This was said in a tone that told the speaker was in earnest. Of course, in the face of such a terrible alternative, the young artist could do no less than continue the writing of the letter to its end. When translated into his own tongue, it ran as follows:—
“Dear Father,—
“This is to inform you that I am a prisoner in the mountains of Italy, about forty miles from the city of Rome, and upon the borders of the Neapolitan territory. My captors are stern men, and, if I be not ransomed, will kill me. They only wait till I can hear from you; and for this purpose they send a messenger to you, upon whose safety while in England my life will depend. If you should cause him to be arrested, or otherwise hindered from returning here, they will retaliate upon me by a torture too horrible to think of. As the amount of my ransom, they demand thirty thousand scudi—about five thousand pounds. If the bearer bring this sum back with him in gold—a circular note on the Bank of Rome will do—they promise me my liberty; and I know they will keep their promise, for these men, although forced to become bandits by cruel persecution on the part of their government, have true principles of honesty and honour. If the money be not sent, then, dearest father, I can say with sad certainty, that you will never more see your son.”
“Now sign your name to it,” said the brigand, as the writing was completed.
Henry Harding once more started from his chair, and stood irresolute, still holding the pen in his hand. He had written the letter as dictated, and, while occupied in translating it into his native tongue, he had given but little heed to its true signification. But now he was called upon to append his name to this piteous appeal to his father. With the remembrance still vivid in his mind of the defiant epistle he had last penned to him, he felt something more than reluctance—he felt shame, and almost a determination to refuse.
“Sign your name!” commanded the brigand, half rising from his seat. “Sign it, I say!”
The young Englishman still hesitated.
“Lay down the pen again, without putting your firma to that letter, and, by the Holy Virgin, before the ink become dry, your blood will redden the floor at your feet. Cospetto! to be crossed by a poor devil of a pittore—a cur of an Inglese!”
“O signor,” interposed the brigand’s wife, who up to that moment had not spoken a word, “do as he bids you, buono cavaliére! It is only his way with every one who strays here from the great city. Sign it caro, and all will be well. You will be free again, and can return to your friends.”
While delivering this appeal, Popetta had risen up from her chair, and laid her hand upon the Englishman’s shoulder. The tone in which she spoke, with a certain expression detectable in her fiery eyes, did not seem altogether to please her sposo, who, rushing round the table, seized hold of the woman and swung her to the farthest corner of the room.
“Stay there!” he shouted, “and don’t interfere with what’s no concern of yours.”