In the band there was nearly a score of these ladies. He had at first taken them for boys--beardless members of the gang! There was but little in their dress to distinguish them from the men. They wore the same polka jacket, vest, and pantaloons, only with a greater profusion of ornaments around their necks, and a larger number of rings upon their fingers.

Some of them were absolutely loaded with jewels of all kinds--pearls, topazes, rubies, turquoise-stones, even diamonds sparkling among the rest--the spoils drawn from the delicate fingers of many a rich _signorina_.

The hair of all was close cropped, like that of the men; while several carried poignards or pistols, so that only by a certain rotundity of form could they be distinguished from their male companions, and not all of them by this. They were not allowed to take part in the gaming, as they never got share of the _riscatta_. For all that, most of them shared in the perils of every enterprise, accompanying the men on their expeditions.

At home they laid aside the carbine to take up the needle; though they were seldom called upon to wet their fingers in the washing-tub. That is regarded as an occupation beneath the dignity of a _bandita_; and is left to the wives of those peasants in communication with the band, and who are termed _manutangoli_, or "helpers." These are well paid for the labour of the laundry--a clean shirt costing the bandit almost the price of a new one! It was not often that any of Corvino's band cared to incur the expense; only its _damerini_ or dandies, and they only upon the occasion of a _festa_.

Most of these observations were made by the English captive, during the first few days of his captivity. He saw many strange scenes through the little window of his cell. He might have seen more, had the window been lower in the wall; but, high up as it was, he was obliged to stand on tiptoe, and this becoming tiresome after a time, he only a.s.sumed the irksome att.i.tude when some scene more exciting than common summoned him from his lair of dried fern-leaves.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

UNPLEASANT INFORMATION.

Several days had elapsed without any change either in the prisoner's prospects or situation. He had come to the conclusion that his capture was no longer a farce, nor his imprisonment likely soon to terminate.

The stories of brigand life he had heard told during his short sojourn in Rome, and which like others of his incredulous countrymen he had been loth to believe, were no longer doubted. He was himself a sad example of their reality, and could almost feet angry at his friend Luigi for having given him that letter of introduction, which had introduced him to such a pitiful dilemma. It was still upon his person; for, beyond robbing him of his slender purse and other metallic movables, the brigands had left everything untouched.

By way of pa.s.sing the time, he took the letter out and re-read it. One paragraph, which he had scarcely noticed before, now particularly impressed him. "I suppose my sister Lucetta will by this time be a big girl. Take good care of her till I come back, when I hope I shall be able to carry all of you out of that danger we dreaded."

When Henry Harding first read these words on his way to Rome--for the letter of introduction was an open one--he thought nothing of their signification. He supposed it could only refer to the straitened circ.u.mstances of his family which the young artist expected at some time to relieve, by the proceeds of his successful pencil. Besides, Belle Mainwaring was too much in his mind to leave room for more than a pa.s.sing thought of anything else, even for the little sister of Luigi, big as she might be at the writing of the letter--since still unknown.

Now, however, reflecting in his lone cell, with the image of that fair face first seen on the day of his captivity, and since constantly recurring to his thoughts, he began to shape out a different interpretation to the ambiguous phrase. What if the danger spoken of was less of poverty than peril--such, in short, as appeared to threaten that young girl, the daughter of the village _sindico_? To reflect even upon this gave the captive pain. How much more would he have been pained to think that the sister of his dear friend, Luigi Torreani was in like peril.

Sunset, declaring itself by the increasing gloom of his cell, caused him to refold the letter, and return it to his pocket. He was still pondering upon its contents, when voices outside the window attracted his attention. He listened--anything to vary the monotony of his prison life--even the idle talk of a brace of bandits; for it was two of these who were speaking outside. In less than ten seconds after he was listening with all his ears; for in the midst of their conversation he fancied he heard a name that was known to him.

He had just been thinking of Luigi Torreani. This was not the name that pa.s.sed from the lips of the bandit; but one of like signification-- Lucetta. He knew it was the name of Luigi's sister, of which he had just been reminded by the letter.

Henry Harding had often heard his friend speak of this sister--his only one. It was not strange, therefore, he should listen with quickened attention; and so did he, grasping the solitary bar of his window, and placing his ear close up to the sill. True there might be scores of Lucettas in that part of the country; but, for all this, he could not help listening with eager interest.

