Foxholme Hall, and Other Tales
Page 40
blandly, asbefore. "And you, Signor Postiglione, what do you say?"
"That I am unprejudiced; but it depends on the offer you can make me,most worthy signori," answered the postillion.
"You see that grave; one of you two will fill it before ten minutes areover," said the bandit, with terrible calmness.
"Oh, oh! then I will join you or do anything you wish, most worthy andhonourable gentlemen," exclaimed the poor fellow, trembling in everylimb.
"You have selected wisely, friend," said the bandit, with an unpleasantsmile; "but you will understand that we require proof of your sincerity;vows are, like strings of macaroni, easily broken. You will have thegoodness to take this pistol, and shoot yonder contumacious slave of thesteward of the Prince Montefalcone. I wish that I could have given youthe satisfaction of shooting the Prince himself."
The postillion took the pistol which the brigand handed to him, buthesitated to lift it towards the head of the victim.
"Come, come! we are transacting business," cried the brigand, with aterrible frown. "If you are in earnest, fire; if not, we will give himhis choice of shooting you."
The servant, who had not seemed till this moment to understand the cruelfate prepared for him, turned an imploring glance at the brigandssurrounding him; but no expression of commiseration could he discover inthe countenances of any of them. He was in the act of lifting up hishands towards the blue sky above his head, when the report of a pistolwas heard, and he fell flat on his face to the ground.
Instantly the outer clothing was stripped off, the pockets rifled, andthe yet warm corpse was thrown into the grave and covered up.
"Put on this," said the brigand, handing the murdered man's jacket tothe postillion; "you've made a good beginning, and, as your life is nownot worth a half carline if you were to appear in Naples, when you havetaken the oath you may consider yourself one of us; but you'll remember,that if you ever turn traitor, though you were to fly to the centre ofthe Vatican, or to cling to the altar of Saint Peter's, you would not besafe from our vengeance. Now, onward, comrades!"
After climbing some way the band reached their huts, where, the remainsof the carriage being piled in a heap, a fire was lighted, and they setto work to cook the remainder of their provisions, with the pleasantknowledge that they had now the means amply to replenish their supply.Having eaten and drunk their fill of salt fish, oil, garlic, macaroni,and sour wine, they stretched themselves, wrapped up in their cloaks, attheir lengths inside the hut, while one stood sentry at a spot whence hecould watch the only approach to this rocky domain. Such was theeveryday life of these gentlemen. It would require a curious twist ofthe imagination to conceive Ninco Nanco a hero, or his followersotherwise than unmitigated villains.
Poor Pietro, the postillion, soon discovered that he was to be a merehewer of wood to the band.
While awaiting a reply to their letters, Greco and a companion were sentoccasionally into the neighbouring village to procure provisions andnecessaries, for which they honestly paid, the traders not finding itconvenient to give credit to gentlemen of their profession. Only tworecruits joined them, invited by Greco, old hands at the trade. Noanswers were returned to the rest of their epistles.
"We must take other means of recruiting our forces," exclaimed NincoNanco, pulling his moustachios in a way which meant mischief.
Story 11--CHAPTER TWO.
