  Produced by Al Haines. [Transcriber's note: This volume references page 186 in Volume 1. ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP: OR, A CAMPAIGN IN CALABRIA. BY JAMES GRANT, ESQ. AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR." Claud. I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye, That liked, but had a rougher task in hand Than to drive liking to the name of love: But now I am returned, and that war thoughts Have left their places vacant; in their rooms Come thronging soft and delicate desires, All prompting me how fair young Hero is, Saying how I liked her ere I went to war. SHAKSPEARE. IN THREE VOLUMES. LONDON: London: CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.— ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP. CHAPTER I. THE THIRD PENITENT—THE MONK. The escape of a second victim from the vaults caused a great surmising and anxiety at Canne; and although, no doubt, the cardinal suspected that I had a hand in the matter, he never spoke of it. The astonishment of the keeper was boundless, when he discovered his charge vanishing so unaccountably: he was accused of conspiracy, and imprisoned by order of the podesta. The poor man defended himself before the tribunal, by laying the blame upon—whom think you, gentle reader?—VIRGIL; who is regarded by the lower order of Italians less as a poet, than as a conjuror and magician, upon whose guilty head the blame of everything wicked and wonderful is laid. Among the mountains, he has for ages been deemed the architect of every devilish contrivance, every fathomless cavern, splendid crag, fantastic rock, and ruined tower. A long dispute ensued between two learned lawyers, concerning the question whether it might or might not have been Virgil; and the decision was given for the prisoner, on the testimony of the chiavaro, or smith: who declared that a venerable man with a white beard, meagre aspect, and eyes like living coals, had ordered a set of keys like those produced in court, for which he paid in strange and antique coin; and when he (the chiavaro) looked for them next day, they had vanished from his pouch, showing plainly that they were coins of hell. All present crossed themselves; and the keeper was immediately set at liberty, and restored to his dignity and bunch of keys. Of the Cavalier Paola, I had intelligence before leaving Canne. Gathering together a band of those bold spirits who infested the wilds of the Brettian forest, he fired the palace of his foe, the bishop; who narrowly escaped with a severe bullet wound, of which he soon after died. For this outrage, Casteluccio had to pay many a bright ducat to the altars of mother church, before he was permitted to resume his place in society; and it was not until the death of Murat that he obtained peaceable possession of his patrimony at Cosenza. Several days elapsed without the appearance of the Roman courier, and I became very impatient to rejoin my regiment. Notwithstanding the risk of discovery, prompted equally by curiosity and humanity, I made a last visit to those frightful vaults, to free the remaining captive. The stillness of midnight was around me when I entered, but a noisy singing rang through the echoing cells; the measure was a boisterous sailor's carol, such as I had often heard the fishermen singing, as they sat mending their nets on the shore of Messina. I beheld in the third captive, an Italian, about forty years of age, possessing a powerful and savage aspect, strongly chained to a large stone which served him for a chair and table, while a pile of straw between it and the wall formed his bed. He was flourishing his arms and snapping his fingers whilst he sang; but ceased on my entrance, and regarded me with a sullen stare of surprise. A large leathern flask, which stood on the stone near him, explained the cause of his merriment. "Ha! thou cursed owl that pokest about in the night, what seek you here, when you should be snug in the dormitory? Up helm and away, black devil! there's no girl here to confess—no one but Lancelloti of Fruili, a born imp of Etna, who will break every bone in your hypocritical body, if it comes within reach of his grapnels!" "The pirate—the companion of Petronio!" I exclaimed; "are you that Lancelloti of whom I have heard so much? Astonishing!" "Ho! ho! what are you talking about?" asked the captive, rolling his great head about. "I tell you, Signor Canonico, that I am Osman Carora, a jovial monk of Friuli—(what am I saying?) yes, Friuli—would I was there again! Never have I seen a prospect equal to the fair Carinthian mountains, and the deep rocky dales through which the Isonza sweeps, on to the Gulf of Trieste. It was my hap to look for many a dreary day through the iron bars of my dormitory on that gulf, and afterwards to sail, with royals and sky-sails set, every rope a-taunto, and the red flag of Mahomet flying at the foremast head. Accursed bishop! I may revenge me yet, if the good friend who brings me this jolly flask every night proves true. Ah, Truffi, though crooked in form and cross in spirit, thou art an angel of light to me!" "Truffi!" said I; "mean you Gaspare?" The renegade, moved alternately by brutality, rage, and maudlin sentimentality, burst into a shout of drunken laughter. "You know him—ha! ha! and are a jolly priest after all. Alla akbar! instead of a prying monkish spy, I find you a comrade. Thou who knowest Gaspare must doubtless have heard of me. He is now in Canne, planning my escape from this cursed cockpit; to which the double-dyed villany of Petronio has consigned me. Gaspare was my stanch gossip in the cloisters of Friuli, and my master-at-arms and fac-totum on board the Crescent: his ingenuity alone saved me when I had nearly fallen into the clutches of the grand bailiff, for slaying the Capitano Batello. Fi! the recollection of that adventure haunts me yet: the glazing eyes, the clenched teeth, the pale visage, and the gleaming sword; the silver hairs, and the old man's blood streaming on the white dress and whiter bosom of his daughter! "O, cursed flask!" said the ruffian, pausing to squeeze the leathern bottle. "May every monk and mollah anathematize thee in the name of Christ and Mahomet; for thou art now empty, useless, and upon thy vacuity I cry anathema! Beautiful wert thou indeed, Paula Batello, and too pure a being for such a serpent as Lancelloti to behold!" "Caro signor, I would gladly hear her story?" "And so thou shalt: firstly, because