To Henry Harding there was no hope of this, and he did not even think of it. He saw no alternative but to wait the development of events.
He was hungry, and would have eaten anything. He listened, in hopes of hearing a footstep—the tread of a brigand bringing him his breakfast. He could hear a step; but it was that of the sentry outside his door. It came and went, and came and went again, but no sound of drawing bolt, or key turning in the lock. An hour was passed in this hungry uncertainty, and then the tread of the sentry became commingled with other footsteps. A short parley outside, the key was inserted, the bolt clicked back, and the door stood open.
“Good mornin’, Muster Hardin’. I hope ye ha’ passed a pleasant night o’t. Compliments o’ Captin, an’ wants ye to come an’ see him.”
Without further speech Doggy Dick seized the prisoner by the collar. Then, with a spiteful shake, such as might have been given by an irate policeman, dragged him out out of the cell, and on toward the quarters of the bandit chief. As a matter of course, these were in the best house of the place; but the young artist was not prepared to witness such splendour inside. Not only was the furniture well made, but there were articles of luxe in abundance—plate, pictures, looking-glasses, clocks, girandoles, épergnes, and the like, not very artistically arranged, but plenteous everywhere. It was a somewhat grotesque admixture of the ancient and modern, such as may be seen in a curiosity-shop, or the chambers of a London money-lender.
In the apartment to which the prisoner was introduced, there were two individuals seated amidst the glittering confusion. One was the brigand chief, whose name he now knew for the first time to be “Corvino.” He knew it from hearing him so addressed by the other occupant of the chamber, who was a woman, and who in her turn was called by the chief “Cara Popetta”—the “Cara” being merely a prefix of endearment.
Corvino, the chief, has been already delineated. Popetta, as being his spouse, also deserves a word. She was a large woman, nearly as tall as Corvino himself, and quite as picturesquely attired. Her dress was glittering with beads and bugles; and with her dark, almost chestnut-coloured skin and crow-black hair, she would have passed muster among the belles of an Indian encampment. She had once been beautiful, and her teeth were still so, when displayed in a smile; otherwise, they resembled the incisors of a tigress preparing to spring upon her prey. The beauty that had once shone in her countenance might still to some extent have remained—for Cara Popetta was scarce turned thirty—but for a scar of cadaverous hue, that traversed the left cheek. This turned what was once a fair face into one disfigured, even to ugliness. And if her eyes spoke truth, many a cicatrice had equally deformed her soul, for as she sat eyeing the prisoner on his entrance, there was that in her aspect that might have caused him to quail.
Just then he had no opportunity for scanning her very minutely. On the instant of his stepping inside the room he was accosted by the chief, and commanded in a hard tone to take a seat by the table.
“I need not ask you if you can write, signor artista,” said the bandit, pointing to the “materials” upon the table. “Such a skilled hand as you with the pencil cannot fail to be an adopt with the pen. Take hold of one of these, and set down what I indite—translating it, as I know you can, into your native tongue. Here is a sheet of paper that will serve for the purpose.”
As he said this, the brigand stretched forth his hand, and pointed to some letter-paper already spread out upon the table.
The prisoner took up the pen, without having the least idea of what was to be the subject of his first essay at secretaryship. Apparently it was to be a letter, but to whom was it to be written? He was not long kept in ignorance.