They entered at last into the valley. In what a situation was now our poor Don Abbondio! to find himself in this famous valley, of which he had heard such black and horrible tales. These famous men, the flower of the bravoes of Italy, these men without pity or fear, to see them in flesh and blood,—to meet them at every step! They bowed, it is true, respectfully, in the presence of their lord, but who knows what passed in their hearts, and what wicked design against the poor priest might, even then, be forming in their brains.
They reached Malanotte; bravoes were at the door, who bowed to the Unknown, glancing with eager curiosity at his companion, and the litter. If the departure of their master alone, at the break of day, had been regarded as extraordinary, his return was considered not less so. Is it a prize which he conducts? And how has he taken possession of it alone? And what is this strange litter? And whose is this livery? They did not stir, however; knowing, from the countenance of their master, that their silence was what he desired.
They reached the castle; the bravoes who were on the esplanade and at the door, retired on both sides to leave the passage free. The Unknown made a sign to them not to go farther off. Spurring his mule, he passed before the litter, and beckoning to Don Abbondio and the coachman to follow him, he entered a first court, and thence a second: approaching a small door, and with a gesture keeping back a bravo, who advanced to hold his stirrup, he said, “Remain there yourself, and let none approach nearer.” He dismounted, and with the reins in his hand, drew near the woman, who had withdrawn the curtains of the litter, saying to her in a low voice, “Hasten to comfort her; and make her understand at once that she is free, and with friends. God will reward you!” He then advanced to the curate, and helping him to dismount, said, “Signor Curate, I will not ask your forgiveness for the trouble you have taken on my account; you suffer for one who will reward you well, and for this poor girl.”
His countenance not less than his words restored the courage of Don Abbondio; drawing a full breath, which had been long pent up in his breast, he replied, “Your lordship jests, surely? But—but—” and accepting the hand offered to him so courteously, he slid from the saddle. The Unknown took the bridle, and gave both animals to the care of the driver, ordering him to wait there until their return. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the little door, and followed by his two companions, the curate and the female, ascended the stairs.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Lucy had just risen. She was endeavouring to collect her senses, to separate the turbid visions of sleep from the remembrance of the sad reality, which appeared to her a dismal dream, when the old woman, in a voice which she meant to be humble and gentle, said to her, “Ah! you have slept! You would have done better to go to bed; I told you so a hundred times.” Receiving no answer, she continued, “Eat a little; you have need of something; if you do not, he will complain of me when he returns.”
“No, no, I wish to go to my mother. Your master promised me, he said, to-morrow morning. Where is he?”
“He has gone away; but he left word that he would return soon, and do all that you should desire.”
“Did he say so? did he say so? Well; I wish to go to my mother, now, now.”