thou art a comrade of our Apollo with the hump; secondly, because I would like to hear thy opinion upon it; and thirdly, because I love to have some one to talk to in this blasted vault, whose walls I would that Satan rent asunder and ruined for ever." And without further preface, he commenced the following story; which deserves a chapter to itself. CHAPTER II. THE MONK'S STORY. The Capitano Batello was an old soldier of the Venetian Republic, who, after an active life, retired to spend the winter of his days among the woody solitudes of Friuli. All the village loved the good old capitano, who made wooden swords and flags for the children, and retailed his campaigns and adventures a thousand times to the frequenters of the cantina, where he was the military and political oracle; and at mass, all made way for the white-haired old man, when he came slowly marching up the aisle, with the Signorina Paula leaning on his arm. The old soldier's doublet was perhaps a little threadbare, or his broad hat glazed at the edge; yet he never forgot his rank, even when struggling for existence with half a ducatoon a day. But Paula, the gentle-voiced, the blue-eyed and fair-haired Paula, was the admiration of all—the glory of the village; and the old captain watched her as a miser would a precious jewel. Beard of Ali! she would have brought a princely sum at Algiers. She was beautiful, and her soft blue eyes looked one fully and searchingly in the face with all the confidence of perfect innocence. Her mother was gone to heaven, as the captain said, when he engaged me as tutor to Paula and her brother: an office for which I received a trifle, that went into the treasury of San Baldassare—a trap which swallowed everything. The boy, Rosario, was a chubby little rogue, and for a time I took pleasure in hearing their lisping accents, as they conned over their task in an arbour which Paula's hands had formed at the back of their little cottage. Thunder! how often have I looked back with astonishment on those days, when on the gun-deck of the Crescent I stood at the head of five hundred of the boldest hearts of Tunis and Tripoli. Who then could have recognised in Osman the blood-thirsty, the hypocritical Fra Lancelloti? Yes! I was ever a hypocrite, and regarded with scorn and detestation the sombre garb which tied me to the monastery. But my fate was not in my own hands: my parents were a son and daughter of old mother church, and I came into the world very unfortunately for both parties. They threw me into the lantern of San Baldassare, where thirty years before my father had been found himself. As a reward for giving me life, my mother died in the dungeons of San Marco; and my father expiated his share in the matter at the first general auto-da-fÉ: so you see that I come of a martyred family. A prisoner from my boyhood upwards, I looked upon the world as a realm of light and joy, from which I was for ever debarred by those mysterious vows which the monks had induced me to profess before their meaning was understood. When from my iron grate I looked on the vale of the winding Isonza, blooming with foliage and verdure and bounded by the blue Carinthian hills, and listened to the rushing sound of the free bold river, how intense were my longings to follow its course to where it plunged headlong into the Gulf of Trieste; where for hours I have watched the scudding sails till my eyes and heart ached. O, hours of longing and of agony! To see nature spread before me in all her glory, yet be unable to taste her sweets: to be a prisoner without a crime. And love, or what the world calls love, I knew not what it was; though a secret spirit whispered within me: I longed to look on some fair face, and to hear a gentle voice reply to mine; but love's magic, its mystery, and its madness, I was yet to learn. With a heart thus formed, and open to the assaults of that wicked little god—whom the ancients should have depicted as a giant—you may imagine my sensations on finding myself in the presence of Paula; whose face and form far outshone the famous Madonna of our chapel. A hot blush suffused my cheek: but the fair face of Paula revealed only the rosy tinge of health, and her brow the calm purity of perfect innocence. I was silent and awed in her presence: an Italian monk awed by a girl of seventeen! With evening I returned to the cloisters; and a chill sank upon my heart as their cold shadows fell over me. I was in my old dormitory, where the truckle-bed, the polished skull, the cross, and rough vaulted roof seemed yet the same: but I was changed. The recollection of Paula's soft gazelle-like eyes and snowy breast never left me for a moment, and I passed a sleepless night. "O, that I were a soldier or a cavalier, for then Batello would respect, and his daughter might love me: but a priest—a priest—anathema! anathema! there is no hope for me: none! O, malediction! why did I ever behold thee, Paula?" Thus passed the night. Noon found me again in the arbour of Batello's garden: the golden-haired and ruddy-cheeked Rosario was drawling over his task; but I neither heard nor beheld him. I saw only his sister, who, seated beneath the shadow of the luxuriant rose-trees, was immersed in the glowing pages of the warrior bard, Luigi Tansilla, the brave follower of Piero di Toledo. The rays of the sun streamed between the foliage of the arbour, lighting up her fair ringlets, which glittered like living gold; her white neck sparkled in the same mysterious radiance: a glory seemed around her, and the soft calm aspect of her downcast face made her seem the very image of our lovely lady, the famed Madonna of Cantarini. Intoxicated with her appearance, I trembled when addressing her, while she entered frankly into conversation with me on the merits of the soldier's poems. Full and calmly her mild eyes gazed on mine, yet no suspicion struck her of the passion which glowed within me; and which I dared not reveal, for death was the doom: on the one hand, her firm father's poniard; on the other, the dungeons of the Piombi or the horrors of the holy office. By night the ravings of my dreams were heard by the tenants of the adjoining dormitories, Petronio and Truffi the crookback; and they soon learned from my mutterings that I loved Paula, the daughter of the Signor Batello. Petronio—the same accursed Petronio, who from his archiepiscopal palace sent forth the mandate which entombed me here, when, after a tough battle with a Maltese