"You have some advice to give me, signora? What is it?"

"It is that you should write again--write to your friends. You must have some friends--you the son of a great _galantuomo_, as your countryman, Ricardo, tells us you are. Write to these friends--tell them to see your father, and urge upon him the necessity of sending the ransom demanded. It is your only chance of escaping from the fate I have told you of--that is, from being fearfully mutilated, first tortured and then shot."

"Surely, there is another?" said the captive, for the first time speaking in--a tone of appeal to his strange counsellor.

"Another! If you think so, tell me what it is."

"Your favour, signora!"

"How?"

"_You_ can find me the means of escaping from this prison."

"Ah! that is just possible, but not so easy. If I succeeded, it could only be by giving my life for yours! Would you wish me to do that, signore?"

"No--no!"

"Such a sacrifice would be certain. You know not how I am watched.

'Tis only by stealth, and a bribe to Tommaso, I've been able to enter here. Corvino's jealousy--ah, _Signor Inglese_, I have been deemed handsome!--_you_ may not think so."

Her hand once more rested on the young Englishman's shoulder--once more to be repelled, but this time with greater gentleness. He feared to wound her self-esteem, and stir the tigress that slumbered in that darkened Italian heart. He made reply as he best could, without committing himself.

"Even were he to know of this interview," she continued, still speaking of Corvino, "by the law of our band my life would be forfeited. You see that I am ready to serve you!"

"You would have me write, then? How is it to be done? Can a letter be sent?"

"Leave that to me. Here are some sheets of paper, ink, and a pen. I have brought them with me. You can have no light now; I dare not give it you. Corvino's captives must not be made too comfortable--else they would be less urgent for their friends to set them free. When the morning sun shines in through your window, then write. Tommaso will bring you your breakfast, and take your letter in exchange. It will be my care to see that it be sent."

"Oh, thanks, signora!" exclaimed the grateful captive, seizing hold of the offered gift with an eagerness he had not hitherto shown. A new idea had come suddenly into his mind. "A thousand thanks!" he repeated; "I shall do as you say."

"_Buono notte_!" said the brigandess, putting the writing materials into his hand, at the same time pressing it with a fervour that betrayed something more than pity. "_Buono notte, galantuomo_!" she added.

"Sleep without fear. If it should come to that, you may command even the life of her you have heard called _Cara Popetta_."

Henry Harding was but too happy when she permitted him to disengage himself from her clasp; which, though scarce understood, filled him with a feeling somewhat akin to repulsion. He was happier still, when she stole silently out of his cell, and he heard the door, closing behind her.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

WRITING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

As soon as the captive became convinced that his visitor was gone for good, he lay down upon the fern leaves and gave way to profound reflection--the subject, of course, being what had just pa.s.sed between him and Popetta. What could be her motive for the advice thus voluntarily given? Was it a trap to betray him? It could hardly bear this construction--for what was there to betray? He was already in the power of the bandits, for life as for death. What more could they want?

"Ah!" thought he, "I see through it now! After all, it may be Corvino's doing. He may have put her up to this, to make more sure of getting the money for my ransom. He thinks that her counsel, given in this side way, will terrify me, and make me write in stronger terms to my father."

But the answer to these self-asked questions did not quite satisfy him.

What need was there for any scheme of the kind on the part of the bandit chief? He had dictated the letter sent. If stronger terms had seemed necessary, he would have insisted on their insertion. The former conjecture fell through.

Then, supposing Popetta's counsel to him had been loyal, what could be her motive?

Henry Harding was yet young, and but little experienced in the ways of woman's heart. He could count but one experience, and that of a different kind. Only by some ill-understood whisperings of Nature was he guided to a suspicion of what this strange woman meant; and he cared not to continue the reflection.

For all that he eagerly seized at her suggestion. It promised to a.s.sist him in a design he had already half conceived, though without much prospect of being able to carry it into execution. It was to write to Luigi Torreani in London, and warn him of the peril in which his sister was placed. He could write to his own father all the same, and in more pressing terms--as he had been counselled; for he had now become sensible of a dread impending danger.

