"Ser," said the improvisatore, "your postilion is probably only away to the next hill; and when he returns, a score of riflemen will be at his back."
The little notary quaked; and although the cunning minstrel merely spoke in jest, his suppositions were indeed too correct. The secret understanding which existed between the brigands, postilions, and innkeepers of south Italy, was notorious: it has formed the machinery of innumerable tales of fiction. But since the campaign of Manhes and the close of the war, Italy has been quite regenerated.
The improvisatore received a furious glance from the host, that confirmed my suspicions: but to retire now was almost impossible.
After a miserable supper had been washed down by a caraffa of tart country wine, we drew closer to the smoky fire, and composed ourselves round it for the night. The wife and daughter of the host retired to a kind of loft above; resigning the only bed in the house,—viz., a bag of leaves and a blanket or two, to the priest. The notary nodded over his green bag, and, though he started at every sound, pretended to be fast asleep.
Notwithstanding my fatigue, thoughts stole over me and kept me awake; and more than once I saw the dark glassy eye of the host observing me intently, from the gloomy corner where he lay on the tiled floor. In short, not to keep the reader any longer behind the curtain, we were in one of those infamous dens which were the resort of the brigands: to whom the keepers conveyed information of all travellers who passed the night with them; stating whether they were armed or escorted by soldiers or sbirri. The suspicious improvisatore again whispered to me that he had no doubt the notary's postilion was only away to summon his comrades, the banditti. Reflecting that I was unarmed, I felt the utmost anxiety; but retiring might only anticipate matters: the fellows asleep in the corner were well armed, and I saw the hilts of their knives and pistol butts shining in the light of the fire.
"I am glad we have a cavalier of Malta here to-night," whispered the lad with the guitar. "You may save us all from Baptistello if he pays us a visit—all, one excepted: but, signor, you have very much the air of an Englishman."
"I served with the English fleet when it assisted the knights at the siege of Valetta. But I hope the rogues will not carry me off in expectation of a ransom."
"Madonna forbid! But Heaven help poor Villani, if he fall into the clutches of Baptistello!"
"Why so?"
"Signor, it is quite a story!" said he, drawing closer and lowering his voice. "Baptistello was a soldier of the Cardinal Ruffo, and served in his army when it defeated the French in the battle of Naples, on the happy 5th of June. His father, Baptiste, was a famous bravo and capo-bandito, who infested the mountains above St. Agata, and was the terror of the province from Scylla to La Bianca. He boasted that he had slain a hundred men; and it is said that in order to rival the frightful Mammone, he once quaffed human blood. He was deemed bullet-proof: a charm worn round his left wrist made him invulnerable; and he escaped so often and so narrowly that he soon thought so himself. His presence inspired terror, and no man dared to travel within twenty miles of his district without a numerous escort. The Prince of St. Agata, lord of that territory, alone treated his name with contempt, and daily drove his carriage through the wildest haunt of Baptiste, without attendants.