cruiser, I was cast half drowned and bleeding on the beach of Canne—Petronio, whose matchless hypocrisy makes his villany even of a deeper dye than mine, then came to act the part of friend; to counsel me to destruction, and to become the evil genius of the good Batello and his innocent children. A thorough Italian monk, dark, gloomy, and superstitious, he was my senior by fifteen years, and had secretly plunged into all the excesses of Venice. Like the fiendish hunchback, he was an adept in every dissimulation and debauchery, and boasted of his exploits; till, ashamed of my weakness, I took heart, and burned for distinction in the same worthy fields. I put myself under his guidance and tuition: to effect what? O, innocent Paula! I had resolved, by every art of reasoning and sophistry, to break down the barriers of religion and modesty, and bend her mind to my purpose. But each successive day when I looked upon her snowy brow, her pure and happy face, blooming with beauty and radiant with youth, my diabolical purpose was left unfulfilled, unattempted; and my heart shrank from the contest. Sometimes young and handsome cavaliers, from the castle of Gradiska or the citadel of Friuli, came to visit the old capitano; and the gallantry of their air, the glitter of their military garb and weapons, the ease with which they lounged about, strummed on the mandolin, or whispered soft nothings to the fair girl, made my envious heart burn with alternate rage and jealousy. Intensely I longed to be like one of them: and yet I could have slain them all, and Paula too when she smiled on them. But I soon found a more powerful auxiliary to my love, than either Petronio's sophistry or Truffi's villany could furnish: and where think you? In Paula's own heart. Ho! ho! a young girl soon discovers that which is the sole object of her thoughts by day, and her dreams by night—a lover! There is a mysterious emotion so pleasing to her heart, so flattering to her fancy, and altogether so peculiarly grateful to her mind in being beloved, that she gives way to all the fervour of a first passion with joy and trembling. Ha! thou knowest the hearts of our Italian girls: warm, tender, and easily subdued; what more can lover wish? The garrisons were marched to the Carinthian frontier, and the cavaliers came no more to the cottage of Batello: he spent the most of his time detailing his battles and reading the Diaries and Gazette at the wine-house; while his old housekeeper (whom my cowl kept in awe) was always occupied in household matters. I kept Rosario close to his task, and therefore had the dear girl all to myself. What could she hope for in yielding to such a passion? Remorse, despair, and madness! But of these the young damsel thought not then. Ha! I was then graceful and well looking, and we both were young and ardently in love. My eyes at one time, my tremulous tones at another, had informed her of the mighty secret which preyed upon my heart; and which my lips dared not reveal until the rapturous moment when I perceived the mutual flame that struggled in her bosom. Then, but not till then, did I pour forth a rhapsody expressive of my love; when yielding to its burning impulses, all the long-concealed ardour of my heart burst at once upon her ear. Love lent a light to my eyes, a grace and gesture to my figure, and imparted new eloquence to my tongue: I was no longer myself; no more the cold, cautious friar, but the impetuous Italian lover. The monk was forgotten in the man; my vows in the delight of the moment; and the lovely Paula sank upon my shoulder overcome with love and terror. O, hour of joy! when I first pressed my trembling lip to that soft and beautiful cheek. Long years of penance and of prayer—of dreary repining, of soul-crushing humiliation and sorrow—were all repaid by the bliss of that embrace: which I have never forgotten. No! not all the years that have passed since then; not all the dark villanies I have planned and perpetrated: and they are many; not all the dangers I have dared: and they are countless as the hairs of your head; not all the toils and miseries of a life can efface it from my memory. I was happy then: I who, perhaps, have never been so since. * * * * * A footstep aroused us, and the blushing girl shrank from me as the little boy Rosario came gamboling towards the arbour with a chaplet for her hair. I cast a fierce glance of hatred upon him. Even Paula was piqued, and refused to receive the flowers; upon which the child wept, and pulling my cassock, prayed me to lecture his sister for being so coy. "Scold her, Father Lancelloti!" said he, rubbing his glittering eyes with his plump little hands; "for she will neither kiss me nor receive my roses to put among her pretty hair, as she used to love to do." "Give me the flowers, child," said I; "shall I kiss sister Paula for you, Rosario?" "O, yes, yes," cried the little boy, "or sister Paula will kiss you, and then me." Our lips met, and the agitated and infatuated Paula embraced the child, who laughed and clapped his hands with innocent glee; and yet he knew not at what. At that moment the long sword of the captain jarred on the gravel walk, and his heavy tread rang beneath the trellis of the garden. Aware that, as a priest, I had wronged him in the declaration made to his daughter, and that I had committed a deadly sin before God, I shrank from meeting him; and, leaping over the garden-wall, returned to the monastery, where, not without sensations of triumph, I recounted my conquest to Petronio and the hunchback. Three days I visited her as usual, and rejoiced in the success of my amour; for I loved her tenderly and dearly. My air was so sanctified that the most jealous guardian would not have suspected me; then how much less the good Batello, who, by his profession, had been accustomed to intercourse with men of the strictest honour, and suspected no man of duplicity, because his own brave heart was guileless. My rose-bud of love was just beginning to bloom, when matters were doomed to have a terrible crisis. One bright forenoon, when Rosario had finished his task, I was about to return to Friuli, and merely bowed to Paula, because her father was present. "Brother Lancelloti," said he, grasping my cope, "hast heard the news? The senate is about to declare war against the Turks, and the capeletti are to be doubled. Brave news for an old soldier, eh! I may be a colonello, with Rosario for captain! Come hither, thou chubby