"Now—I am gone—I am dying—God receive me!" The deck yielded beneath, and I expected to sink to the bottom of the flaming hold: but my fate was changed. At that moment the magazine blew up—a whirlwind of sparks burst on every side, the crackling deck parted beneath me, and I found myself struggling in the ocean: the corsair sank, hissing and roaring, and nearly drawing into her vortex the planks to which I was chained. The bitter briny water rushed in at every pore, and I became insensible.
On recovering, I found myself upon the deck of the corvette; from whose commander I received every kindness and attention that the brave can yield to the unfortunate: but I was filled with an agony of horror when I reflected on the past, and the fate of Laura Molina.
Time softened those pangs; and remembering that she was with the angels in heaven, and happier than she could ever have been on earth, I became contented: but vowed never to love another!—a solemn pledge of love and piety which I have most religiously preserved. To be brief—I served with the Cavalier di Castelermo during the remainder of his cruise, against the Algerines, with whom we had many encounters; and the desire of avenging my wrongs endued me with the valour of a lion.
After the blockade of Valetta, when all hope of restoring the order of St. John to its pristine splendour had failed, Castelermo and I set out for Italy to join the grand-master at Genoa. During the voyage the vessel anchored off the Campo di Mare, and I was seized with a longing to behold my native city, and visit once more those places which the associations of childhood and love have rendered so dear to me.
On hearing that so distinguished a cavalier, with his train, was in the vicinity, the bishop of Cosenza invited us all to his palace. It was one of our glorious Italian days: the landscape danced joyously in the sunbeams; the green peaks of the Syla, the spires of the city, the winding river, the waving woods, and the distant sea, all shone in summer beauty beneath the bright blue sky.
The memory of Laura, her beauty, her gentle innocence, our love, and our misery, made my heart alternately a prey to the tenderest sorrow, and the fiercest longings to requite her wrongs upon the wretch Petronio.
It was the levée day of the bishop; a guard of mounted sbirri received us in the porch of his palace. A crowd of richly dressed cavaliers, officers, and knights of military orders, mingling with churchmen, thronged the ante-rooms, and were introduced, in turn, by the chamberlain. Entering the presence-chamber of the great prelate, I beheld him seated in a lofty chair, wearing his canonicals and sparkling mitre, gleaming with jewels and embroidery. On my nearer approach, judge of my sensations on recognising in his stern and sallow visage, the accursed lineaments of Father Petronio. The blood rushed tumultuously on my heart, and all the long slumbering spirit of the devil arose within me.
"Gesu Christo!" I exclaimed, raising my hands to Heaven; "is this one of Thy servants—Thy chosen servants?"
Castelermo arose from his knees in astonishment, while I unsheathed my sword and sprang upon the bishop, alike regardless of his power, his friends, and my life: I trembled, I panted, I thought only of Laura and retribution.
"Hypocritical apostate!" I exclaimed, grasping him by the throat, and dashing his mitre to the earth. "Thou pest of hell! thou murderer of my wife, and wrecker of my peace! have we met at last—ha!"