Read CHAPTER XXV - SEEKING FOR HELP of The American Baron, free online book, by James De Mille, on ReadCentral.com.

The departure of the drivers with their horses had increased the difficulties of the party, and had added to their danger.  Of that party Ethel was now the head, and her efforts were directed more zealously than ever to bring back Lady Dalrymple to her senses.  At last these efforts were crowned with success, and, after being senseless for nearly an hour, she came to herself.  The restoration of her senses, however, brought with it the discovery of all that had occurred, and thus caused a new rush of emotion, which threatened painful consequences.  But the consequences were averted, and at length she was able to rise.  She was then helped into her carriage, after which the question arose as to their next proceeding.

The loss of the horses and drivers was a very embarrassing thing to them, and for a time they were utterly at a loss what course to adopt.  Lady Dalrymple was too weak to walk, and they had no means of conveying her.  The maids had simply lost their wits from fright; and Ethel could not see her way clearly out of the difficulty.  At this juncture they were roused by the approach of the Rev. Saul Tozer.

This reverend man had been bound as he descended from his carriage, and had remained bound ever since.  In that state he had been a spectator of the struggle and its consequences, and he now came forward to offer his services.

“I don’t know whether you remember me, ma’am,” said he to Lady Dalrymple, “but I looked in at your place at Rome; and in any case I am bound to offer you my assistance, since you are companions with me in my bonds, which I’d be much obliged if one of you ladies would untie or cut.  Perhaps it would be best to untie it, as rope’s valuable.”

At this request Ethel obtained a pair of scissors from one of the maids, and after vigorous efforts succeeded in freeing the reverend gentleman.

“Really, Sir, I am very much obliged for this kind offer,” said Lady Dalrymple, “and I avail myself of it gratefully.  Can you advise us what is best to do?”

“Well, ma’am, I’ve been turning it over in my mind, and have made it a subject of prayer; and it seems to me that it wouldn’t be bad to go out and see the country.”

“There are no houses for miles,” said Ethel.

“Have you ever been this road before?” said Tozer.

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Oh, I was thinking of the part we had passed over.”

“True; but the country in front may be different.  Didn’t that brigand captain say something about getting help ahead?”

“Yes, so he did; I remember now,” said Ethel.

“Well, I wouldn’t take his advice generally, but in this matter I don’t see any harm in following it; so I move that I be a committee of one to go ahead and investigate the country and bring help.”

“Oh, thanks, thanks, very much.  Really, Sir, this is very kind,” said Lady Dalrymple.

“And I’ll go too,” said Ethel, as a sudden thought occurred to her.  “Would you be afraid, aunty dear, to stay here alone?”

“Certainly not, dear.  I have no more fear for myself, but I’m afraid to trust you out of my sight.”

“Oh, you need not fear for me,” said Ethel.  “I shall certainly be as safe farther on as I am here.  Besides, if we can find help I will know best what is wanted.”

“Well, dear, I suppose you may go.”

Without further delay Ethel started off, and Tozer walked by her side.  They went under the fallen tree, and then walked quickly along the road.

“Do you speak Italian, miss?” asked Tozer.

“No.”

“I’m sorry for that.  I don’t either.  I’m told it’s a fine language.”

“So I believe; but how very awkward it will be not to be able to speak to any person!”

“Well, the Italian is a kind of offshoot of the Latin, and I can scrape together a few Latin words ­enough to make myself understood, I do believe.”

“Can you, really?  How very fortunate!”

“It is somewhat providential, miss, and I hope I may succeed.”

They walked on in silence now for some time.  Ethel was too sad to talk, and Tozer was busily engaged in recalling all the Latin at his command.  After a while he began to grow sociable.

“Might I ask, miss, what persuasion you are?”

“Persuasion?” said Ethel, in surprise.

“Yes, ’m; de-nomination ­religious body, you know.”

“Oh! why, I belong to the Church.”

“Oh! and what church did you say, ’m?”

“The Church of England.”

“H’m.  The ’Piscopalian body.  Well, it’s a high-toned body.”

Ethel gave a faint smile at this whimsical application of a name to her church, and then Tozer returned to the charge.

“Are you a professor?”

“A what?”

“A professor.”

“A professor?” repeated Ethel.  “I don’t think I quite understand you.”

“Well, do you belong to the church?  Are you a member?”

“Oh yes.”

“I’m glad to hear it.  It’s a high and a holy and a happy perrivelege to belong to the church and enjoy the means of grace.  I trust you live up to your perriveleges?”

“Live what?” asked Ethel.

“Live up to your perriveleges,” repeated Tozer ­“attend on all the means of grace ­be often at the assembling of yourself together.”

“The assembling of myself together?  I don’t think I quite get your meaning,” said Ethel.

“Meeting, you know ­church-meeting.”

“Oh yes; I didn’t understand.  Oh yes, I always go to church.”

“That’s right,” said Tozer, with a sigh of relief; “and I suppose, now, you feel an interest in the cause of missions?”