rogue—wouldst like to be a captain?" "O, yes, if sister Paula would play with me as she used to do, and kiss me instead of Father Lancelloti." "Rosario! what sayest thou?" cried the fierce old soldier with a stentorian voice, while Paula grew pale as death, and my spirit died away within me; but the terrified child made no reply. The captain's face was black with rage: his eyes sparkled, and stern scorn curled his lip; yet he spoke calmly. "Go—go, Father Lancelloti, and may God forgive you! I will not require the services of your faithful reverence from to-day. Away—march! or you may fare worse: dare not to come here again, I am Annibal Batello—thou knowest me!" And, touching the hilt of his sword, he turned on his heel and left me. I rushed away, overwhelmed with bitterness, rage, and humiliation, and hating Rosario with the hate of a fiend. To Truffi and Petronio, my story was the source of endless merriment: the hunchback snapped his fingers, whooped, and laughed till the cloisters rang with his elfish joy. Deprived of my mistress, whom I dared not visit for dread of the captain's sword, stung by the taunts of my friends, dejected and filled with gloomy forebodings, the cloisters soon became intolerable to me. I formed many a romantic and desperate scheme to rid myself of those cursed trammels which monkish duplicity had cast around me in boyhood: but thoughts of the holy office, the Piombi, and the fate of my father, filled me with dismay; and I dared not fly from Friuli. One day, whilst wandering far up the banks of the Isonza, with a heart swollen by bitter thoughts, I plunged into the deepest recesses in search of solitude. Reaching the cascade which falls beneath the ancient castle of Fana, I paused to listen to the rushing water, whose tumult so much resembled my own mind. The voice of no living thing, save that of the lynx, broke the stillness around me: the lofty trees of the dense forest, clad in the richest foliage of summer, cast a deep shadow over the bed of the dark blue stream; which swept noiselessly on, between gloomy impending cliffs, until it reached the fall, where it poured over a broad ledge of rock, and thundered into a terrible abyss, whence the foam arose in a mighty cloud, white as Alpine snow. Rearing its grey and mossy towers high above the waving woods, the shattered rocks, and roaring river, the ancient castello looked down on the solitude beneath it. A mighty place in days gone by, it had been demolished by the bailiff of Friuli, for the crimes of Count Giulio (see vol. i. p. 186), and was now roofless and ruined; the green ivy clung to the carved battlement, and the rays of the bright sun poured aslant through its open loops and empty windows. But the scenery soothed not my heart: I burned for active excitement, to shake off the stupor that oppressed me. A turn of the walk brought me suddenly upon the little boy, Rosario, who was weaving a chaplet of wild roses and trailing daphne; culled, doubtless, for the bright tresses of Paula. Remembering some stern injunction from his father, on beholding me he fled as from a spectre. Like a tiger, I sprang after him: fear added wings to his flight; but I was close behind. A fall on the rocks redoubled my anger and impatience, and I caught him by his long fair hair, while he was in the very act of laughing at my mishap. "Cursed little babbler!" said I, shaking him roughly; "what deservest thou at my hands?" "Spare me, good Father Lancelloti, and I will never offend again." "Silence, or I will tear out thy tongue!" My aspect terrified him, and he screamed on his father and Paula to save him. "Paula!" said I, shaking him again, "thy devilish tongue hath destroyed Paula and me too!" "Spare me," said he, whimpering and smiling; "and pretty sister Paula will kiss you for my sake." "Anathema upon thee!" His words redoubled my fury, and I spat on him. The cascade roared beside me, the deepest solitude was around us, hell was in my heart, and the devil guided my hand; I launched the screaming child from the rocks: headlong he fell through the air, and vanished in the cloudy spray of the vast abyss. The bright sun became suddenly obscured by a cloud, and a deeper gloom stole over the dell of Fana: the ruined tower seemed a monstrous head, and its windows invidious eyes looking down on me—the landscape swam around, and I heard a cry of murder above the roar of the cascade. The yell of a lynx completed my terror, and I rushed in frenzy from the spot. * * * I was in my dormitory; the darkness of night was in my soul and all around me: overwhelmed with an excess of horror for my wanton crime, I spent the night in the agonies of penance and prayer, and making mental vows to sin no more. Had the universe been mine, I would have given it that Rosario might be restored to life. O, that I could have lived the last day over again, or have blotted it for ever from my mind! But, alas! the strong and dark fiend had marked me for his own. Through the silence of the still calm night, came the rush of the distant river: there was madness in the sound; but I could not exclude it, and the cry of the poor child mingled ever with its roar. Humble in spirit, and contrite in heart, at morning matins I bowed down in prayer among the brotherhood. The sublime symphonies of the hymn Veni Creator, or of the litanies of our lady of Loretto, the song of the choir and the mellifluous strain of the organ, rang beneath the vaulted dome like the voice of God and the knell of death; and yet they spoke of hope—hope to the repentant—and I prostrated myself before the altar: tears burst from my eyes, and the fire of my heart was assuaged. I left the monastery to seek some calm solitude, wherein to pour forth my soul in secret prayer; but my evil genius was beside me, and guided me to detection and disgrace. I wandered on, but knew not and cared not whither; wishing only to fly from the haunts of men and my own burning thoughts. Vain idea! Rosario, as he sank among the spray, his sister's tears, his father's sorrow, were ever before me, and I looked upon myself with horror. "Good father!" cried a voice, disturbing my dreadful reverie; "O, reverend signor, help, in the name of the Blessed Trinity!" I started with dismay—what did I behold? The white-haired veteran, Batello, bearing in his arms the dripping corpse of Rosario, while Paula clung to him overcome with sorrow and terror. Even the venerable goatherd, whose crook had fished up the dead child, was