The captive Boy and his grisly Visitant.—The Hand on his
Head.—Denouement.—The Brigand Family.—The old Crone.—The Robber
Wife.—The Brigand Children.—A Revolution of Feeling.—The main
Road.—The Carriage.—In Search of Bob.

Paralyzed with terror, dumb with horror, Bob lay motionless and almost breathless; and the grisly old hag reached out her long, lean, thin, bony, withered, shrivelled hand, and took his hair, while with the other hand she raised her sharp weapon.

She took his hair very lightly and tenderly; so lightly, indeed, that Bob was just conscious of her touch; and though he expected that he would be torn from his bed and struck dead the next instant, yet this fate was delayed.

She took his hair then in her hand very gently and tenderly, and in her other hand she raised the sharp weapon.

Now, the sharp weapon was a pair of sheep-shears.

These shears she held forward, and with them she snipped off, as noiselessly as possible, a lock of Bob's hair.

She pressed the lock of hair to her thin lips, looked at it steadfastly for some time, pressed it once more to her lips, and then put it in the folds of her dress.

Then kneeling by Bob's side, she looked at him long and earnestly. She bent over him, and looked down upon him. She laid the shears upon the floor, clasped her withered hands together, and gazed upon the boy. He lay still. His eyes were closed; but the delay of his fate and the snip of the shears in his hair bad roused him somewhat from his abyss of terror. He opened his eyes wide enough to see what was going on. He could not see the old woman's face, but he saw her kneeling, and he saw her thin hands clasped before her, like one in prayer, and tremulous.

The old woman bent over him; and if Bob could have seen her face he would have known that this old creature was an object of any other feeling rather than fear. Pale it was, that face that was over him, and wrinkled, and emaciated; but there was upon it a softened expression—an expression of yearning and of longing. That which at a distance had seemed to his frightened fancy a hungry, ghoulish look, was now nothing more than the earnest, fixed gaze of a love that longed to be satisfied—a gaze like that of a bereaved mother who sees some one who reminds her of her lost boy, and looks at him with a look of unutterable yearning. So, now, it was with this poor old decrepit creature. Perhaps in her past life some son had been torn from her, of whom Bob reminded her, and she had come now to feast herself with his face, which reminded her of her lost boy, to take a lock of his hair, to bow down over him in speechless emotion. Here, then, she knelt, her poor hands clasping each other tremulously, her aged breast heaving with repressed sighs, while from her weak eyes there fell tears which dropped upon the face of the boy.

Those tears had a wonderful effect.

As Bob's half-opened eyes saw the old woman's attitude, his grisly terror left him; his heart regained its ordinary pulsation; the tremendous pressure that had been upon his soul was removed; warm, and fresh, and free, his young blood sped through his veins, and all his frame was quickened to a bounding life and vigor. By the force of this reaction he was roused from his stony lethargy, his paralysis of horror, and his presence of mind was restored. Then there came those tears which fell upon his face. This completed the recovery of his self-command. It did more. It assured him that he was an object, not of murderous fury, but of tender love, and that the one whom he had feared had come, not with purposes of cruelty, but with yearnings of affection. Why this should be he knew not; he was content to know that it was so; and in this knowledge all fear died out. Bat even now he felt somewhat embarrassed, for the old woman was evidently only giving way to her emotion because she believed him to be asleep; and thus he was an unwilling witness of feelings which she supposed to be seen by none. In this there seemed to be something dishonorable, and he wished the scene to end. He chose to do so therefore by making a few movements without opening his eyes; that is, he changed his position several times, turned himself over and back again, and thus gave signs of waking. Upon this the old woman silently took her lamp and shears, and left the apartment by the way she had come.

So ended the adventure.

The effect produced upon Bob was a varied one. He still felt the consequences of that horror into which he had fallen, that spasm and convulsion of terror which had seemed to turn him to stone, yet the relief that had been found was inexpressibly sweet. In spite of the pain which still lingered about his heart, there came a calmer and happier frame of mind; the pain itself also gradually died out, and its only result was a general languor. So commonplace a termination to what seemed a terrible event made his whole situation and his other prospects seem commonplace, and he even began to think that his captors might turn out to be as commonplace as the old woman.

