“I cannot drink. I am not hungry. I cannot eat.”
“What would you then? To bed? There’s a couch in the next room. I am sorry I have no maids to help undress you. She whom you have just seen is not used to that kind of duty. You would prefer at once going to rest? Is that it, signorina?”
There was no reply. The young girl sat on the sofa with her head drooping down, till the chin touched her snow-white bosom. This was partially exposed—the buttons having been torn from her bodice as she was dragged along in the company of her captors.
There had been tears upon her cheek; but they were now dried, their traces only remaining. She could not again weep. She had reached that crisis of agony no longer to be relieved by tears.
“Come!” said the brigand, affecting an air of sympathy, like some cunning serpent in the act of fascinating its victim. “Cheer up, signorina! I acknowledge the rude fashion by which I have made you my guest; but who could resist the temptation of having so beauteous a damsel under his roof? Ah, Lucetta! though you knew it not, I have long been your admirer; long been enslaved by your charms—that are celebrated far beyond the mountains of the Romagna. I’ve myself heard speak of them in the salons of the Holy City. Ah! fair lady! being your captive, can you blame me for making you mine?”
“What would you, signor? Why have you brought me here?”
“What would I, signorina? What but have you love me as I love you? Why have I brought you here? Only to make you my wife!”
“Madonna mia!” murmured the girl, scarce listening to what he had said. “O Madonna santissima! What have I done to deserve this?”
“To deserve what?” asked the bandit, suddenly changing his tone. “To deserve becoming the wife of Corvino! You speak proudly, signorina. ’Tis true I am no grand sindico like your father; nor yet a povero pittore like the cur from whose company I have snatched you. But I am master of the mountains—and of the plains too! Who dares dispute my will? You will find it law, my lady—ay, to the very gates of Rome.”
After this outburst, the brigand paced for some seconds over the floor—his step proud, strong, exultant.