moved to tears; while I, the cause of the calamity, looked on with unmoved visage. Was it an index of my mind? O, no! a serpent was gnawing my heart: I could have screamed with agony; and my breath came close and thick. I trembled and panted while Batello spoke. "Fra Lancelloti," said he, "thou comest upon me in an hour of deep woe, when I have much need of godly consolation; but not from thy lips. A week ago we quarrelled: I know the weakness of the human heart, and from the bottom of my soul forgive thee; for in this terrible moment I cannot look on any man with anger. Pass on, in the name of God! for thy presence is—I know not why—peculiarly hateful to me at this moment. Many a dead face have I looked upon by breach and battlefield, but thou—my Rosario—thy mother—" and the old soldier kissed his dead child, and wept bitterly. The goatherd, who had been observing me narrowly, now whispered in Batello's ear. His eyes glared, and relinquishing the body, with one hand he grasped his sword, with the other my throat. "Double-dyed villain!—hypocrite!—thou knowest of this, and canst say how Rosario died! Speak, or this sword, never yet stained with the blood of a coward, shall compel thee." "Sacrilege!" I gasped, while Paula swooned: "Sacrilege!—I am a priest—" "Rosario's hand grasps part of a rosary—lo! thy chaplet is broken, and the beads are the same. Speak, ere I slay thee!" and he drew his sword. Trembling, I glanced at my girdle: but a half of my chaplet hung there; the other was grasped in the tenacious hand of Rosario. Overwhelmed with terror, I attempted to escape; and, in the blindness of his fury, the old man struck me repeatedly with his sword, while he cried aloud for help. Transported with fury at the sight of my own blood, and dreading discovery, I became mad, and plunged yet deeper into crime: closing with him, my strength and youth prevailed over his frame, now enfeebled by age, wounds, and long campaigns; I struck him to the earth, and with his own sword stabbed him to the heart. His blood streamed over Paula—I remember nothing more. I fled to the hills, and, throwing off my upper vestments, wandered in wild places, far from the reach of the Grand Bailiff; who offered five hundred ducats for my head, sent the carbineers of Gradiska and the vassals of the duchy to hunt me down, and established such a close chain of communication along the frontiers that escape was almost impossible. He solemnly vowed to avenge the murder of Batello (who had been the friend and fellow-soldier of his father, the old Count of Lanthiri) and I should assuredly have become his victim, and been consigned to the gallows or the Holy Office, had I not been joined by Gaspare Truffi; who, after transferring to his own pouch every bajoccho in the convent treasury, had come to share my fortunes in the wilderness. Changing our attire, we embarked for Greece; but were captured off Calabria by a corsair of Tunis. Whereupon I instantly turned Mussulman, and served his highness the Bey with such courage and devotion, that, as Osman Carora, I became the idol of the Tunisians, and terror of the Mediterranean. Enough!—thou knowest the rest. Shipwreck and the fortune of war placed me in the power of my old friend Petronio—and I am here." "And Paula?" "Became Contessa di Lanthiri, and soon forgot poor Fra Lancelloti." Such was the story related to me by the third captive whom those vaults contained: I have jotted it down just as it was related to me; but without the many pauses of maudlin grief, or oaths of rage, with which his half-intoxicated state caused him to intersperse it. I need hardly add that I left this deliberate ruffian to his fate, locking all the doors securely behind me; and, to make the keeper more alert in future—as I intended to return no more—I left my false keys in his niche in the little chapel. The terrified warder, on finding a set of keys the exact counterpart of his own, declared they must have belonged either to Virgil or to the devil: they were destroyed, the vaults sprinkled with holy water, and the wizard was seen no more. CHAPTER III. A NARROW ESCAPE. It was a clear and beautiful morning when I issued forth on my return to the cardinal's villa. As I passed a cantina by the roadside, under a trellis in front of it, I encountered two personages whom I had no wish to meet on that side of Massena's lines: the surly Captain Pepe, who treated me so insultingly at Crotona, and Truffi the hunchback, whom I recognised notwithstanding his disguise—a white Cistertian frock and shovel hat. Draughts, dominoes, and wine-horns were before them; and they had apparently passed the night at the table over which they leaned, sleeping away the fumes of their potations. As I passed, an unlucky house dog leaped forth from his barrel, yelling and shaking his chain. The captain, yet half intoxicated, started up and felt for his sword, and I saw a bastia knife gleaming in the long lean fingers of the cripple. "Corpo!" said he, "'tis only a priest." "Hola! call you that fellow a priest?" replied Pepe, balancing himself with difficulty: but, drunk as he was, he had the eyes of a lynx, and knew me in a moment. "Mille baionettes! an English spy. Ah, Monsieur Aide-de-camp!—villain! Hola, the quarter guard! Hola, the provost, and the noose from the nearest tree: À la lanterne!" He staggered towards me with his drawn sabre, and I supposing the cantina was full of soldiers, became alarmed, as the hideous Truffi yelled and whooped till the welkin rang. My death was certain if captured: not even York could have saved it, or those important despatches with which the general entrusted me. But I thought less of them than of Bianca, life, liberty, and honour. I easily wrenched Pepe's sabre from him, and knocked him down with my clenched hand: his head clattered on the hard dusty road, and he lay motionless. Truffi rushed on me with his poniard, but I dealt him a blow across the head with my sabre, and he fell prone over the body of his companion. I fled to the villa, entered unseen, and threw myself panting upon my bed; where, notwithstanding my fears and agitation, I soon fell fast asleep. In two hours after I was awakened by Catanio, whose countenance betokened something unusual. My first thought was of Captain Pepe. "The courier has arrived from Rome, and his Majesty awaits you." I leaped up, joyful at being undeceived so agreeably. "Has he brought the signora's dispensation?" "His Majesty has not said." My