Honest Jack was perfectly astounded at seeing so much beauty and grandeur where he expected to find nothing except solitude and savage desert. But his astonishment was greater still when he was invited along with the rest into the castle, and beheld a table covered with a profusion of modest comforts in a handsome and spacious dining-hall.
"You expected me, then, carissima?" observed Orazio, as he entered it, to Irene.
"Oh, yes; my heart told me you would not pass another night away," was the reply, and the lovers exchanged another look, which made the thoughts of Clelia, as she beheld it, fly to Attilio, and we do not overstep the bounds of truth if we say that Silvia also remembered her absent Manlio with a sigh.
Jack, with the appetite of a boy of twelve after his very long walk, felt nothing of the pangs of love, but much of those of hunger.
And now another scene amazed mother and daughter as well as the sailor, who stood, indeed, with wide-open mouth staring at what seemed enchantment, for as Orazio blew his horn again, fifteen new guests, one after another, each fully armed and equipped like their leader, filed into the room. The hour being late, there was little daylight in the apartment, which gave to their entrance a more melodramatic air; but when the room was lit up with a lamp, the open and manly countenances of the new comers were seen, and inspired our party with admiration and confidence. The strangers made obeisance to the ladies and their hostess. Orazio, placing Silvia on his right hand, and Clelia on his left, Irene being seated by her side, called out, "To table." When their chief (to whom they showed great respect) was seated, the men took their places, silently, and Jack found a vacant seat by the side of Syvia, which he took with calm resignation to his good luck. The repast began with a toast "to the liberty of Rome," which each drank in a glass of "vermuth," and then eating commenced, the meal lasting some time. When all had appeased their hunger, Irene rose, with a sweet grace, from the table, and conducted her fair visitors to an upper chamber in the tower; and while a servant prepared, according to her orders, some beds for her guests, exchanged with them, after the universal manner of ladies, a few words about their mutual histories.
Silvia's and Clelia's stories you already know, so it only remains for us, who have the privilege of their confidence, to narrate what Irene imparted to them.
"You will wonder to hear," said she, "that I am the daughter of Prince T———, whom perhaps you know in Rome, as he is famous for his wealth. My father gave me a liberal education, for I did not care about feminine accomplishments, such as music and dancing, but was attracted by deeper studies. I delighted in histories; and when I commenced that of our Rome, I was thoroughly fascinated by the story of the republic, so full of deeds of heroism and virtue, and my young imagination became exalted and affected to such an extent that I feared I should lose my reason. Comparing those heroic times with the shameful and selfish empire, and more especially with the present state of Rome, under the humiliating and miserable rule of the priest, I became inexpressibly sorry for the loss of that ancient ideal, and conceived an intense hatred and disgust for those who are the true instruments of the abasement and servility of our people. With such a disposition, and such sentiments, you can imagine how distasteful the princely amusements and occupations of my father's house became to me. The effeminate homage of the Roman aristocracy—creatures of the priest—and the presence of the foreigner palled upon me. Balls, feasts, and other dissipations, gave me no gratification; only in the pathetic ruins scattered over our metropolis did I find delight. On horseback or on foot, I passed hours daily examining these relics of Rome's ancient grandeur.
"When I attained my fifteenth year I was certainly better acquainted with the edifices of the old architects, and our numerous ruins, than with the needle, embroidery, and the fashions. I used to make very distant excursions on horseback, accompanied by an old and trusty servant of the family.
"One evening, when I was returning from an exploration, and crossing Trastevere, some drunken foreign soldiers, who had picked a quarrel at an inn, rushed out, pursuing one another with drawn swords. My horse took fright, and galloped along the road, overleaping and overturning every thing in his way, in spite of all my endeavors to check his speed. I am a good rider, and kept a firm seat, to the admiration of the beholders; but my steed continuing his headlong race, my strength began to fail, and I was about to let myself fall—in which case I should certainly have been dashed to pieces on the pavement had I done so—when a brave youth sprang from the roadside, and, flinging himself before my horse, seized the bridle with his left hand, and, as the animal reared and stumbled, clasped me with the right. The powerful and sudden grasp of my robust preserver caused the poor beast indeed to swerve sharply round, and, striking one foot against the curb, he stumbled and fell, splitting his skull open against the wall of a house. I was saved, but had fainted; and when I returned to consciousness I found myself at home, in my own bed, and surrounded by my servants.
"And who was my preserver? Of whom could I make inquiries? I sent for my old groom, but he could tell me little, except that he had followed me as quickly as he well could, and had arrived at the scene of the castastrophe just as I was being carried into a house. All he knew was that my deliverer seemed a young man, who had retired immediately after placing me in the care of the woman of the house, who was very attentive when she learned who I was.