He fell again into a deep sleep, and did not wake till it was broad day. On descending, the people all respectfully bade him good morning. Breakfast was ready, consisting of black bread, stew, and some coffee. Outside, the view was superb; the rising sun had not yet ascended high enough to shine down into the valley, but the glowing heavens, and the shadows of the mountains, and the light green of the little space nearest, with the darker green of the forests that clothed the mountain-sides, all made the spectacle a memorable one.

Bob's whole state of mind was more healthy, and cheerful, and hopeful than it had been. Everything appeared bright and favorable. The old woman, as he looked at her this morning, did not seem to be at all repulsive. Her face was shrivelled, it is true, and her eyes were weak; but she looked gentle and mild, and treated him with very great favor and attention. The slatternly woman did not seem worse than any other Italian peasant woman. The children were dirty, no doubt; in fact, very dirty; but then they were brown, and healthy, and merry, not inclined to mischief, and quite respectful to him. In short, Bob found himself surveying his situation and its surroundings with much complacency, and he began to feel that he had misjudged these people altogether the night before.

But other things were yet in store which were to redeem still more the character of these people. He was standing outside the house after breakfast, when, to his surprise, he saw the second "brigand" approach. He knew that he had not had time to go to Salerno and return; so he saw that he could not have been to Salerno at all. He seemed to Bob to be going there now, for he was mounted on a donkey, and led another by the bridle. The one which he led was no other than the ass which had carried Bob to this place.

Bob's only thought at seeing this was, that the "brigand" was now setting forth for Salerno, and was about to take the donkey with him, either to sell it, or to return it to the owner, and get a reward. But this idea was not left long in his mind.

The first "brigand" came out, and the two men talked to one another, after which they turned to Bob, and the first brigand explained to him that he was to mount the donkey. He pointed to the animal, smiled, waved his hand towards the road by which Bob had come, and uttered the word "Salerno."

Bob's heart gave a wild leap; he could scarcely believe what he heard; but the faces of the two men were smiling, and they continued to nod, and gesticulate, and repeat the word "Salerno." They looked like two benevolent farmers, and Bob wondered how he could ever have seen anything malignant in their very good natured faces.

Of course there was nothing to do now but to hurry away to his friends. Yet Bob was not willing to take too abrupt a leave. He remembered the old woman, and thought with a softened heart about her emotion. He went back into the house, and shook hands with her for good by. He even knew enough Italian to say "Addio." The old creature was much softened and burst into tears. Bob gave her one of his cuff-buttons as a souvenir, for he had nothing else to give, and the cuff-button was an uncommonly elaborate affair; and he had the satisfaction of seeing that the old woman took it as though it was of inestimable value. He then went around among them all, shook hands with all of them, from the slatternly woman down to the smallest of the dirty children, and gave each one of them something—to the woman, a pencil case; to one child, his pocket knife; to another, a watch key; to a third, a shirt stud; to a fourth, a memorandum book; and to the fifth, a handkerchief.

"Brigand" number two was going to accompany him, and it was now evident to Bob that the delay which had taken place in his restoration to his friends was probably owing to the fact that they had to wait to procure bridles, or another donkey. It only remained for him now to bid good by to "brigand" number one, which he did with great earnestness, and cordiality, and fervor; presenting him at the same time with his neck-tie, a very brilliant piece of satin, which the Italian received with a great flourish, and profuse expressions of thankfulness. Bob had several times regretted his ignorance of the Italian language since his arrival in the country, but never had his regrets been more sincere than on this occasion. Had he been able to speak Italian he would have made a speech then and there, and have invited them all, from the old woman down to the smallest child, to come and visit him and his friends either at Salerno, or at Naples, or in far-off America. But alas! Bob's tongue was tied, and so the invitation remained unuttered. He did what he could, however, and utterly exhausted the whole language of signs in the attempt to express to them his thanks, and his good wishes for their happiness. The simple people seemed to comprehend him, for they were by no means dull, and gesticulated in return many things which seemed to convey the same meaning; and when at last Bob rode away, the humble inhabitants watched him until he passed out of sight.