toilet was soon completed, and I was ushered into the presence of the cardinal, who was seated at breakfast. His Irish valet was in attendance. The plainness of his equipage contrasted strongly with the splendour of his pretensions. He was busy reading, and heard not our approach. "You see him, perhaps, for the last time," whispered Catanio. "Behold! does there not reign around him a mystic dignity that makes him seem as much a king as if he stood in the halls of Windsor or Holy rood? Ah, who can look on such a man, declining into the vale of life, venerable with years, the majesty and memory of ages, without being moved? But this is a cold and calculating age, without veneration for the past; and the regrets of those who love it, provoke but a smile from the selfish and unreflecting." Without partaking of his enthusiasm, I was not a little moved by his tone and words. "Catanio, place a chair for Captain Dundas," said the cardinal, perceiving us. "Sir, you will breakfast with me, as I have intelligence for you. Our most Holy Father has been pleased to dispense with the vows of the Signora D'Alfieri at my intercession; and on presenting this document to the Abbess at Canne, she will be free to quit the convent and resume her place in society. This is the despatch from the spedizioniere of the papal court." I returned thanks with suitable sincerity of manner. "Zamori, a Calabrian fisherman of Gierazzo, is now in the harbour of Carine with his little vessel, which, as Catanio informs me, will sail in the evening; on receipt of my order, Zamori will convey you to any part in Calabria, or place you on board the British frigate now cruising in the Adriatic." "A fisherman's bark will be but a comfortless place on these rough waters, for the delicate signora. But O, most sincerely have I to thank your Eminence for the interest you have taken in this matter, and the kindness you have shown me." "Captain Dundas, here at least I am a king!" said the old man, whose broad brow became clouded for the first time. "Though exiled, forgotten by Britain, and standing on the verge of the tomb, I will yield my pretensions only with my last breath." My reply was interrupted by the appearance of six French soldiers, with a sergeant, coming down the avenue at a quick pace, with their bayonets fixed. I remembered my encounter with Pepe, the keen glances of Compere in the church, and all the dangers of my situation flashed upon me: I stood irresolute whether to fight, fly, or surrender. "Sir, they are no doubt in pursuit of you," said the cardinal, his aged cheek beginning to flush: "but will they dare to cross my threshhold? Alas! what will they not? The invasion of Rome, the expulsion of the sacred college, and the seizure of Pius himself, are yet fresh in my recollection. Catanio meet them at the porch, and in the name of God dare them to enter the house of one of his servants!" "Alas!" replied Catanio, "let me implore your majesty to pause. We are but three aged and infirm men, against seven soldiers, armed, insolent, and rapacious; as the followers of a usurper ever are." "This is no time for delay. Away, Captain Dundas!" exclaimed York; "you must fly. Catanio will lead you to the beach ere the house is surrounded. Farewell, sir! a long farewell to you: we may never meet again!" Deeply moved by the old man's manner, I bowed, and, according to the custom, kissed the hand he extended towards me: a massive ruby ring—the great coronation ring of our ancient kings—sparkled on his finger. Catanio hurried me away, and by the most unfrequented paths we reached the beach; while the soldiers surrounded and searched the villa. The cardinal died a few months afterwards, at Rome, in the eighty-second year of his age, and was buried between his father and brother at Frescati. Henry IX. is inscribed on his tomb; which the genius of Canova has adorned with the most splendid sculpture. It is a curious fact, that till the last day of his life, the cardinal was in communication with many men of rank, wealth, and power, who seemed still to have entertained the chimerical hope of placing him on the British throne; and many documents discovered after his decease, and now preserved in our archives, prove that his family had, even then, numerous adherents in the three kingdoms: some of them men whom the Government could little have suspected of such sentiments. Buonaparte, too—that overturner of kings and kingdoms—is said to have expressed a wish to place him on the throne; and, as an earnest of his friendship, robbed him of his French estates: but the star of the Stuarts had set. George III. kindly and wisely passed over in silence the names of those whose romantic enthusiasm, or political bias, the papers of the cardinal-duke had so awkwardly revealed. I got on board Zamori's little sloop in safety; and, in obedience to the cardinal's command, the warp was cast off, the sweeps run out, and he anchored about half a mile from the shore. Catanio left me, promising to return after dusk with the signora, whom I anxiously awaited; expecting every minute to see bayonets glittering on the sunny beach, or a boat filled with armed men push off towards the barque of Zamori. The latter was a garrulous old fellow, whose tongue gave me very little time for reflection. Night began to close over Canne; and I beheld its approach with joy: the day had seemed interminably long. The evening gun was fired from the French fort, the tricolor descended from its ramparts, and I heard the evening hymn floating over the glassy sea from the various craft around us; where many of the sailors lay stretched upon bundles of sails, smoking cigars, tinkling the mandolin, and enjoying the rich sunset of their glorious clime. Sinking behind the mountains, the sun bade us adieu; darkness gradually crept along the winding shore, and white vapours curled in fantastic shapes from the low flats and ravines: slowly and brightly the moon soared into view, bathing land and ocean in a flood of silvery light. I lay on a bundle of sails listening to the skipper's legends of the young Count of Caulonia, who fell in love with a mermaid that arose from her coral cave in the Gulf of Gierazzo, and sat beneath his castle walls singing as the syrens sung to Ulysses; and of the wondrous demon fish caught in Naples, in 1722, with a man in armour in its stomach; and Heaven knows what more. Hearing the dash of oars alongside the Echino, as Zamori's bark was named, and seeing a