Chapter Fifty.
The Abduction.
Half carrying, half dragging the girl with him, Corvino kept on through the mountain passes. When he thought himself safe from immediate pursuit, he stopped to await the coming up of his comrades. He had heard shots on the other side of the hill, and knew the soldiers were on the alert. But he had little fear of being overtaken by them. He calculated the time it would take them to ascend the slope. Before they could reach the summit his own men would have secured their captive and retreated down the ravine. Four to one—for he had witnessed the cowardly abandonment by the officer—there could be no fear of their failing. He had hurried ahead to gain a sufficient start, knowing that he would be impeded in the transporting of his new-made captive in the event of pursuit. Before leaving the ground he had shouted “Dagli! dagli!” but coupling it with a caution to take the prisoner alive, if possible. It was this that prevented the men from first making use of their pistols. By Henry Harding’s death they would sacrifice the riscatta they had been long counting upon.
After giving the order, Corvino had hurried off, taking his captive with him. The young girl made no resistance; she had swooned, and in an unconscious state was carried away.
On recovering her senses, she saw that she was no longer on Hermit’s Hill, but in a wild spot surrounded by trees and rocks, the brigand captain standing close beside her. She neither screamed nor attempted to escape. She saw it would be idle, as she was helplessly in the power of her captor. Her thoughts were still scattering and confused; she felt as if just waking from some disagreeable dream, with its scenes still vivid before her fancy. She remembered the approach of the shepherds, their rude address, the throwing aside their disguises, the cry “Corvino!” as it came from the lips of his late captive; the face of the brigand chief suddenly showing from under the capuce, and which she herself recognised; the seizure of all three; the struggle; a sword gleaming in the hand of Henry Harding; his rushing upon her captor; a shot fired by Corvino; the angry exclamations of the pseudo-shepherds; the glancing of their stilettos; the scampering of the scared sheep; the quick, confused tinkling of their bells; and finally Captain Guardiola fleeing from the spot. All these she remembered like the incidents of a disturbed dream. She remembered Corvino once more coming up to her; once more laying hold, and hurrying her from the spot. After that she became unconscious—her senses only returning to tell her she was alone with the brigand.
On opening her eyes, she saw blood on the bandit’s dress, and that the skirt of her own robe was sprinkled with it. It appeared to proceed from a wound in his right arm, and she now recalled the sword in the grasp of the young Englishman, and the gallant use he was making of it. What had been the result of the unequal combat? Had Henry Harding succumbed? Had he been killed? Or was he, like herself, a captive? She had heard the command for him to be taken alive if possible, shouted back by Corvino. She hoped they had obeyed it; but trembled to think he might be dead. It was her first anxiety.
Fully recovering her senses, she looked around, but there was no one near—only the chief standing by, busied in binding up his wound. He had cut open the sleeve of his velvet coat, and was stanching the blood with strips from his shirt. She made no offer to assist him; she could only regard him with horror. His savage aspect, heightened to hideousness by the crimson streaks of blood on his hands, arms, and face, was sufficient to inspire both fear and aversion. She trembled as she lay watching him: for she was still lying upon the ground, where she had been placed like a parcel of goods.
“Be still, signorina,” said her captor, on perceiving she had come to herself. “Have patience till I get my arm slung, and then I shall take you to a softer couch. Sangue de Cristo! The Inglese shall pay for this with the loss of his ears and double the ransom. Now!” he said, having finished slinging his arm; “Alza! Alza! we mustn’t tarry, or that valiant captain may be after us with his soldiers. Come along, signorina. You can walk the rest of the way. Corpo di Bacco! I’ve carried you far enough.”
As he said this, he stretched out his left hand; seized the young girl by the wrist; raised her to her feet; and was about to proceed along the path, when he heard his four comrades coming up behind. He stayed to await their approach.
Presently they appeared filing through the rocks. There was no prisoner along with them!
He waited till the last was in sight; then, letting go his hold upon the captive, he rushed back towards the men, fiercely vociferating as he went.
“Dio Santo!” he exclaimed. “Where is the Inglese? Not with you? Maladitto! What have you done? Killed him?”
With a palpitating heart Lucetta listened for the reply. The men were slow to make answer—as if unwilling to tell the truth. She did not draw hope from this. They might be afraid to confess they had killed him. She remembered the command to take him alive. She trembled as she stood listening.
Another string of mingled oaths and interrogations was terminated by the same demand—
“Have you killed the Inglese? I heard the reports of your pistols; after that a volley from the soldiers. You were firing at him then, I suppose?”
“We were, capo,” answered one of the men.
“Well?”
“He succeeded in taking shelter under the cave, and we could not get at him. His long blade defended the entrance. Of course we could not surround him. If it had been a question of killing, we could have done that long before, but your orders were against it.”
“And you’ve left him alive, unscathed, free?”
“No, capo, we think he must have fallen at our fire. We could not stay to see, for the bullets were raining round us thick as sleet. No doubt he is dead by this.”
By the look and tone, the young girl could tell they were prevaricating. There was still a hope he might yet be alive. The chief equally perceived their evasion, and broke out in a paroxysm of fury. Forgetful of his injured arm, and almost wrenching it from its sling, he rushed upon his defeated followers.
“Cowards! imbeciles!” he cried, striking with his left hand now one, now the other, and tearing the hats from their heads. “Sangue di bacco! four of you conquered by one man—a boy—with the loss of thirty thousand scudi! Vada en Malora!” he exclaimed in agony, as he felt the pain of his disabled arm. “Take hold of the giovinetta, and bring her along. See that she does not escape you as well. Su via!”
Saying this, he strode off, leaving his companions to conduct the giovinetta after him. One of these, roughly seizing her by the wrist, and repeating the words “Su via!” hurried her off after the chief, the other three following sullenly.
The young girl offered no resistance. Any attempt to escape would have been hopeless. Her savage captors had freely flashed their daggers before her eyes, threatening to use them if she resisted; and she accompanied them with a sort of mechanical acquiescence springing from despair. Her thoughts were not with herself; they were directed to the Hermit’s Hill, though she had little hope of rescue from that quarter. Having witnessed the cowardly desertion of her by Captain Guardiola, she knew he would be equally backward in any pursuit; and indeed her captors showed not the slightest apprehensions of it.
As they wound their way slowly and deliberately through the defiles of the mountain, it might have quickened their steps had they known of the change that had taken place in the garrison of Val di Orno.