"Well, my Lord, you are too well known here to incur suspicion, but you must be accompanied with soldiers, and also with a padre acquainted with the English language. There is no intention of prying into your conversation; and any secrets, if not affecting the State, will remain as safe with the holy man as if from the confessional. It is a form we cannot depart from."
"This would be extremely unpleasant to me, Monsieur le Comte; if I give my word of honour there is nothing to affect the prisoner's security, could I not see him alone? I do not doubt the honour of your priests, but not belonging myself to the Catholic persuasion I should be as well satisfied without one; it is in a family matter only the prisoner is useful to me."
"Well, Signore, as a friend, and as a great favour, I will give you a permit to see him for an hour or two: as he voluntarily gave himself up there is no fear of his trying to escape; if you will wait a few minutes I will write a permission."
"Given himself up, in a dungeon heavily chained, tortures and death in prospect, and he my brother! he the scion of a noble race, the true possessor of lands, title, and riches! to what has he fallen!" thought the Earl, as he watched the Count pen the permit.
"I think it right to inform you," said he, as he received the pass, "it is likely I may ask the life of this Adrian Vardarelli; he is not what he seems, Comte, he is not an Italian, and I have reason to believe that more hangs on that man's life than you are aware, and possibly the British Government may relieve you of the charge. I say I believe it only, I am not quite certain, but my interview with him will tell me all; meantime there is no chance of his immediate execution is there?"
"No, my Lord, it would not take place for months. There seems some mystery about this man. I have heard before he is an Englishman."
"He is, and I have reason to believe he is a great Englishman,—a man of rank and importance."
"Ah! that would be strange, but you will not be able to see him till the evening; it is against usual regulations, and must be done under the shadow of night; and, my Lord, you will tell no one of this permit."
"I will not, not even my wife. To-morrow I will come and see you again, and if he turns out what I believe him to be, as I said, his life must be spared until the Britannic minister has corresponded with his Majesty's government. I wish you a good day, Monsieur le Comte, and am much obliged for your kind services."
True to his promise, not even the Countess was made a confidante; she observed there was something on her husband's mind, and even inquired if all was right, but seeing his desire not to be interrogated, forbore asking more. About eight at night he told the Countess he had an engagement, and also bade her not to be alarmed if he was rather late in returning. Soon after he left in a close carriage and drove to the Castel Capuano, the ancient palace of the Swabian dynasty, now used as a court for the different tribunals—the Court of the First Instance, the Criminal Court, and Court of Appeal. Beneath the palace are dark dungeons in which many a captive has pined,—justly in requital for his crime, or unjustly, and that often, as the victim of injured innocence. At the palace the Earl's carriage stopped; he descended and was met by the Count, who to his surprise led him through the intricate passages, and then descended to the deep vaults below. A soldier of the guard carried a torch before them, and at last stopped before a heavily iron-clamped door, and taking a huge bunch of keys fitted one into the ponderous lock, and, turning it with difficulty, next unbarred and unchained this portal of captivity, and allowed the huge door to swing back on its rusty hinges with a grating, harsh creak. Two more soldiers with lanterns and muskets joined them, and the Count and turnkey then motioned the last mentioned to stand near the door, and the Earl also to enter. He did so, the great gate was again closed, he heard the bars drawn across, the chains coupled, the massive key turn in the wards of the lock, and the footsteps of the Count and his attendant fade away. An involuntary shudder passed through him as he felt himself actually within the walls of one of those dread prisons, and in a cell that the captive's voice vainly strives to pierce, whether innocent or guilty. One of the guards then addressed him, warning him he had not too much time, and had better not waste it; giving him also a lantern, and pointing to the darkest corner of the dungeon as the spot where the bandit lay. He received the lantern, and walked forward to the point indicated; by its glimmering ray he saw that the floor was uneven, and in many places so damp it resembled a marsh. The walls were old and mouldy, the moisture glistening on the huge stones of which they were built; near the floor were many bolts of mouldy iron, built into the masonry, and from them depended rusty chains, dragging their long length on the damp cold floor, or rather soil, beneath his feet. As he pursued his way down the great dungeon he came on a dread relic—a skeleton still bound by the gyves and fetters that held it a living prisoner long years ago. A shudder again ran through him: who had that victim been? was it man or woman? he was not anatomist enough to tell; had the victim been guilty, or innocent, a noble or peasant? who should say. He passed on; the opposing wall now appeared; in the corner, on a bed of maize-straw, a chained prisoner was stretched; could that be his brother? he turned the lantern's glare on his features; he almost started back; it was as if the Captain lay before him; never had the resemblance seemed so striking before. The light, blinding the captive, caused him to pass his hand over his eyes. The Earl could see him, he could not see who his visitor was, perhaps a messenger of death. Still the Earl gazed on him, still he could hardly summon resolution to speak. It was years since he had seen that face,—years of trouble, danger, exposure, hardship; vices had left their trace behind, they had not swept away old likenesses. Last time he had seen that man was, when, tiger-like, he stood over Ellen Ravensworth, and shot the servant who saved his (the Earl's) life. And here he lay, pale, dejected, hungry, bound, with the sentence of death weighing on him, and his own dark thoughts for a prison friend.