It would be impossible to depict the expression on General Harding’s face, or the horror that thrilled through his heart, as he stood holding his son’s finger in his hand. His eyes looked as if about to start from their sockets, while his frame shook as though he had become suddenly palsied. Not for long did he keep hold of the ghastly fragment; and as he attempted to lay it on the table, it dropped out of his now nerveless grasp.
It was some time before he could command sufficient calmness to peruse the epistle that had accompanied the painful present. He at length took it up, and spreading it before him, read:—
“Signore,—
“Enclosed you will find the finger of your son. You will easily recognise it by the scar. If, however, you still continue to doubt, and refuse to send the ransom by next post, the whole hand shall be remitted to you, and you can see whether the finger fits. You shall have ten days allowed for your answer. If, at the end of that time, it does not reach Rome, and 30,000 scudi along with it, the next post after will take the hand to you. If that fails to open your borsa we shall conclude you have no heart, and that you decline to negotiate for your son’s life. Do not, therefore, charge cruelty upon us, who, by unjust laws, have been forced to war with mankind. Tracked like wild beasts, we are compelled to adopt extreme means for obtaining a livelihood. In fine, and to close the correspondence, should the negotiation thus fall through, unsatisfactorily, we promise that your son’s body shall have Christian burial. As a reminder of your inhumanity, the head shall be cut off, and sent you by the next steamer that touches at Civita Vecchia. We have paid the post on the finger; we shall do the same with the hand; but we shall expect you to pay carriage on the head.
“And now, Signor General, in respect to the advice already given you. Don’t mistake what is herein written for an idle menace—it has no such meaning. Continue incredulous, and the threat will be carried out to the letter, as stated. Refuse the ransom, and, as sure as you are living, your son will be put to death.
“Il Capo (for himself and compagnos).
“Postscriptum.—If you send the money by post, direct to Signor Jacopi, Number 9, Strada Volturno. If by messenger, he can find our agent at the same place. Beware of treason: it cannot avail you.”
Such was the singular communication that had come into General Harding’s hands.
“My God! my God!” was his exclamation as he finished reading it—the same he had uttered before commencing.
He had no doubt about the truth of its contents. Lying on the table before his face was the fearful voucher—still apparently fresh—the gore scarce congealed upon it, as it came out of the wrapper in which it had been carefully enfolded.
With a trembling hand the General touched the table bell.
“My son Nigel!” he said to the footman who answered; “send him to me instantly.”
The servant went off wondering.
“My God!” once more ejaculated the sorrowing father, “this is terrible—horrible—who would have believed it? Who would have believed it? It is true—true beyond a doubt. My God!”