"Your purpose, scoundrels?"
"To deliver you to the French commandant at Fiumara," replied the ci-devant priest and pirate. "Madonna! a hundred pieces of gold are not to be despised. Look you, signor, I swear by the light of Heaven, to blow your brains out on the first attempt to escape!—so fill the foreyard—maladetto! Remember I am Osman Carora—ha, ha!"
"Wretch! would you murder me in cold blood, and thus add to the guilt accumulated on your unhappy head?"
"Cospetto! it is indeed mighty," said he, gloomily; "yea, enough to darken the stone of Caaba, which was once white as milk, but now, blackened by the sins of men, is like a piece of charcoal in those walls where Abraham built it. When a devout Turk, I—via! on—or a brace of balls will whistle through the head you may wish should reach Fiumara on your shoulders—ha, ha!"
To resist was to die; so, relying on the humanity of the French officer commanding the outposts, I accompanied them, in indescribable agony of mind. The fading rays of the setting sun, as it sank behind the hills, were reddening the massive towers and crenelated battlements, the terraced streets and shining casements of Scylla. It vanished behind the green ridges; the standard descended from the keep, and my heart sank as we neared Fiumara. My escort kept close by me, with their rifles loaded. A river, the name of which I do not remember, winds from these hills towards Fiumara; and we moved along its northern bank. Its deep, smooth current lay on the left side of the narrow path, and precipitous rocks, like a wall, rose up on the right; so that I was without the slightest hope of effecting an escape. I spoke of the greater reward they would receive on conducting me to Scylla: but they laughed my words to scorn. The French out-picquets were now in sight; and far down the valley we saw their chain of advanced sentinels, motionless on their posts, standing with ordered arms, watching the still current of the glassy river, as it swept onwards to the sea: its bright surface reflected the steep rocks, the green woods, and a ruined bridge, so vividly, that the eye could not distinguish where land and water met. The last flush of day, as it died away over the Apennines, cast a yellow blaze on its windings; which at intervals were dotted by the fitful watch-fires of the out-lying piquets.
A party of armed men had been seen by Lancelloti pursuing the turnings of the path we trod: they came towards us: their conical hats and long rifles announced them Calabrians, and a consultation was held by my capturers whether to advance or retire; as it was quite impossible to leave the path on either hand.
"Go to the front, Gaetano, and reconnoitre," said Lancelloti; "they may be some of the Free Corps." My heart leaped at the idea.
"Cospetto! and if they are?"
"We shoot him through the head, plunge into the river, and swim for it!" said the other ruffian.
"Blockhead!" exclaimed Lancelloti; "they are but four, and the first lucky fire may make us more than equal. To you," addressing me with cruel ferocity, "I swear, by all the devils, you shall be shot the instant we are attacked—shot, I say, and flung into the river, that no one else may win those bright Napoleons which I hoped should clink in my own pouch."