"Henceforth, I will be a different son to my mother," thought Horace; "she shall never again shed a tear for word or for action of mine."
Thus in pleasing and not unprofitable musings passed the hours of the summer afternoon. Ever and anon Horace turned his watchful eye towards the wood, and listened for the sound of signal-whistle or pistol-shot in the distance. There was nothing, however, to tell that anything of human guilt was marring the peace of that beautiful scene. All was tranquil in the rich glow of sunshine; and but for the chains on his ankles, Horace could have enjoyed the sense of calm repose in that bright, luxurious clime.
There was something of romance in his own situation which was not without its charms; and the youth smiled to himself as he thought what a theme for a tale of stirring interest his adventures would be when the social circle of friends should be gathered round the blazing logs of a Christmas fire. None of his companions would be able to tell of such hair-breadth escapes, or a life so wild and so strange. It was very amusing to Horace to see in imagination the wondering, curious, half-incredulous looks on familiar faces, and to fancy that he could hear his mother's ejaculations, now of thankfulness, now of terror.
As he was busy drawing these pictures of imagination, Horace saw the figure of the improvisatore coming toward him from the wood. At first glance, he was struck by a change in the mien of Raphael, perceptible even at a distance. The firm, elastic tread habitual to him was exchanged for a slow, lingering step, like that of an invalid, and twice he raised his hand to his forehead as if oppressed by dizziness or pain.
Horace left his seat beneath the oak, and advanced to meet Raphael as far as the rocky parapet, beyond which he could not proceed. He called out the Rossignol's name, but Raphael neither replied nor raised his face to greet him with his usual kindly smile. Instead of mounting the rough mass of rocks almost with the lightness and ease that wings might have given, Raphael seemed for the first time to experience some difficulty in climbing, and Horace observed, as he gained the top, that the face of the young Italian was even more pale than usual.
"Raphael, you are ill!" exclaimed Horace.
The Rossignol shook his head.
"Something painful, I am certain, has happened. Come, sit down on this rock; or shall we go yonder to our favorite oak?"
Raphael seated himself on the rock, and turned his face from his friend.
"You have had something to grieve or to alarm you? The lad whom you visited is dead?"