“Missions?  Oh, I don’t know.  The Roman Catholics practice that to some extent, and several of my friends say they feel benefit from a mission once a year; but for my part I have not yet any very decided leanings to Roman Catholicism.”

“Oh, dear me, dear me!” cried Tozer, “that’s not what I mean at all; I mean Protestant missions to the heathen, you know.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Ethel.  “I thought you were referring to something else.”

Tozer was silent now for a few minutes, and then asked her, abruptly,

“What’s your opinion about the Jews?”

“The Jews?” exclaimed Ethel, looking at him in some surprise, and thinking that her companion must be a little insane to carry on such an extraordinary conversation with such very abrupt changes ­“the Jews?”

“Yes, the Jews.”

“Oh, I don’t like them at all.”

“But they’re the chosen people.”

“I can’t help that.  I don’t like them.  But then, you know, I never really saw much of them.”

“I refer to their future prospects,” said Tozer ­“to prophecy.  I should like to ask you how you regard them in that light.  Do you believe in a spiritual or a temporal Zion?”

“Spiritual Zion?  Temporal Zion?”

“Yes, ’m.”

“Well, really, I don’t know.  I don’t think I believe any thing at all about it.”

“But you must believe in either one or the other ­you’ve got to,” said Tozer, positively.

“But I don’t, you know; and how can I?”

Tozer threw at her a look of commiseration, and began to think that his companion was not much better than a heathen.  In his own home circle he could have put his hand on little girls of ten who were quite at home on all these subjects.  He was silent for a time, and then began again.

“I’d like to ask you one thing,” said he, “very much.”

“What is it?” asked Ethel.

“Do you believe,” asked Tozer, solemnly, “that we’re living in the Seventh Vial?”

“Vial?  Seventh Vial?” said Ethel, in fresh amazement.

“Yes, the Seventh Vial,” said Tozer, in a sepulchral voice.

“Living in the Seventh Vial?  I really don’t know how one can live in a vial.”

“The Great Tribulation, you know.”

“Great Tribulation?”

“Yes; for instance, now, don’t you believe in the Apocalyptic Beast?”

“I don’t know,” said Ethel, faintly.

“Well, at any rate, you believe in his number ­you must.”

“His number?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, the number six, six, six ­six hundred and sixty-six.”

“I really don’t understand this,” said Ethel.

“Don’t you believe that the Sixth Vial is done?”

“Sixth Vial?  What, another vial?”

“Yes; and the drying of the Euphrates.”

“The Euphrates? drying?” repeated Ethel in a trembling voice.  She began to be alarmed.  She felt sure that this man was insane.  She had never heard such incoherency in her life.  And she was alone with him.  She stole a timid look, and saw his long, sallow face, on which there was now a preoccupied expression, and the look did not reassure her.

But Tozer himself was a little puzzled, and felt sure that his companion must have her own opinions on the subject, so he began again: 

“Now I suppose you’ve read Fleming on the Papacy?”

“No, I haven’t.  I never heard of it.”

“Strange, too.  You’ve heard of Elliot’s ‘Horae Apocalypticae?’, I suppose?”

“No,” said Ethel, timidly.

“Well, it’s all in Cumming ­and you’ve read him, of course?”

“Cumming?  I never heard of him.  Who is he?”

“What, never heard of Cumming?”

“Never.”

“And never read his ‘Great Tribulation?’”

“No.”

“Nor his ‘Great Expectation?’”

“No.”

“What! not even his ‘Apocalyptic Sketches?’”

“I never heard of them.”

Tozer looked at her in astonishment; but at this moment they came to a turn in the road, when a sight appeared which drew from Ethel an expression of joy.

It was a little valley on the right, in which was a small hamlet with a church.  The houses were but small, and could not give them much accommodation, but they hoped to find help there.

“I wouldn’t trust the people,” said Ethel.  “I dare say they’re all brigands; but there ought to be a priest there, and we can appeal to him.”

This proposal pleased Tozer, who resumed his work of collecting among the stores of his memory scraps of Latin which he had once stored away there.

The village was at no very great distance away from the road, and they reached it in a short time.  They went at once to the church.  The door was open, and a priest, who seemed the village priest, was standing there.  He was stout, with a good-natured expression on his hearty, rosy face, and a fine twinkle in his eye, which lighted up pleasantly as he saw the strangers enter.

Tozer at once held out his hand and shook that of the priest.

Buon giorno,” said the priest.

Ethel shook her head.

Parlate Italiano?” said he.

Ethel shook her head.

Salve, domine,” said Tozer, who at once plunged headlong into Latin.

Salve bene,” said the priest, in some surprise.

Quomodo vales?” asked Tozer.

Optime valeo, Dei gratia.  Spero vos valere.”

Tozer found the priest’s pronunciation a little difficult, but managed to understand him.

