The Piccinino, Volume 2 (of 2); The last of Aldinis

by George Sand

"The lieutenant is wounded!" cried one of them, as he saw Verbum Caro leaning on Carmelo, who was himself disguised.

Verbum Caro did not reply, but motioned to them to go on and guard the tower. Then he went out as rapidly as he could, with his chief, whom he implored to fly without him, but who refused to abandon him under any consideration.

If this was generous conduct on the Piccinino's part, it was no less judicious; for, by giving his men such proofs of affection, he made sure of their loyalty forever. The false Piccinino might have been recaptured the next moment; but if he had been, no amount of torture could have made him admit that his companion was the real Piccinino.

They were already fighting on the narrow platform in front of the castle, and the brigands commanded by Fra Angelo pretended to give way. But the campieri, deprived of their leader, did not act together or in good order. When Malacarne's detachment, rushing down from the bastion like a thunderbolt, took possession of the gateway and showed them that retreat was impossible, they felt that they were lost, and halted as if dazed by terror. At that moment Fra Angelo, Michel, Magnani and their men turned upon them and pressed them so close that their plight seemed desperate indeed. Thereupon the campieri, knowing that the brigands gave no quarter, fought with the frenzy of despair. Crowded between two walls, they had the advantage of position over the brigands, who were obliged to avoid the precipice behind them. Moreover, Malacarne's band had been struck with dismay.

As the two Piccininos crossed the drawbridge, the brigands, deceived by their disguise, had fired on them. Verbum Caro was not touched, but Carmelo, struck by a bullet in the shoulder, had fallen. Malacarne had rushed at him to finish him, but, on recognizing his chief, had fairly roared with grief, and his men, crowding about him, no longer thought of fighting.

For a few moments Fra Angelo and Michel, who were fighting in the front rank, hand-to-hand with the campieri, were in grave danger. Magnani was even farther to the front; he tried to turn aside all the blows aimed at Michel, for they had no time to reload their weapons and were fighting with swords and knives, and the noble-hearted Magnani sought to make his body a rampart to protect Agatha's son.

Suddenly Michel, who was constantly pushing him aside and begging him to think of his own safety, missed him from his side. Michel thereupon attacked the enemy fiercely. The first horror of bloodshed having passed away, he was urged onward by a strange and terrifying nervous excitement. He was not wounded. Fra Angelo, who had a superstitious faith in the grandeur of the young prince's destiny, had prophesied that he would not be. But if he had been wounded twenty times over, he would not have been conscious of it, his vital forces were so concentrated in his brain. He was, as it were, intoxicated by danger, and excited to frenzy by the battle. It was a ghastly but intense pleasure; the blood of Castro-Reale awoke and began to boil fiercely in the veins of the lion's whelp. When the victory was won, and they were able to join forces with Malacarne, walking over dead bodies, it seemed to Michel that the contest had been too short and too easily decided. And yet it had been so desperate that almost every man among the victors was more or less severely wounded. The campieri had sold their lives dearly, and if Malacarne had not recovered his energy when he saw that the Piccinino was reviving and was able to fight, Fra Angelo's band would have been forced back into the yawning ravine behind them.

The dull gray dawn was beginning to whiten the misty peaks on the horizon when the assailants entered the conquered fortress. They had to pass through it in order to retire into the mountains unseen by the inhabitants of the village, who had left their horses and were timidly climbing their steep rocky street to ascertain the result of the engagement. Their anxious eyes could hardly distinguish the moving mass of the combatants, lighted only by the flashing of their fire-arms. While they were fighting hand-to-hand the pale-faced citizens of Sperlinga stood frozen with terror, listening to the shouts and imprecations of that incomprehensible struggle. They had no inclination to assist the garrison, and most of them longed for the success of the brigands. But the dread of reprisals restrained them from going to their aid. At daybreak they could be seen, almost naked, standing in groups here and there like trembling ghosts, manifesting an ill-defined purpose to go to the assistance of the victors.

Fra Angelo and the Piccinino had no idea of waiting for them. They rushed hurriedly into the fortress, each brigand dragging a body to give it the coup de grace. They collected their wounded, and disfigured those of their own number who were dead. But this ghastly scene, which acted upon Verbum Caro like a tonic, disgusted the Piccinino beyond measure. He instantly ordered his men to disperse, and to return to their homes or places of refuge as speedily as possible. Then he took Fra Angelo's arm, and entrusting Verbum Caro to the care of Malacarne and his party, tried to induce the monk to fly with him.

But Fra Angelo was in a terrible state of anxiety concerning Michel and Magnani, and went about from one to another, without mentioning any names, asking for the two young monks who had accompanied him. He was not willing to leave the place until he had found them, and his desperate persistence threatened to expose him to grave danger.