"Armed, too," I added, as, following the eye of the venerable retainer, I saw about thirty mounted men riding, three deep, at an easy pace across the broad and level valley, through which the river wound like a gilded snake; "well horsed and armed. See how their appointments flash in the sun!"
"They are about a cannon-shot distant," replied the visconte; "and should they prove to be authorities from Cosenza, we can still baffle them, even if they come up with us."
"Three to thirty?" said I, inquiringly.
"And what of that? We have good Calabrian cattle under us; the free mountains, the deep rivers, the dense forests, and a bright moonlight night before us: all glorious for a flying skirmish; and we may empty a dozen of their saddles yet before the stars go down."
"And what if they search the villa?"
"I trust to Madonna that the same secret place in the round tower which saved my ancestor from the followers of Carlo of Anjou, will avail my Francesca now: save by terror or treachery, it cannot be discovered.—I hope, Master Zacheo, that the contents of the holsters are in service order?"
"Most carefully flinted and loaded, excellency," replied the Greek from the rear.
"But these may be neither the sbirri of the bishop nor his meddling friend the barone; and, as they do not pursue a way leading either to the villa or to us, let us avoid them, in God's name! We have business enough of our own to settle before the night closes."
At a hand-gallop we passed the redoubts, garrisoned by part of the Regiment de Watteville, and which they had erected on the day of our disembarkation. On the turf bastions the sentries were pacing briskly to and fro; and as we left the fort behind, the evening gun was fired, its echoes rolling along the hills with a thousand reverberations, and dying away in the distance. The gaudy union descended slowly from the flag-staff; while the fifes playing, and the drums beating, in that peculiar time which is called "the sunset, or evening retreat," awoke the gentler responses of the woods and winding shore, when the hollow boom of the cannon had pealed away on the passing wind: it was "Lochaber no more," a plaintive northern air, often played by our bands when the sun is setting, announcing that another day has rolled into eternity.
Its slow-measured beat, and melancholy notes, are among the domestic or home-sounds of the barrack-square: then the captain of the day, sulky at being obliged to leave his wine, lounges forth with a cigar in his mouth, and leaves the mess-room to parade the inlying piquet, who are mustered in their dark great coats by the indefatigable sergeant-major: the gates are shut, the drawbridges lowered, and the canteen cleared of its noisiest revellers: the last flush of the sun has died away over the distant hill, and a stillness settles over the whole community, only broken by a laugh now and then from the mess, or by the tread of feet and clash of arms, as the sentinels are relieved at their posts.