henry Hardin'! Who would 'a expected to find you here among the mountains o' Italy i'stead o' the Chiltern Hills, where ye were so snug an' comfortable! An' wi' such a poor coat upon yer back!

Why, what ha' become o' the old General, an' his big property--the park, the farms, the woods, the covers, and the pheasants? Ah! the pheasants!

You remember them, don't ye? And so do I too. So do Doggy d.i.c.k-- daangd well!"

As the renegade said this, a grin of diabolical significance made itself perceptible on his otherwise inexpressive features. Henry Harding perceived it, but made no remark. He knew that words would be of no use.

"I dar' say Nigel, that sweet half-brother o' yours, has got 'em all-- the park, and the farms, and the woods, and the covers, and the pheasants. Ah! and I'd take my affedavy o' 't he's got that showy gal-- she you were so sweet upon, Muster Henry. She warn't likely to cotton to a man wi' such a coat on his back as you have on yourn. Why, it look like it had come out o' a p.a.w.n-shop!"

By this time the blood of the Hardings had got up to boiling point.

Despite his stupidity, Doggy d.i.c.k perceived it. He saw that he had gone too far in his provocation, and regretted having done so, before making fast the hands of him he had provoked. He would have retreated, but it was too late. Before he could turn, Henry Harding's left hand was upon his throat, the scarred finger pressing upon his larynx, and with the right he received a blow on his skull that felled him to the ground, like an ox under the stroke of a pole-axe.

In an instant the young Englishman was surrounded by the bandits and their wine-bibbing a.s.sociates. Half-a-score flung themselves simultaneously upon him. He was soon overpowered, bound hand and foot, and then beaten in his bonds--some of the village damsels clapping their hands, and by their cries applauding the conquest of brute strength over injured innocence.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A SYMPATHISER.

There was one who witnessed the scene with a sympathising heart. It is almost superfluous to say that it was a woman; for no man in that community would have dared to take side against the brigands. While in it, these ruffians were complete masters of the place, and out of it their authority was little less. Their den was not distant, and on any day they could descend upon the unprotected town, and vent it with the torch of destruction.

The woman who sympathised with the young Englishman was still only a girl; and although a daughter of the _sindico_, or chief magistrate, of the place, she could do nothing to rescue him from his persecutors.

Even the intermittent authority exercised by her father would have been unavailing; and her sympathy for the stranger only existed in the secret recesses of her heart.

Standing in a balcony of what appeared the best house in the village, she presented a picture that may be seen only in a town of the Roman Campagna--a combination of those antique cla.s.sic graces which we a.s.sociate with the days of Lucretia. Beauty of the most striking type, innocence of aspect that betokened the most perfect purity, and below, a street crowded with striding Tarquins!

She looked like a solitary lamb in the midst of a conglomeration of wolves, feebly shepherded by her father and the village priest--by the Law and the Church, both on the last legs of a decadent authority.

It was a singular picture to contemplate; nor had it escaped the notice of the young Englishman.