"Has he not the air of a king?" he asked, while a bitter smile curled his thin lips, and lit up his sharp gray eye. "You are afraid to answer. You are wearied, perhaps. His Majesty has retired for the night: allow me to lead you to your apartment."
In the solitude of my chamber, I endeavoured to unravel the chaos of thought that whirled through my brain. The driving wreck, the drowning crew, and the terrors of the midnight storm—the white salt foam, the roaring sea, the cliffs up which I clambered—the villa, the cardinal-duke blessing me: all passed before me in rapid review. I drew forth the ribbon and medal to examine them: the latter was of massive gold; it was one of those struck by order of the cardinal on the death of his brother, Prince Charles, and distributed among his friends (who even then, as his papers afterwards revealed, were both powerful and numerous), in commemoration of his imaginary succession. It bore his head in bold relief, with the motto—"Henricus Nonus, Anglia Rex." On the reverse was a cross, supported by Britannia and the Virgin; behind rose a bridge and cathedral, with the crown of Britain. George III. became possessed of two of those singular medals; but perhaps I was the first of his officers who received one from the hand of York: I have preserved the gift, with proper reverence, in memory of an interview which I shall never forget.
Next morning, I was awakened by the familiar but unwelcome sound of drums beating. Dressing in my strange garb, and descending to the lawn which lay around the mansion, I walked forth to enjoy a ramble in solitude. I looked on my shovel-hat, the serge sleeves and knotted girdle of my strange attire. Three days ago, I was aide-de-camp to the Count of Maida, galloping along the line on a garrison parade; to-day, a monk, and a follower of Henry Stuart, the Cardinal-Duke of York!
The beauty of the scenery and freshness of the morning drew my steps towards Canne, which I beheld on the sea-shore, about two miles distant; its white walls, church spire, and casements, gleaming in the rising sun. The sound of distant bells reminded me that it was Sunday. The morning was cloudless, the sky blue, the earth green and glistening with dew; the wide gulf of Tarento sparkled with light as it vanished into dimness and misty obscurity; the horizontal line where sea met sky, being only marked by some sail glittering, like a snow-wreath or white cloud, in the distance. The road was narrow, and, being bordered by thick copsewood, was cool and shady. I wandered on until a turn unexpectedly brought me upon the parade of a regiment of French infantry, which had just been inspected by Massena, and was being formed into sections preparatory to marching. My heart beat quick: discovery was death, and I shrank from the lynx-like gaze of the ferocious Massena; who, after a few words with the colonel, galloped off accompanied by his aide. I began to breathe a little more freely. I recognised the 12th Grenadiers in their blue greatcoats and bear-skin caps; and at their head my old friend De Bourmont, as paunchy and merry as ever. An exchange of prisoners had taken place, and all that we had captured were once more in arms against us. The band struck up, the arms flashed as they were sloped in the sun, and the battalion moved off, en route for the frontiers of Calabria; where Massena was concentrating his forces at the very time our troops were about to abandon the country. How bravely the sharp trumpet and the hoarse drums rang in the wooded way, as they marched through the green defiles! Whilst I listened, regardless of time and place, cassock and cope, some peasant women approached that I might bestow a benison on their children; they, however, received only very vague and curious answers as I pushed past and hurried back towards the good cardinal's villa, from which I had been too long absent.
After I had breakfasted hastily in my own apartment, Catanio informed me that as his majesty was to celebrate high mass at Canne, as a piece of etiquette it would be necessary for me to attend.
"Faith! I have entertained the natives enough for one day," said I. Catanio frowned; and being obliged to consent, a mule was brought me, and I set off with the household of the cardinal. A lumbering, old-fashioned coach bore his eminence from the villa, at a most solemn pace; its little Roman horses appearing dwarfed to the size of ponies beside the ancient vehicle, on whose carved and gilded pannels shone the crown and arms of Britain. The old man considered himself in everything a king; and doubtless an excellent one he would have made, if we judge by the goodness of his heart, and the fidelity of his few and disinterested adherents.
That magic influence by which his family always gained the unbounded loyalty and most romantic attachment of their followers, he certainly possessed in no small degree: there was a nobility of soul, a quiet stateliness of demeanor, and a pious resignation to his obscure fate, which made his imaginary crown shine with greater lustre; and he passed through life more peacefully and happily, in consequence of taking no active part in the great question of hereditary right, which had embittered the days of his father and brother. His years, his rank, his reputed sanctity, and general amiability of character procured him the admiration and devotion of the Italians; who were exasperated by the invasion of Rome, and the expulsion of so many ecclesiastics of rank. The crowd surrounding the porch of the church uncovered, with reverence, as he descended from the coach, and, followed by his household, three old Scottish priests, an Irish valet, and myself, ascended the steps of the church. On these crowded a number of wretched mendicants,—a hideous mass of festering sores, ragged garments, black visages, and squalid misery; they fell upon their knees, and when Catanio scattered some silver among them, there arose cries of—
"Viva eminenza! O, the gracious lord! the beneficent father! Viva Enrico Stuardo! Viva la famiglia Stuardi!"
High mass in its most impressive form was celebrated by the cardinal. The congregation consisted of the people of Canne, a few ladies, fewer cavaliers, and a sprinkling of the French garrison. Though the church was not large, its ancient aisles and carved roof presented a noble specimen of the old Italian gothic, exhibiting those striking extremes of light and shadow for which that style is remarkable. The strong blaze of the noon-day sun poured between the many mullions of its stained windows, slanting on the picturesque crowd who stood or knelt around the columns; on the cavalier in his ample cloak, the signora in her veil and mantle, the peasant in his rough jacket, and the graceful country girl with her sparkling eyes and olive cheek, shaded by a modest muslin panno. Six tall candles glimmered before the dark altar-piece, while the altar itself, being covered with the richest carving and gilding, shone like a blaze of glory around the aged cardinal, who stood on the highest step.
The relics of several saints and martyrs, of great reputed sanctity, stood upon it; and an old ragged mantle, which hung from one of the columns, was said to be the cloak of Madonna, and to have cured divers disorders by being wrapped round the sufferers.