boat shoot under her quarter, I leapt up. I went to the side and received Catanio, who handed up Francesca D'Alfieri. The poor girl was so happy to find herself free, and entrusted to my care, that she could only weep with joy; uttering sobs in the depths of an ample satin faldetta which the abbess had given her, with two rosemary sprigs sewn crosswise in front, to scare away evil spirits. "Farewell to you, captain!" said Catanio, or Duncan Catanach; "do not forget us when you go home to the land we love so well." "Good-bye: God bless you, old man!" I replied, as the boat was pushed off and moved shoreward. The dark grave has long closed over the faithful Catanach and his illustrious master; but memory yet recalls the old man's visage: I can see it as I saw it then; clouded by honest sorrow, and its hard wrinkled features tinged by the light of the moon. An hour afterwards we were ploughing the waters of the gulf, with the broad latteen sail of the Echino bellying taut before the breeze as she cleft the billows with her sharp-beaked prow. Zamori grasped the tiller with important confidence; the crew, his two athletic and black-browed sons, remained forward, and I seated myself beside the signora, who permitting her hood to fall back, the moon shone on her beautiful features and glossy hair. So dangerous an attraction near old Zamori disturbed his steering, and the Echino yawed till her sail flapped to the mast. "A sweet face!" he muttered, as the boat careened over; "but it will work mischief, like the mermaids." "O, signor, I am happy, so very happy!" said Francesca: the richness of her tone, and the artlessness of her manner moved me. "Shall we soon see Calabria?" "That is Capo Trionto," said I, pointing ahead. "Dear Calabria!" she exclaimed, kissing her hand to the distant coast; "there was a time when I thought never to behold thee more! Beautiful star!" continued the enthusiastic girl, pointing to a twinkling orb: "Signor, is it not lovely? alas! 't is gone: perhaps it is a world!" she added, clasping her hands, as it shot from its place and vanished. The increasing roughness of the sea, as we sailed along the high Calabrian coast, soon made Francesca uneasy: her prattle died away; she became very sick, and lay in the stern-sheets of the boat, covered up with Zamori's warm storm jacket, and a spare jib: both rather coarse coverings for a beautiful and delicate female. At length she slept; and I was left for a time to my own reflections. About midnight, I was roused from a sound nap by Zamori. "Look around you, excellency," said he, in a whisper; "saw you ever aught so splendid—so terrible?" Like a vast globe of gold the shining moon was resting on the summit of Cape Trionto; which, rising black as ebony from the ocean, heaved its strongly-marked outline against the illuminated sky: its ridge was marked by a streak of fiery yellow. The water was phosphorescent; the waves seemed to be burning around us, and we sped through an ocean of light! The spray flying past our bows seemed like sparks of living fire; the ropes trailing over the gunnel, and the myriads of animalcules which animate every drop of the mighty deep, were all shining with magic splendour. An exclamation of rapture escaped me: at that moment the moon sank down behind Trionto; in an instant the sea became dark, and not a trace of all that glorious and magnificent illumination remained behind. "Have you seen these often, Zamori?" "No!" said he, shuddering and crossing himself; "but such sights never bode good. We shall have the French in Lower Calabria soon. 'Tis Fata Morgana," he added, whispering; "she dwells in the straits of Messina: I have seen her palace of coral and crystal rise above the waves. She is a mermaid of potent power: God send that we have no breeze before morning!" Cape St. James was in sight when the sun arose from the ocean, revealing all the glories of the beautiful coast and sparkling sea. After the stout Calabrians had knelt and prayed to a rudely-carved Madonna nailed above the horse-shoe on the mast, I partook of their humble breakfast; which consisted of olives, salt-fish, maccaroni, and sour wine: the signora was too much indisposed to join us. I looked forward with pleasure to assuming my important command at Scylla; but other prospects made me happier still: I welcomed the freshening breeze, as the little bark rushed through the surging sea which boiled over her gunnels, and roared like a cascade under her counter; while the ruin-crowned or foliaged headlands, and the countless peaks which towered above them, changed their aspect every moment as we flew on. I thought of my smiling Bianca, and hailed with joy the hills of Maida. We beheld the evening sun gilding the Syla, and at night were off Crotona, and saw the lights glimmering in its narrow streets and gloomy citadel, where Macleod was stationed with his Highlanders. Anchored close under its ramparts, lay the Amphion, and brave Hanfield's sloop of war, the Delight. The sky was dark and lowering, the sea black as ink: everything portended a rough night, and I was well pleased that our voyage was over. My despatch for Captain Hoste required him to bring round the Ross-shire Buffs without delay to Messina; and the order was forthwith given to heave short, to cast loose the sails, and lower away all the boats. My old friend Castagno, with a party of the Free Corps, formed the guard at the citadel gate; I was immediately recognized, and consigning the happy Francesca to his care, beat up the quarters of Macleod: I found him comfortably carousing with Drumlugas and some of his officers, who were passing a portly jar of gioja round the table with great celerity. When the curiosity and laughter occasioned by my attire had subsided, and when the general's order had been read, I related my adventures; passing over the visits to the vaults, and the discovery of Francesca D'Alfieri. An hour before gun-fire the Buffs were all on board the frigate: her ample canvas was spread to the breezes of the Adriatic, and by sunrise we saw her vanish round the promontory of Lacinium. The Cavaliere Benedetto, with four hundred rank and file of the Free Corps, was left to hold Crotona; while, by Macleod's order, I took command of a company of those troops which the Amphion could not accommodate: that evening, bidding adieu to brave Castagno (whom I never saw again), we marched en route for St. Eufemio, where I was to see them safely embarked for Messina. Thanks