"I knew that they would return soon," he said; "see where yonder they come."
The banditti returned in a very discontented mood. They had found no prey, and brought back no booty. The only consolation which they found under their disappointment, was that of exercising the power of tormenting, and their unfortunate prisoner had to run the gauntlet of every kind of annoyance.
Horace, little accustomed to insult, chafed with impotent rage. He glanced at Raphael, as though to claim his protection, and the Rossignol, without appearing to notice the appeal, came to his relief in the only effectual way. The liquid tones of his guitar were heard through the noisy uproar, and the tumult suddenly lulled. The notes exercised such a spell as fable ascribes to that of Orpheus, and almost as savage an auditory as that which listened to the ancient bard, gathered around the Rossignol as he poured forth his thrilling lay:—
There is a sword of glittering sheen—
All unite to defend the right!
Its blade is bright, and its edge is keen,
But the wound it gives is a wound unseen,
And who would flinch in the glorious fight?
There is a foe—a ruthless foe—
Such unite to oppose the right!
In secret ambush he croucheth low,
And the blow he strikes is a deadly blow,
But who would flinch in the glorious fight?
There is a banner floating wide—
All unite to defend the right!
The blood of martyrs its folds has dyed
When the best and the bravest fought side by side.
For who would flinch in the glorious fight!
There is a Leader exalted high!
All unite to defend the right!
Through Him His followers hosts defy.
Through Him they learn to do and to die,
And scorn to flinch in the glorious fight!
There is a palm—a victor's palm—
All unite to defend the right!
'Twill be given in realms of peace and calm
To the steadfast spirit, the stalwart arm
That never flinched in the glorious fight!
Then shall lips touched with living flame
In song unite—in the world of light,
"In our Leader's strength, in our Leader's name,
We fought—we struggled—we overcame—
And victors stood in the glorious fight!"
So spirited was the air, so flowing the measure, that Matteo himself beat time with his heavy hand on the table, and several of the banditti actually joined in the burden. Horace saw, however, by the glances directed towards the improvisatore, that the words were only tolerated on account of the music; and Enrico, as if the strain were hateful to him, quitted the table before the song was ended.
On the mind of the young prisoner himself the effect of the lay was powerful. He felt his spirit roused by the music, which seemed to burst forth from the singer's soul rather than from his lips. Horace realized, as he had never done before, his own responsibilities as a sworn soldier of Christ. Had he not been enlisted to serve under the banner of the cross, to fight manfully against the world, the flesh, and the devil? And how had he kept his vow—how had he fought under that banner? What interest had he taken in the holy cause—what had he ever sacrificed in order to spread its conquests?
It was not needful for Horace to compare himself with missionaries spending their strength and hazarding their lives to win heathen lands for their Leader; nor with the devoted men and women who in densely crowded cities lead the assault against the enemy's mightiest strongholds; such may be termed the forlorn hope of the Christian host, the Gideons or Davids of the army; but had he shown himself worthy to be counted even amongst the common rank and file? Had he ever struck one good blow for the sake of religion against a besetting sin? Had he cared even to keep his sword bright? Had he not felt ashamed on that morning at being discovered in the act of prayer? Could he regard himself as other than a coward, even if he deserved not the name of traitor?
How the lay rang that night in the ears of Horace! The music haunted him when he retired with Raphael to the rocky recess, whither they had been preceded by Enrico. Horace there found a fresh bed of fragrant herbs, which had been gathered for him, over which was thrown a mantle which he had seen on the shoulders of Raphael.
In silence the Rossignol knelt down to pray, and the young Englishman knelt beside him. Horace expected some taunt from Enrico, who lay stretched on his heap of leaves; but the bandit watched them in sullen silence, by the light of a torch which he had stuck on the wall.
As Raphael was making his simple preparations for the night, in removing a portion of his dress, he bared his shoulder, and accidentally displayed to the view of Horace a hurt which he had received on it, a purple contusion, as from some blunt but heavy instrument. The injury had evidently been both recent and severe.