Chapter Forty Seven.
Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing.
The excursionists had reached the summit, and looked into the cave. Lucetta related the legend of the hermit: how he had sojourned there for several years—never descending to the town, but trusting to the shepherds, and others who strayed over the mountains, to furnish him with his frugal fare; how he had at last mysteriously disappeared from the place, no one knowing where he had gone. But there was a story of his having been carried off by the brigands; and another that he was a brigand himself, having kept this post for purposes of observation.
“What did the shepherds say?” asked the Captain Count, by way of showing his superior intelligence. “They should have known something of the fellow’s daily avocations; since, as you say, they provided him with his daily food. But, perhaps, his doings, like those of many others, were in the dark.”
“Suppose you ask them, Signor Captain,” said Lucetta, with a languid smile at the somewhat cloudy insinuation. “There they are, coming up the mountain.”
The young lady pointed to a ravine scarring the hill on the side opposite to that on which lay the town. Along its bed five men were seen driving before them a flock of sheep, as if bringing them up to browse on the mountain. They were already within a hundred yards of the summit upon which stood the spectators.
The men were all dressed in coarse frezadas hanging down to their thighs, with the usual straw hat upon their heads, and sandals upon their feet. They carried long sticks, which they occasionally used in conducting their charge up the ravine. One of them wore the capuce, hooded over his head, a thing that seemed strange under the hot noonday sun.
The officer had promised to respond to the challenge of the signorina as soon as the shepherds should be near enough for conversation. They were coming direct towards the spot where the pleasure party awaited their approach.
“How very odd,” said the young Englishman, addressing himself to the sister of Luigi, “are some of the customs of your country—at least they seem so to me. Your countrymen appear to lack economy in the distribution of labour. For example, with us, in England, one man will easily manage a flock of five hundred sheep, having only a dog to assist him; while here you see five men driving less than a fifth of the number, and not very skilfully, as it appears to me.”
“Oh!” rejoined Lucetta, in defence of the native industry, “our shepherds usually have a much larger flock. No doubt these have more, and have left them on the mountains opposite—perhaps because there would not be enough pasture—”
The explanation was interrupted by the approach of the sheep, whose tinkling bells drowned the discourse. Soon after the shepherds strode up, leaving their charge to go scattering over the summit. Instead of waiting for the Captain Count to begin the conversation, one of the pastores took the initiative, bluntly opening with the salutation—“Buono giorno, signori. Molto buono giorno, signora bella.” (Good day, gentlemen. A fair good day, beautiful lady.)
The speech was complimentary; but the manner seemed to have a different meaning. There was something in the tone of voice that jarred on the ears of the young Englishman.
“Free speakers, these Italian pastores,” was the reflection he was making to himself, when the spokesman continued—
“We’ve been seeking one of our sheep,” said he, “and have been hitherto unable to find it. We fancy it has strayed to this mountain. Have you seen anything of it?”
“No, my good friends,” answered the officer smilingly, and in a tone intended to conciliate the inquirers, whose rude style of address could no longer be mistaken.
“Are you sure, signore? Are you quite sure of what you say?”
“Oh, quite sure. If we had seen the animal we should be most happy—”
“Your sheep is not here,” interrupted the young Englishman, who could no longer stand the pastore’s impertinence. “You know it is not. Why do you repeat your questions?”
“You lie!” cried one of the shepherds, who had not yet spoken—he who wore the red hood. “It is here. You, Signor Inglese, are the stray we are in search of. Thank our gracious Virgin, we’ve found you in such goodly company. We shall take back to our flock three sheep instead of one; and one of them such a beautiful young ewe—just the sort for our charming mountain pastures!”
Before the man had done speaking, Henry Harding recognised him. The voice was sufficient; but the capuce, now thrown back upon his shoulders, revealed the sinister countenance of Corvino!
“Corvino!” was the exclamation that passed mechanically from the lips of his late captive; and before its echo could reverberate from the adjoining cave, he was seized by two of the disguised bandits—the other two flinging themselves on the officer, while the chief himself laid hold of Lucetta.
With a desperate effort the young Englishman wrenched his arms free. But he had no weapon; and of what use would be his fists against the two assailants, who had now drawn their daggers, and were again advancing upon him? The young lady was still struggling in the embrace of the brigand chief—her cries loud enough to be heard all over the town. Meanwhile Guardiola was making no resistance, not even to the drawing of his sword, which was still dangling uselessly by his side.
With a quick eye Henry Harding perceived it; and, dashing between the two brigands who were closing upon him, he caught the weapon by the guard. Plucking it out of its sheath, he turned like a tiger upon his special opponents. The cowards shrank back; as they did so drawing their pistols, and firing at random. Neither of their shots took effect; and, in another instant, the swordsman was by the side of Corvino.
With a cry the brigand chief let go his struggling prize, and turned to receive the attack—flinging off his frezada and drawing a revolver—for this weapon had found its way into the hands of the Italian banditti. As good luck would have it, the first cap missed fire; and, before he could draw trigger upon a second, the sword of Guardiola, wielded by a more skilful hand than that of its owner, had rendered the brigand’s arm idle, and the revolver dropped to the ground.
Alas! it was to no purpose. Before Henry Harding could follow up the thrust with one more deadly, he was assailed from behind by four fresh adversaries: for the two in charge of Guardiola had let him loose, and the Captain Count was now running down the mountain slope as fast as his scared legs could carry him.
With the young Englishman it was now one against five, or rather one to four; for the brigand chief, on seeing his four satellites engaged with a single adversary, threw his left arm around Lucetta, and, raising her aloft, hurried off towards the ravine, up which, as a shepherd, he had ascended.