"No light hand left such a mark as that?" exclaimed Horace.
"It was Matteo's work, it is no prison-scar upon me," replied Raphael, covering the evidence of the chief's brutality.
"And do you know how he won that scar?" exclaimed Enrico with vehemence. "In coming between the wolf and his prey, in trying to save that poor wretch Carlo from destruction. His attempt was in vain, all that he does is in vain; the hand that left that mark will fall more heavily upon him one day."
It was long ere Horace could sleep. The sight of that bruised, lacerated shoulder had brought more vividly before him the savage nature of the man in whose absolute power he lay than aught he had seen or heard.
"Raphael must indeed," thought the captive, "be as a sentinel on a post of danger, as a soldier isolated from his comrades in an enemy's land."
Horace looked at the young Italian, stretched in peaceful slumber on his rocky bed, and wondered how his repose could be so serene and untroubled. It was the consciousness of the presence of a watchful Guardian that gave to the soldier of the cross calm sleep in the robbers' den. His last waking thought had been—
"'The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?'"
[CHAPTER XI.]
THE ORPHAN'S TALE.
A strange Sabbath was that to Horace which commenced with the dawning day. He closed his eyes on the rude and gloomy cave around him, and tried to make memory and fancy replace the hateful scene; he sought to shut his ears to the noise of oaths, profane talking, and wrangling. Sadly he recalled privileges unprized and too often neglected when he had had the power to enjoy them. He had frequently been weary of the quiet monotony of the holy day, desiring more active amusements, more exciting pursuits, and now remembered the peaceful Sabbaths in his home almost as though they had been spent in paradise, and sighed when the doubt presented itself whether he would ever be permitted to know such Sundays again.