Chapter Twenty Eight.
Unpleasant Information.
Several days had elapsed without any change either in the prisoner’s prospects or situation. He had come to the conclusion that his capture was no longer a farce, nor his imprisonment likely soon to terminate. The stories of brigand life he had heard told during his short sojourn in Rome, and which like others of his incredulous countrymen he had been loth to believe, were no longer doubted. He was himself a sad example of their reality, and could almost feet angry at his friend Luigi for having given him that letter of introduction, which had introduced him to such a pitiful dilemma. It was still upon his person; for, beyond robbing him of his slender purse and other metallic movables, the brigands had left everything untouched.
By way of passing the time, he took the letter out and re-read it. One paragraph, which he had scarcely noticed before, now particularly impressed him. “I suppose my sister Lucetta will by this time be a big girl. Take good care of her till I come back, when I hope I shall be able to carry all of you out of that danger we dreaded.”
When Henry Harding first read these words on his way to Rome—for the letter of introduction was an open one—he thought nothing of their signification. He supposed it could only refer to the straitened circumstances of his family which the young artist expected at some time to relieve, by the proceeds of his successful pencil. Besides, Belle Mainwaring was too much in his mind to leave room for more than a passing thought of anything else, even for the little sister of Luigi, big as she might be at the writing of the letter—since still unknown.
Now, however, reflecting in his lone cell, with the image of that fair face first seen on the day of his captivity, and since constantly recurring to his thoughts, he began to shape out a different interpretation to the ambiguous phrase. What if the danger spoken of was less of poverty than peril—such, in short, as appeared to threaten that young girl, the daughter of the village sindico? To reflect even upon this gave the captive pain. How much more would he have been pained to think that the sister of his dear friend, Luigi Torreani was in like peril.
Sunset, declaring itself by the increasing gloom of his cell, caused him to refold the letter, and return it to his pocket. He was still pondering upon its contents, when voices outside the window attracted his attention. He listened—anything to vary the monotony of his prison life—even the idle talk of a brace of bandits; for it was two of these who were speaking outside. In less than ten seconds after he was listening with all his ears; for in the midst of their conversation he fancied he heard a name that was known to him.
He had just been thinking of Luigi Torreani. This was not the name that passed from the lips of the bandit; but one of like signification—Lucetta. He knew it was the name of Luigi’s sister, of which he had just been reminded by the letter.
Henry Harding had often heard his friend speak of this sister—his only one. It was not strange, therefore, he should listen with quickened attention; and so did he, grasping the solitary bar of his window, and placing his ear close up to the sill. True there might be scores of Lucettas in that part of the country; but, for all this, he could not help listening with eager interest.
“She’ll be our next riscatta,” said the brigand who had pronounced the name; “you may make up your mind to that.”
“E por che?” inquired the other. “The old sindico, with all his proud name and his syndicate to boot, hasn’t enough to pay ransom for a rat. What would be the object of such a capture?”
“Object! Ah, that concerns the capo, not us. All I know is that the girl has taken his fancy. I saw it as we passed through the town the other night. I believe he’d have then carried her off, only for fear of Popetta. She’s a she-devil, is the signora; and, though generally she takes kindly to her kicks and puffings, she wouldn’t if there was a woman in the case. Don’t you remember when we had the dancing-bout down in the valley of Main? What a row there was between our captain and his cara sposa!”
“I remember. What was it all about? I never heard?”
“About a bit of kissing. Our capo was inclined upon a girl; that coquettish little devil, the daughter of the old charcoal-burner Poli. The girl seemed kindly. He had slipped a charm round her neck, and I believe had kissed her. Whether he did that or no, I won’t be certain, but the charm was seen and recognised by the signora. She plucked it from the girl’s neck; as she did so almost dragging her off her feet. Then came the scene with the capo.”
“She drew a stiletto upon him, did she not?”
“Ay, and would have used it, too, if he had not made some excuse, and turned the thing into a laugh. That pacified her. What a fury she was while the fit was on her. Cospetto! Her eyes glittered like hot lava from Vesuvius.”
“The girl stole away, I think?”
“That did she, and a good thing for her she did; though if she had stayed I don’t think Corvino would have dared look at her again that night. I never saw him cowed before. He lost both his sweetheart and his gold charm; for his Cara Popetta appropriated that to herself, and wears it regularly whenever he holds festa among the peasant girls, by way of reminder, I suppose.”
“Did the captain ever see Poli’s daughter again?”
“Well, some of us think he did. But you remember, after you left us we moved away from that part of the country? The soldiers became too troublesome about there, and there was a whisper that the signora had something to do with making the place too hot for us. After all, I don’t think Corvino cared for the carbonero’s daughter. It was only a short-lived fancy, because the girl showed sweet upon him. This of the sindico’s chicken is a very different affair; for I know he’s fond of going in that direction, and shouldn’t wonder if we get into danger by it. Danger or no danger, he’ll have her sooner or later, take my word for it.”
“I don’t wonder at his fancy; she a sweet-looking girl. One likes her all the better for being so proud upon it.”
“Her pride will have a fall, once Corvino gets her in his clutches. He’s just the man to tame such shy damsels as she.”
“Povera! it is a pity, too.”
“Bah, you’re a fool, Thomasso. Your sojourn in the Pope’s prison has spoilt you for our life, I fear. What are we poor fellows to do, if we don’t have a sweetheart now and then? Chased liked wolves, why shouldn’t we take a slice of lamb when we can get it? Who can blame the capo for liking a little bit of tender chick? And such a sweet bit as Lucetta Torreani.”
Henry Harding, who had been all this time listening with disgust to the dialogue between the two brigands, felt as if a huge stone had struck him. The presentment that had just commenced shaping itself in his mind appeared all at once to be circumstantially confirmed. The young girl spoken of was Lucetta Torreani. It could be no other than the sister of Luigi, whom he had seen standing in the balcony at Val di Orno, and who so often since had been occupying his thoughts.
It was a singular collocation or coincidence of circumstances, and painful as singular. Under the blow, he relaxed his hold of the bar, and staggering back, sank down upon the floor of his cell.