A long, low cottage, with broad verandahs, over which luxuriant vineshad been taught to creep, stood on the side of one of the numerousridges of the Apennines, some way to the east of Naples, in the provinceof Basilicata. It belonged to old Marco Maffei, a contadino, or smallfarmer, who had nothing very peculiar about him except that he was anhonest man, and that he had a very pretty daughter, an only child, bornwhen he was already advanced in life, and now the joy and comfort of hisdeclining years. It was no fault of the pretty Chiarina that she hadadmirers, especially as she did her best to keep them at a respectfuldistance. Her heart, however, was not altogether made of stone; andtherefore, by degrees, the young, good-looking, and gallant LorenzoTadino had somehow or other contrived to make an impression on it,deeper, perhaps, than Chiarina would have been willing to acknowledge,even to herself. From the house could be seen, some way below, the highroad already spoken of, which stretches from the Adriatic to the westernwaters of the Mediterranean. Lorenzo, or 'Renzo, as he was morefamiliarly called, was standing just outside the entrance-gate of thefarm, while Chiarina, distaff in hand, sat within, under the shade ofthe wide-spreading vines which, supported by trellis-work, formed anarch overhead. Her father had gone to market some miles off, leavingher in charge with an old man, who had been with him for many years, andher serving-maiden as her attendant. In the absence of her father, hersense of propriety would not allow her to admit 'Renzo within the gate;nor did he complain, for Chiarina had confessed that if she ever didsuch a foolish thing as to fall in love, she should in all probabilityselect him as the object of her affections, provided always that herfather approved of her choice. 'Renzo had just gone inside the arbourto thank her, it is possible, for her judicious selection, when theirattention was drawn towards the road by the sound of horses' feetgalloping furiously along it. There were three horsemen, wild-lookingfellows, each with a carbine or rifle in his hand. As they were passingdirectly under the house one of the steeds fell, and the rider wasthrown with violence to the ground. His companions pulled rein, anddismounted to assist him. He must have been severely hurt; for, afterthey had tied their horses to a tree, they were seen bearing him up thesteep path leading to the cottage.
"You will have the goodness to take care of this cavalier, and to seethat no injury befalls him," said one of them to Chiarina, as theyreached the arbour.
'Renzo frowned, but to little purpose, at their impudent manner. Itwould have been against Chiarina's gentle nature to refuse to take careof the injured man. There was not another house along the high road fornearly half-a-league, and he would die before he could be carried there.
The men turned their glances uneasily up the road. Some object was seenapproaching. They immediately placed their burden on the ground, andwere about to make off down the hill at full speed, when Chiarinaexclaimed that it was her father.
Old Marco, though he did not look over well pleased at seeing thestrangers, after exchanging a few words with them, at once consented totake charge of their wounded comrade. Calling 'Renzo to his aid, helifted the man from the ground to bear him towards the house.
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"Remember, if harm befalls him!--" exclaimed one of the men, lifting uphis finger, as he turned to hurry down the hill.
"If harm befalls him it will be no fault of mine," answered Marco.
The stranger was carried in and placed on Marco's own bed, and hisinjuries carefully looked to; while his comrades, having caught hishorse, galloped off with it along the road at the same headlong speed asthat at which they were before going.
After some time the stranger opened his eyes and looked about him with avery troubled expression, till they fell on Marco. He then seemed moresatisfied.
"What has happened?" he asked.
Marco told him.
"I can trust you, old friend?" he whispered.
"Yes, yes, no fear," said Marco, turning away; "I would, though, thatyour shadow had never darkened my doorway."
Chiarina longed to know who the stranger could he; yet she did not liketo ask her father. 'Renzo, left equally in ignorance, at length wascompelled to take his departure, not at all satisfied in his mind thatall would go well.
Story 11--CHAPTER THREE.
Had the stranger been a son, Marco could not have tended him withgreater care than he did, aided by Chiarina, who, however, never gotover the mistrust she had felt of him from the first. 'Renzo camewhenever he could, and never before had he been so sensible of makingrapid progress in her affections. The truth is, she felt that sherequired some one on whom she cou
ld rely for protection and support.Her father never gave a hint as to who the stranger was, and all sheknew was that he looked at her in a way she did not like, and that hespoke in a bold, self-confident tone, which grated harshly on her ears.He had now almost entirely recovered his strength, but, except when theshades of evening came on, he did not go out of doors. The only reasonhe gave for this was, that the light of day was disagreeable to hiseyes. It was evident that Marco wished that he would take hisdeparture. In the first place, Marco could not go to market; in thesecond, the stranger was making love, in a rough way, to his daughter;in the third, he was eating up his provisions; and, in the fourthplace--but that reason, probably stronger than any of the others, hekept to himself. 'Renzo would gladly have volunteered to turn him outcrop and heel, but that would not have suited Marco's notions