"She'll be our next _riscatta_," said the brigand who had p.r.o.nounced the name; "you may make up your mind to that."

"_E por che_?" inquired the other. "The old _sindico_, with all his proud name and his syndicate to boot, hasn't enough to pay ransom for a rat. What would be the object of such a capture?"

"Object! Ah, that concerns the capo, not us. All I know is that the girl has taken his fancy. I saw it as we pa.s.sed through the town the other night. I believe he'd have then carried her off, only for fear of Popetta. She's a she-devil, is the signora; and, though generally she takes kindly to her kicks and puffings, she wouldn't if there was a woman in the case. Don't you remember when we had the dancing-bout down in the valley of Main? What a row there was between our captain and his _cara sposa_!"

"I remember. What was it all about? I never heard?"

"About a bit of kissing. Our capo was inclined upon a girl; that coquettish little devil, the daughter of the old charcoal-burner Poli.

The girl seemed kindly. He had slipped a charm round her neck, and I believe had kissed her. Whether he did that or no, I won't be certain, but the charm was seen and recognised by the signora. She plucked it from the girl's neck; as she did so almost dragging her off her feet.

Then came the scene with the _capo_."

"She drew a stiletto upon him, did she not?"

"Ay, and would have used it, too, if he had not made some excuse, and turned the thing into a laugh. That pacified her. What a fury she was while the fit was on her. _Cospetto_! Her eyes glittered like hot lava from Vesuvius."

"The girl stole away, I think?"

"That did she, and a good thing for her she did; though if she had stayed I don't think Corvino would have dared look at her again that night. I never saw him cowed before. He lost both his sweetheart and his gold charm; for his Cara Popetta appropriated that to herself, and wears it regularly whenever he holds festa among the peasant girls, by way of reminder, I suppose."

"Did the captain ever see Poli's daughter again?"

"Well, some of us think he did. But you remember, after you left us we moved away from that part of the country? The soldiers became too troublesome about there, and there was a whisper that the signora had something to do with making the place too hot for us. After all, I don't think Corvino cared for the _carb.o.n.e.ro's_ daughter. It was only a short-lived fancy, because the girl showed sweet upon him. This of the sindico's chicken is a very different affair; for I know he's fond of going in that direction, and shouldn't wonder if we get into danger by it. Danger or no danger, he'll have her sooner or later, take my word for it."

"I don't wonder at his fancy; she a sweet-looking girl. One likes her all the better for being so proud upon it."

"Her pride will have a fall, once Corvino gets her in his clutches.

He's just the man to tame such shy damsels as she."

"_Povera_! it is a pity, too."

"Bah, you're a fool, Thoma.s.so. Your sojourn in the Pope's prison has spoilt you for our life, I fear. What are we poor fellows to do, if we don't have a sweetheart now and then? Chased liked wolves, why shouldn't we take a slice of lamb when we can get it? Who can blame the _capo_ for liking a little bit of tender chick? And such a sweet bit as Lucetta Torreani."

Henry Harding, who had been all this time listening with disgust to the dialogue between the two brigands, felt as if a huge stone had struck him. The presentment that had just commenced shaping itself in his mind appeared all at once to be circ.u.mstantially confirmed. The young girl spoken of was Lucetta Torreani. It could be no other than the sister of Luigi, whom he had seen standing in the balcony at Val di Orno, and who so often since had been occupying his thoughts.

It was a singular collocation or coincidence of circ.u.mstances, and painful as singular. Under the blow, he relaxed his hold of the bar, and staggering back, sank down upon the floor of his cell.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

PAINFUL CONJECTURING.

For some time the young Englishman sat, where he had sunk down, in a state of mind not far removed from bewilderment. His captivity, if irksome before, was now changed to torture. Of his own misfortunes he no longer thought, nor cared. His soul was absorbed in contemplating the perils that beset the sister of his friend--that fair young girl-- that although seen, but for a moment, and then looked upon in the light of a stranger, had made such an impression upon his heart; and, even without knowing that she was Luigi's sister, what he had just heard was of itself sufficient to make him unhappy in her behalf. He knew the terrible power exercised by these bandits. He had proofs of it in his own experience. A power all the more dangerous, since to men with lives already forfeit, there can be no restraint arising from fear of the law.

