I was under considerable apprehension for my rash friend's safety. Midnight passed: slowly the hours of morning rolled on. Day was breaking, and the peaks of Milia were burnished by the yet unrisen sun, when I visited the posts to inquire for Lascelles. He had not returned; and as he had never before been absent so long in such a dangerous neighbourhood, I became very uneasy: deeply I regretted that, even at the risk of unpleasant words, I had not exerted my authority as commanding officer, and compelled him to stay within the castle. The bugle sounded for morning parade at the usual hour; but Oliver Lascelles was not forthcoming: his place in the ranks was vacant.
On the advance of the French, the old bishop, before mentioned, had retired from the city of Nicastro; abandoning to them his residence—the ancient castle, famous as the place where Henry, of Naples, expiated his rebellion. Retiring to his little paternal villa, near Fiumara, he lived in retirement, unmolested by the French; who almost depopulated the surrounding country by their tyranny, extortions, and wanton outrage. On the side of a hill, at the base of which ran a deep and rapid stream, its banks covered with orange and citron trees, stood the bishop's villa. It faced the straits of Messina: high rocks and a thick wood of pines hid it from the view of the foe at Fiumara; otherwise their forage parties would assuredly have paid it a visit.
On the evening I last saw Oliver, a young lady was visible at an open window of this mansion. She was alone, and seated in a reclining posture on an ottoman, upon which lay her guitar: her hair, half-braided, half-disordered, rolled in natural ringlets of the deepest black over a neck of the purest white—so pure, so transparent, that the blue veins beneath were distinctly visible. She was not tall, but of a full and beautifully rounded form; and though her features were not regular, yet their expression was very captivating and piquant. Her eyes were dark and brilliant, her lips full and pouting, her cheeks flushed and dimpled.
Notwithstanding the season of the year, the air was close and still; the sun had set, and the sky wore a warm and fiery tinge; but the hills and wood were of a dark bronze hue.
Dianora Montecino listened impatiently. She awaited the coming of Oliver: but he came not. She often surveyed her figure in a mirror which hung opposite, and a calm smile lighted up her pretty face: it was one of complacent but innocent admiration of her own attractions. Her hair being in partial disorder, languidly, with her delicate fingers, she endeavoured to adjust it; then pausing, she sighed, and after again consulting the friendly mirror, with a pardonable coquetry, she allowed the flowing tresses to remain free.
"He always prefers me in dishabille. That seems strange: and yet I think I really look better so. But truly, Signor Oliver, you tarry long to-night."
The last flush of sunlight vanished from the hills of Milia (or Mylæ), and now rose the bright moon, shedding its softer light over land and sea; tinging the straits with silver lustre, and revealing the Sicilian feluccas, with their striped latteen sails, and other picturesque vessels, which the sombre shadows of evening had for a time obscured. At the base of the hills the river wound between rocks and thickets, its surface reflecting the innumerable stars that studded the serene blue sky. A beautiful fountain beneath the terrace threw up its jet of water like a ceaseless shower of diamonds; the air was laden with the perfume of the earliest flowers of an Italian spring, and not a breath of wind was abroad to stir their closed petals, then filled with fragrant dew. Intently the young girl hearkened for the tramp of her lover's horse; but he came not: she heard only the tumultuous beating of her own heart, and the monotonous plash of the water falling from the bronze Triton's mouth into the marble basin below.
A step was heard softly on the gravel walk:
"At last he comes!" she said, pouting; while joy and hope sparkled in her dark and liquid eyes: a man leaped over the balustrade of the terrace. "Dear Oliver, you have come at last: but stay! I owe you a scolding, signor mio!"
"'T is not Oliver," replied the stranger, with a husky, but somewhat sad tone of voice; and he stood before her. Dianora's first impulse was to call for assistance; but the voice of the stranger again arrested her.