“Domine,” said he, “sumus viatores infelices et innocentes, in quos fures nuper impetum fecerunt.  Omnia bona nostra arripuerunt ­”

“Fieri non potest!” said the priest.

“Et omnes amicos nostros in captivitatem lachrymabilem tractaverunt ­”

Cor dolet,” said the priest; “miseret me vestrum.”

Cujusmodi terra est haec in qua sustenendum est tot labores?”

The priest sighed.

“Tonitruendum est malum!” exclaimed Tozer, excited by the recollection of his wrongs.

The priest stared.

“In hostium manibus fuimus, et, bonum tonitru! omnia impedimenta amissimus.  Est nimis omnipotens malum!”

“Quid vis dicere?” said the priest, looking puzzled.  “Quid tibi vis?”

“Est nimis sempiternum durum!”

In nomine omnium sanctórum apostolorumque,” cried the priest, “quid vis dicere?”

“Potes ne juvare nos,” continued Tozer, “in hoc lachrymabile tempore?  Volo unum verum vivum virum qui possit ­”

Diabolus arripiat me si possim unum solum verbum intelligere!” cried the priest.  “Be jabers if I ondherstan’ yez at all at all; an’ there ye have it.”

And with this the priest raised his head, with its puzzled look, and scratched that organ with such a natural air, and with such a full Irish flavor in his brogue and in his face, that both of his visitors were perfectly astounded.

“Good gracious!” cried Tozer; and seizing the priest’s hand in both of his, he nearly wrung it off.  “Why, what a providence!  Why, really, now!  And you were an Irishman all the time!  And why didn’t you speak English?”

“Sure and what made you spake Latin?” cried the priest.  “And what was it you were thryin’ to say wid yer ‘sempiternum durum,’ and yer ‘tonitruendum malum?’ Sure an’ ye made me fairly profeen wid yer talk, so ye did.”

“Well, I dare say,” said Tozer, candidly ­“I dare say ’tain’t onlikely that I did introduce one or two Americanisms in the Latin; but then, you know, I ain’t been in practice.”

The priest now brought chairs for his visitors, and, sitting thus in the church, they told him about their adventures, and entreated him to do something for them.  To all this the priest listened with thoughtful attention, and when they were done he at once promised to find horses for them which would draw the carriages to this hamlet or to the next town.  Ethel did not think Lady Dalrymple could go further than this place, and the priest offered to find some accommodations.

He then left them, and in about half an hour he returned with two or three peasants, each of whom had a horse.

“They’ll be able to bring the leedies,” said the priest, “and haul the impty wagons afther thim.”

“I think, miss,” said Tozer, “that you’d better stay here.  It’s too far for you to walk.”

“Sure an’ there’s no use in the wide wurruld for you to be goin’ back,” said the priest to Ethel.  “You can’t do any gud, an’ you’d betther rist till they come.  Yer frind’ll be enough.”

Ethel at first thought of walking back, but finally she saw that it would be quite useless, and so she resolved to remain and wait for her aunt.  So Tozer went off with the men and the horses, and the priest asked Ethel all about the affair once more.  Whatever his opinions were, he said nothing.

While he was talking there came a man to the door who beckoned him out.  He went out, and was gone for some time.  He came back at last, looking very serious.

“I’ve just got a missage from thim,” said he.

“A message,” exclaimed Ethel, “from them?  What, from Girasole?”

“Yis.  They want a praste, and they’ve sint for me.”

“A priest?”

“Yis; an’ they want a maid-servant to wait on the young leedies; and they want thim immajitly; an’ I’ll have to start off soon.  There’s a man dead among thim that wants to be put undherground to-night, for the rist av thim are goin’ off in the mornin’; an’ accordin’ to all I hear, I wouldn’t wondher but what I’d be wanted for somethin’ else afore mornin’.”

“Oh, my God!” cried Ethel; “they’re going to kill him, then!”

“Kill him!  Kill who?  Sure an’ it’s not killin’ they want me for.  It’s the other ­it’s marryin’.”

“Marrying?” cried Ethel.  “Poor, darling Minnie!  Oh, you can not ­you will not marry them?”

“Sure an’ I don’t know but it’s the best thing I can do ­as things are,” said the priest.

“Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do!” moaned Ethel.

“Well, ye’ve got to bear up, so ye have.  There’s throubles for all of us, an’ lots av thim too; an’ more’n some av us can bear.”

Ethel sat in the darkest and bitterest grief for some time, a prey to thoughts and fears that were perfect agony to her.

At last a thought came to her which made her start, and look up, and cast at the priest a look full of wonder and entreaty.  The priest watched her with the deepest sympathy visible on his face.

“We must save them!” she cried.

“Sure an’ it’s me that made up me moind to that same,” said the priest, “only I didn’t want to rise yer hopes.”

We must save them,” said Ethel, with strong emphasis.

We? What can you do?”

Ethel got up, walked to the church door, looked out, came back, looked anxiously all around, and then, resuming her seat, she drew close to the priest, and began to whisper, long and anxiously.