A fire burned brightly in a recess of the cavern, revealing its ghastly rocks and hollow depths, the long stalactites, the crystals, and various sparkling stones which glimmered in the flames as they shot upward through the cranny that served for a chimney. Several females, grouped round it, were engaged in chatting, quarrelling, and cooking; and their picturesque costumes, olive complexions, and graceful figures, were brought forward in strong warm light by the flickering flames: some had still the sad remains of beauty, and their Greco-Italian features still wore the soft Madonna-like expression of the southern provinces: though, alas! their innocence had fled; others were sullen, forbidding, or melancholy, and all were laden with tawdry finery and massive jewels.
The aspect of the cavern; one part glaring with lurid light, the other half involved in gloom, where its mysterious recesses pierced into the bowels of the mountain; the women, with their full bosoms, large black eyes, and sandalled feet, their glossy hair braided into tails, or flowing in dishevelled ringlets; the bearded banditti, some in their well-known costume, others in a garb of rough skins, showing their bare legs and arms—their rifles, knives, pistols, and horns, sparkling when they moved; formed a striking scene. Looking outward, also, a view of the distant sea, the smoke of Stromboli piercing the infinity of space above it, the spire of Fiumara, the vine-clad ruins of a Grecian temple, and the long bright river that wound between the hills towards it, formed a subject for the pencil, such as would have raised the enthusiasm of Salvator Rosa; who, in pursuit of the savagely romantic, sojourned for a time among the wilds, the beauties, the terrors, and the banditti of Calabria.
Chocolate, kid's flesh stewed, eggs, milk, dried grapes, and wine, composed the repast: when it was finished, the poor improvisatore, though not quite at ease, found himself compelled to sing; and chose for his theme MARCO SCIARRA, the glory of the Abruzzesi, whose fame and memory the honest man and the bandit alike extol. He sang in ottiva rima and tinkled an accompaniment with his guitar, while every ear listened intently.
The scene opened in the wilds of Abruzzi; Marco was at the head of his thousand followers, and in all the plenitude of his power and terror—that chivalric brigandism which gained him the title of Re della Campagna; then we were told how, kneeling by the wayside, he kissed the hand of Tasso, and did homage to the muse; how successfully he warred with Clement VII. and the Count of Conversano, and then fought the battles of the Venetians against their Tuscan enemies: of his bravery, his loves, his compassion, and countless escapes, we all heard in succession, down to that hour when, in the marches of Ancona, he met Battimello, his former friend; who while embracing him, in the true spirit of Italian treachery, struck a dagger in his heart, and sold his head to a papal commissary.
Every eye flashed as the minstrel concluded; a groan of rage, mingled with a burst of applause, shook the vaulted cavern: for the theme was one well calculated to interest his hearers deeply; and one very pretty young woman threw her arms around the improvisatore, and kissed him on both cheeks. While all were thus well pleased, we took our departure; and were very glad when the cavern and its inmates were some miles behind us. On bidding adieu to Baptistello, I promised to have his father's head sent from Messina, if I lived to reach that city in safety. He kissed my hand, and a dark smile lit up the features of Lancelloti: I was too soon to learn the ideas passing in the mind of that abominable traitor.
There is, generally, a romance about the Italian outlaw, which raises his character far above that of the mere pickpocket or house-breaker. The danger encountered in the course of his desperate profession, and the wild scenery around him, were all calculated to inspire him with a tinge of heroism: were, I say; for the real Italian brigand may now, happily, be classed with the things which are past. Without being guilty of any premeditated crime, many were forced upon that terrible career by the French invasion, or by too freely using their knives in those outbursts of anger and revenge to which the hot blood of the southern climes is so prone: but to some good feelings lingering in those hearts which danger and despair had not completely hardened, I owed my safety in these various encounters with the wild bravos of Calabria.
But the most dangerous was yet to come. The reward offered by Regnier for my recapture had excited the avarice of Lancelloti; who was then tracking me over the hills, intent on my destruction. On parting with the improvisatore, close by where the poor notary yet hung with the wild birds screaming round him, I continued my way, as warily as possible, to avoid the enemy; for a continual pop—pop—popping in the distance, and the appearance of white smoke curling on the mountain sides and from the leafless though budding forests, announced that the French advanced parties were skirmishing with the brigands and armed paesani, and kept me continually on the alert. Dread of the effect of Regnier's reward, compelled me to avoid every man I met; so my route soon became equally toilsome and devious. Yet though exhausted by travelling and loss of sleep, I was animated by a view of Scylla's distant towers and terraces, which rose above the woodlands gleaming in the rays of the joyous sun, and continued to press forward; until completely overcome with fatigue, I threw myself on the green sward, under the cool shade of a pine thicket, and fell into a deep sleep.
This happy slumber, (which after a long march under the scorching heat of noon, the cool shade rendered so refreshing) had lasted, perhaps, an hour, when I was roughly roused by the smart application of a rifle butt to the side of my head. Starting up, I found myself in the grasp of Lancelloti, and two others of Varro's band: alas! weary and unarmed, what resistance could I offer? They were strong, fresh, and armed to the teeth: solitude was around us, and no aid near; every hope of escape vanished.
"Via, Signor Inglese!" said one; "did you mean to sleep there all day?"
"Beard of Mahomet!" said Lancelloti, with a scowl; "you had better make use of your legs."