The behaviour of the brigands--which for more than a week he had been witnessing--had produced upon him a serious impression--altogether effacing that imbibed by contemplating the stage bandit of picturesque habiliments and courteous carriage. However he might have felt about the representative robber looking at him from the stall of a theatre, he could see there would be no trifling with the real personage, when contemplated by one completely in his power upon the summit of an Italian mountain. Everything around proclaimed the seriousness of his situation. It had become too critical for him to affect further indifference, or feel in any way contented. No longer able to sleep, he watched anxiously for the light of morning.

No sooner did daybreak show itself through the window of his cell, than he spread out the paper with which Popetta had provided him, and commenced writing his letters. His table was the stone-paved floor; his chair the same. He wrote lying flat along the flags. There were two separate epistles. When finished they were as follows--the first to his father:--

"Dear Father,--

"By this time, I presume, you will have received a letter, which I wrote to you eight days ago, and which I have reason to believe was carried to you by special messenger. I have no doubt that its contents will have surprised and perhaps pained you. It was an appeal which, I must confess, I was very little inclined to make; but it was done at the dictation of a brigand, with a pistol held to my head, so there was no help for it. I am writing this one under different circ.u.mstances--on the floor of the cell where I am imprisoned; and without being overlooked by my jailers. I can add little to what I have said before--only that I am not now speaking under compulsion.

From what I've lately learnt, I can a.s.sure you that my former communication--though I thought so at the time--contained no idle words. The threat made in it by the brigand chief, he means most surely to execute; and if the sum named be not sent to him, he will.

The first part of his performance is to be the cropping off my ears, and forwarding them to your address. The latter he has learned from a strange source, of which I may as well inform you--from our old discharged gamekeeper, Doggy d.i.c.k, who happens to be one of his band.

How the scoundrel came to be here, I cannot tell. I only know that he is here; and the most hostile to me of the whole fraternity. He remembers the thrashing I gave him, and takes care to keep me constantly in mind of it.

"Now, dear father, I have told you all about how I am situated; and if you deem it worth while to extract your unworthy son from his dangerous dilemma, send on the money. You may think 5,000 pounds rather a high figure to pay for such a life as mine. So do I; but unfortunately I am not permitted to name my own price. If it appear too much, perhaps you would not object to send the 1,000 pounds you promised I should have at your death. Then I shall make the best bargain I can with the rogues who've got me in p.a.w.n.

"Hoping to hear from you by return of post--this, I believe, is to go by post--I remain your closely guarded son,--

"Henry Harding.

"To General Harding,

"Beechwood Park, Bucks, England."

Such was the letter from Henry Harding to his father. That to his friend Luigi was shorter, though perhaps more impressive in its suggestions. It ran as follows:--

"Dear Luigi,

"I have only time to say three words to you. I am a prisoner to a band of brigands--the band of Corvino, of whom, if I mistake not, I have heard you speak. The place is in the Neapolitan mountains, about forty miles from Rome, and twenty from your native town. I saw your sister while on my way through it as a captive. I did not know her at the time; but I have since learnt something I almost hesitate to tell you. It must be told, however; and it is for that I write you this letter. _Lucetta is in danger--the brigand chief has designs upon her_! I learnt it by a conversation between two of the band, whom I chanced to overhear. I need not add more. You will best know how to act; and there is no time to be lost. G.o.d speed and guide you!

"Yours,

"Henry Harding."

The letters were ready for the _post_, long before Tommaso brought in the breakfast.

Without saying a word he slipped them into the breast pocket of his coat, and carried them away with him.

That same night they were on board the mail steamer on the way from Civita Vecchia to Ma.r.s.eilles.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

A SHORT TRIAL.

The brigands returned from their raid two days earlier than they had been expected.