to Macleod and his officers, my attire had now become a little more professional: one gave me a regimental jacket, another a tartan forage-cap, a third a sash, and Drumlugas presented me with a very handsome sabre; of which he had deprived the Swiss colonel whom he vanquished at Maida. In this motley uniform, I rode at the head of the Free Company; which formed a very respectable escort for Francesca and her sister, who accompanied us: both were mounted on fiery-eyed Calabrian horses, a breed famous for their strength and endurance. While so many bayonets glittered around them, the ladies had no fear of banditti; Ortensia laughing merrily, made her horse curvet and prance, and lent her soft melodious voice to the jovial chorus with which the Italian soldiers lightened the toil of their morning march. But Francesca was reserved; and beneath her veil I often saw tears suffusing her mild and melancholy eyes. "Dear Francesca, why are you so sad?" asked her sister; "O, now is the time for joy! See how brightly the sun shines on the distant sea, and how merrily the green woods are waving in the breeze. Most unkind, Francesca! for your sake, I have left my poor Benedetto in that gloomy castle of Crotona. Laugh and be joyous. Think on the happiness awaiting us at home, and the embrace of our dear little Bianca, when she throws her arms around you." "And Luigi," added Francesca, unable to restrain her tears. The path we pursued was different from that which I had travelled before, and the intense solitude around it was almost oppressive. We were marching through a dense forest, where not a sound broke its stillness, save the cry of a solitary lynx or the flap of an eagle's wing, as he soared to his eyrie in the sandstone cliffs which reared their rugged front above the woodlands. White wreaths of distant smoke shot up in vapoury columns through the green foliage, announcing that the wild contained other human beings than ourselves; but whether these were poor charcoal-burners, or robbers roasting a fat buck on the green sward, we knew not. We passed one or two lonely cottages, where the labouring hinds were separating grain from its husks, by the ancient modes—trampling the corn under the hoofs of cattle, or rolling over it a large stone drawn by a team of stout buffaloes. Calabria was then (and perhaps is yet) widely different from every other part of Italy: its peculiar situation, its lofty mountains, its dense forests spreading from sea to sea and intersected by few roads, and its hordes of banditti, made it dangerous and difficult of access to the artist and tourist; consequently, until the close of Manhes' campaign of blood, it was an unknown territory to the rest of Europe. These circumstances rendered the natives rude in character and revengeful in spirit; and thus a mighty barrier rose between the lower orders and the noblesse: who (in the words of a recent writer on Italy) "live wholly apart from the people—they compose two entirely distinct worlds." After halting in forests during the sultry noon, cantoning in villages, and marching in the cool morning and evening for two days, we arrived near Amato, a little town within a few leagues of the Villa D'Alfieri. We were traversing a deep pass of the Apennines, when the evening, which had been serene and fine, became clouded: the lowering sky portended a coming tempest. We pushed on, at an increased pace, to reach a castellated villa, the residence of a Calabrian of rank, which we saw perched on an isolated mass of rock, about a league up the mountains. Striking and picturesque appeared the Vale of Amato, as the setting sun poured its last blaze of radiance down the deep gorge between the dark wooded hills, gilding the crenellated battlements, Saracenic galleries and Norman keep of the distant castle; and reflected in the river, which glowed like a stream of molten gold between thickets of sombre cypress and fragrant orange-trees. Gradually, the hue of the setting orb changed from bright saffron to deep red; and a flood of crimson lustre fell over everything, tinging the lofty hills, the thick woods, the glassy river with a blood-red tint, which rapidly became more sombre as the sun disappeared behind the pine-clad hills. Then thunder rumbled through the darkening sky; gloomy banks of cloud came scudding across it, and volumes of vapour rolled away from the bed of the Amato. "On, on!" cried Francesca; "O, the storm will be a terrible one: feel you not the very blast of the sirrocco? Alas! we may die among the mountains. Yonder is the residence of Guelfo the Buonapartist—ah! the subtle knave! If we trust ourselves under his roof, say not a word of Luigi, and mention not our names. Ah! if he should recognise us: you remember that terrible night with the conciarotti and the mob of Palermo." They pushed forward at a gallop, and I followed; after leaving orders with old Signor Gismondo, who—as I ought to have mentioned before—was captain of the Free Company, to continue his route double-quick to Amato, where we would rejoin him by daybreak next day. Gismondo was now grave, reserved, and melancholy in the extreme: but I was much pleased at renewing my acquaintance with him. Poor man! it was fated to be of short duration. We had scarcely separated before the lightning gleamed between the splintered rocks of the pass; the air became sulphurous, close, and dense; in five minutes it was dark; we saw the luminous glow-worms sparkling amid the dewy grass beneath the shady foliage, while ever and anon the red lightning shot from peak to peak, illuminating the scenery with its lurid glare. After scrambling up a steep ascent, the face of which was scarped and defended by four pieces of French cannon, we reached the gate of this Neapolitan lord; whom I had no wish to meet again, as his bad political bias had gained him an unfavourable name in Calabria. Numerous towers and curtain walls of red stone surrounded the building; few windows were visible outwardly, and those were far from the ground and well barred with time-worn stancheons. Passing through a gate surmounted by a wolf's head cabossed on a shield, and surrounded by the collar of shells, with the crescent and ship of the Knights' Argonauts of San Nicolo, we dismounted in the courtyard. "Alas! for poor Gismondo and his soldiers!" exclaimed Francesca, as the gates were closed; and the descending storm burst forth in all its fury. |
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