The French sentinels on the windings of the lonely river, the wolf in the distant woods and the eagle on the rocks of Battaglia, must have been alike startled by the agonizing shrieks of Dianora. Fearful they were; but of short duration. A moan succeeded—a moan of terrible import. Then rang the hoofs of a horse as if spurred madly down the steep roadway. A turn of the dell hid the wild horseman, and then all became still.
Her right hand severed at the wrist, her nose cut off, and her face seamed with the most frightful gashes, Dianora was found by the alarmed household of the bishop, stretched on the marble terrace, bleeding and senseless—mutilated—dying. She was borne away: convulsions succeeded, and that night the unhappy Dianora died.
She expired in the arms of the venerable bishop, whose grief and horror rendered him almost distracted.
CHAPTER XV.
THE MONASTERY.
To return to Scylla.—The hour of parade passed: Lascelles had not yet returned, and I could no longer withstand my anxiety for his safety. Accompanied by my intelligent countryman, Gask, a bugler, and twenty soldiers in light marching order, each with sixty rounds of ammunition, I departed in the direction of Fiumara, on the almost hopeless errand of endeavouring to discover him. I now reproached myself bitterly, and really thought I had been much to blame in not restricting my rash friend, even at the chance of a quarrel: it could not have been of long duration.
Leaving Scylla as quietly as possible, we marched towards Fiumara by the most lonely and unfrequented route, through gorges and thickets, expecting every instant to hear the musket of our advanced file discharged, as a signal that a patrol of French cavalry, or some such interruption, was in sight.
It was a beautiful morning: the rays of the bright sun streamed aslant between the peaks of Mylæ, and the white dewy vapour curled from the dells like a gauze screen, mellowing the dark green of the pine thickets and the blue of the gleaming ocean, which shone at times between the openings of the high and broken shore. The morning hymn to the Virgin, and the tolling of the matin bell, floated through the still air from the dark old walls of St. Battaglia; a monastery perched on a rock, by the base of which the pathway wound. On we hurried; and soon Fiumara, its houses shining in the sun, the red smoky fires of the French camp, and their chain of out-picquets near the river, appeared before us.
At the bottom of the hill on which the Villa of Montecino was situated, just as we were striking into the narrow path that wound up its wooded side, our advanced file, (who was about fifty paces in front), halted, and waved his hand.
"Keep together, men! fix bayonets!—look to your priming—forward!" I exclaimed, and we rushed towards him. There was no immediate cause for alarm; but on a level spot of green sward we discovered sufficient evidence that some deed of violence and atrocity had been perpetrated, and I trembled for my poor friend Oliver! On the grass lay his gilded gorget, with its white silk ribbon rent in two; near it lay a buff military glove, covered with blood; a little further on we found his riding switch, with his crest graven on its gold embossed head. All around, the trampled state of the grass, the marks of feet (some of which had evidently been shoeless), the deep indents of horse-hoofs, and, worst of all, a pool of coagulated blood on the pathway, led us to anticipate some terrible catastrophe. Loud and deep were the threats and execrations of the soldiers.