One crime more could not further compromise them; and to commit such crime there needed only the motive and opportunity. In this case both appeared to be present. He had himself seen something of the first, in the behaviour of the brigands on the night of their bivouac in the village. Perhaps he might have seen more, but for the presence of Popetta, who in their late maraud had made one of the band. What he had now listened to placed the thing beyond doubt. The eyes of Corvino had turned longingly on the sister of Luigi Torreani. What must be the sequel when the wolf thus looks upon the lamb? Only destruction!

About the opportunity there was not much left to conjecture. It appeared like a sheep-fold without either watch-dog or shepherd. The behaviour of the bandits, while occupying the town, told that they could re-occupy it at any moment they had the mind. They might not be allowed long to remain there; but the shortest flying visit would be sufficient for a purpose like that. Such _razzia_ and rapine were but the ordinary incidents of their life, the tactics of their calling, and they were accustomed to execute them with the most subtle skill and celerity.

Corvino and his band could at any moment carry off Lucetta Torreani with half the damsels of Val di Orno--the captive artist now knew this to be the name of the village--without danger of either resistance or interruption. After such an outrage they _might_ be pursued by the Papal gendarmes or soldiery, and they might not. That would depend upon circ.u.mstances--or whether the _manutangoli_ willed it. There would be a show of pursuit, perhaps; and perhaps with this it would end.

In his own land the young Englishman would not have given credit to such a state of things. He could not, nor would his country men until a late period, when it was brought home to them by testimony too substantial to be discredited. Besides, since his arrival in Rome he had become better informed about the status of Italian social life and the behaviour of these banditti. He had no doubt, therefore, about the danger in which stood the sister of Luigi Torreani. There seemed but one who could save her from the fearful fate that hung over her head, and that one a woman--if this word can be used in speaking of such a creature as Cara Popetta.

To the brigand's wife, companion, or whatever she was, the thoughts of the captive turned as he sat reflecting, and devising schemes for the protection of Lucetta Torreani. If he were only free himself, knowing what he now did, the thing might have been easy enough, without appealing to such a protector. But his freedom was now out of the question. He felt convinced that from that prison he would never go forth, but to be carried to one equally secure--until the messenger should return from England bearing the ransom for which he had written.

And now, for the first time, did he feel satisfied at having written as he had done. Had he known what he now knew, it would have needed no dictation of the bandit chief to strengthen that appeal to his father.

He earnestly hoped that the appeal he had made would receive a favourable response, and the money arrive in time to make liberty worth regaining. He had fixed upon the purpose to which he would devote it.

What if it came not at all? There was too much probability in this.

Formerly he had felt reckless, from the curse that had been resting upon him; that is, the remembrance of Belle Mainwaring, and the disinheritance he had deemed so cruel. And there was the still later act of paternal harshness, in his father's refusal to advance the inconsiderable legacy he had promised to leave him. In like manner his father might refuse to pay the ransom demanded by the brigands.

All that night the captive remained in his cell without sleep. Now and then he paced the fern-covered floor, by the movement hoping to stimulate his thoughts into the conception of some plan that would ensure, less his own safety than that of Lucetta Torreani. But daylight glimmered through the little window, and he was still without any feasible scheme. He had only the slender hope, that the ransom might arrive in time; this and the equally slender expectation of a.s.sistance from "Cara Popetta."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

BRIGANDAGE AND ITS CAUSE.

Brigandage, as it exists in the southern countries of Europe, is only beginning to receive its full measure of credence. There was always a knowledge, or supposition, that there were robbers in Spain, Italy, and Greece, who went in bands, and now and then attacked travellers, plundering them of their purses, and occasionally committing outrages on their persons. People, however, supposed these cases to be exceptional, and that the stage representations of brigand life to which in Transpontine theatres we are treated, were exaggerations, both, as regards the power and picturesqueness of these banded outlaws. There were banditti, of course, conceded every one; but these were few and far between, confined to the fastnesses of the mountains, or concealed in some pathless forest--only showing themselves by stealth and on rare occasions upon the public highways, or in the inhabited districts of the country.