On came Guardiola at the head of his troop. The soldiers were marching in straggling disorder. The captain was not himself in the best of spirits. False as his love had been, he felt bitter chagrin at the girl having been carried away. His own recreance too, there was something to regret about that. Now that the excitement was over, he could not help thinking of it. With soiled shield and trailing pennon, he was returning into the town. He cared little for the sentiment of the citizens; less now that she was no longer among them. But his own followers had been witnesses of his cowardly conduct, and he would hear of it perhaps at headquarters. Captain, subalterns, and troop tramped back towards the town, observing neither rank nor caution. Little did they dream of the trap into which they were advancing. The measures of the Republican leader had been well taken. On each of the four sides of the piazza he had placed a portion of his force—distributed into nearly equal parts. Hidden by the blinds inside, they commanded the whole square, and could rake it with their fire through the windows and doors. The soldiers would have no chance. Once within the piazza they would be at the mercy of the Revolutionists. And into the piazza they came, utterly unconscious of the fate that awaited them. They had noticed the silence pervading the place, and wondered that their comrades, left behind, came not forth to greet them.
They were reflecting on the strangeness of these things when a loud voice, issuing from the inn, summoned them to surrender.
“Rendate, Capitano! Yield up your sword to the soldiers of the Republic!”
“What’s the meaning of this impertinence?” cried Guardiola, facing the albergo, and endeavouring to discover from whom proceeded the voice. “Sergeant,” he continued, “drag that man out into the street, and see that he has a score of blows upon the back—heavily laid on.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the voice, while the laughter was loudly echoed from the four sides of the square, and again the demand was repeated.
The carabineers unslung their firelocks, and faced in different directions, ready to make havoc among the jeering citizens, as they supposed them to be. They only waited for the word to fire into the windows and doors.
“We don’t want to spill your blood,” said the same stentorian voice, speaking from the albergo; “but if you insist upon it, we shall. Soldiers of the Pope! you are surrounded by soldiers of a higher power—the Republic. Your master is no longer in Rome. He has fled to Gaeta. Mazzini rules in the city, and we intend to rule here. You are completely in our power. The first of you that draws a trigger will be answerable for the sacrifice of your whole troop; for we shall not leave a man of you standing. Be wise, then, and surrender, as we tell you. Put down your arms, and we shall treat you as prisoners of war. Use them, and you shall have the treatment you more deserve—that accorded to hirelings and brigands!”
Guardiola and his troop were astounded. What could it mean—this summons so impudently and yet so confidently spoken? They stood irresolute.
“Compagnos!” cried the voice from the albergo, speaking as if from the interior of some Delphian shrine, and loud enough to reach the four sides of the square; “these worthy gentlemen seem to hesitate, as if they doubted the truth of my words. Convince them of it by showing the muzzles of your guns. When they have counted those, perhaps they will be less incredulous.”
Quick following upon this speech came the clanking noise of gun-barrels brought in collision; and, to the consternation of Guardiola and his carabineers, a score of windows around the piazza glistened with dark iron tubes that could not be mistaken for aught else than what they were. There appeared to be at least two hundred. One-fourth of the number would have been sufficient.