After climbing some way the band reached their huts, where, the remains of the carriage being piled in a heap, a fire was lighted, and they set to work to cook the remainder of their provisions, with the pleasant knowledge that they had now the means amply to replenish their supply. Having eaten and drunk their fill of salt fish, oil, garlic, macaroni, and sour wine, they stretched themselves, wrapped up in their cloaks, at their lengths inside the hut, while one stood sentry at a spot whence he could watch the only approach to this rocky domain. Such was the everyday life of these gentlemen. It would require a curious twist of the imagination to conceive Ninco Nanco a hero, or his followers otherwise than unmitigated villains.
Poor Pietro, the postillion, soon discovered that he was to be a mere hewer of wood to the band.
While awaiting a reply to their letters, Greco and a companion were sent occasionally into the neighbouring village to procure provisions and necessaries, for which they honestly paid, the traders not finding it convenient to give credit to gentlemen of their profession. Only two recruits joined them, invited by Greco, old hands at the trade. No answers were returned to the rest of their epistles.
“We must take other means of recruiting our forces,” exclaimed Ninco Nanco, pulling his moustachios in a way which meant mischief.
Story 11--Chapter II.
A long, low cottage, with broad verandahs, over which luxuriant vines had been taught to creep, stood on the side of one of the numerous ridges of the Apennines, some way to the east of Naples, in the province of Basilicata. It belonged to old Marco Maffei, a contadino, or small farmer, who had nothing very peculiar about him except that he was an honest man, and that he had a very pretty daughter, an only child, born when he was already advanced in life, and now the joy and comfort of his declining years. It was no fault of the pretty Chiarina that she had admirers, especially as she did her best to keep them at a respectful distance. Her heart, however, was not altogether made of stone; and therefore, by degrees, the young, good-looking, and gallant Lorenzo Tadino had somehow or other contrived to make an impression on it, deeper, perhaps, than Chiarina would have been willing to acknowledge, even to herself. From the house could be seen, some way below, the high road already spoken of, which stretches from the Adriatic to the western waters of the Mediterranean. Lorenzo, or ’Renzo, as he was more familiarly called, was standing just outside the entrance-gate of the farm, while Chiarina, distaff in hand, sat within, under the shade of the wide-spreading vines which, supported by trellis-work, formed an arch overhead. Her father had gone to market some miles off, leaving her in charge with an old man, who had been with him for many years, and her serving-maiden as her attendant. In the absence of her father, her sense of propriety would not allow her to admit ’Renzo within the gate; nor did he complain, for Chiarina had confessed that if she ever did such a foolish thing as to fall in love, she should in all probability select him as the object of her affections, provided always that her father approved of her choice. ’Renzo had just gone inside the arbour to thank her, it is possible, for her judicious selection, when their attention was drawn towards the road by the sound of horses’ feet galloping furiously along it. There were three horsemen, wild-looking fellows, each with a carbine or rifle in his hand. As they were passing directly under the house one of the steeds fell, and the rider was thrown with violence to the ground. His companions pulled rein, and dismounted to assist him. He must have been severely hurt; for, after they had tied their horses to a tree, they were seen bearing him up the steep path leading to the cottage.
“You will have the goodness to take care of this cavalier, and to see that no injury befalls him,” said one of them to Chiarina, as they reached the arbour.
’Renzo frowned, but to little purpose, at their impudent manner. It would have been against Chiarina’s gentle nature to refuse to take care of the injured man. There was not another house along the high road for nearly half-a-league, and he would die before he could be carried there.