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.