Read CHAPTER XXXIV - THE CRISIS OF LIFE of The American Baron, free online book, by James De Mille, on ReadCentral.com.

When the Irish priest conjectured that it was about two o’clock in the morning he was not very far astray in his calculation.  The short remarks that were exchanged between him and Ethel, and afterward between him and the men, were followed by a profound silence.  Ethel sat by the side of the priest, with her head bent forward and her eyes closed as though she were asleep; yet sleep was farther from her than ever it had been, and the thrilling events of the night afforded sufficient material to keep her awake for many a long hour yet to come.  Her mind was now filled with a thousand conflicting and most exciting fancies, in the midst of which she might again have sunk into despair had she not been sustained by the assurance of the priest.

Sitting near Ethel, the priest for some time looked fixedly ahead of him as though he were contemplating the solemn midnight scene, or meditating upon the beauties of nature.  In truth, the scene around was one which was deserving even of the close attention which the priest appeared to give.  Immediately before him lay the lake, its shore not far beneath, and almost at their feet.  Around it arose the wooded hills, whose dark forms, darker from the gloom of night, threw profound shadows over the opposite shores.  Near by the shore extended on either side.  On the right there were fires, now burning low, yet occasionally sending forth flashes; on the left, and at some distance, might be seen the dusky outline of the old stone house.  Behind them was the forest, vast, gloomy, clothed in impenetrable shade, in which lay their only hope of safety, yet where even now there lurked the watchful guards of the brigands.  It was close behind them.  Once in its shelter, and they might gain freedom; yet between them and it was an impassable barrier of enemies, and there also lay a still more impassable barrier in the grave where Hawbury lay.  To fly, even if they could fly, would be to give him up to death; yet to remain, as they must remain, would be to doom him to death none the less, and themselves too.

Seated there, with his eyes directed toward the water, the priest saw nothing of the scene before him; his eyes were fixed on vacancy; his thoughts were endeavoring to grapple with the situation and master it.  Yet so complicated was that situation, and so perplexing the dilemma in which he found himself ­a dilemma where death perched upon either horn ­that the good priest found his faculties becoming gradually more and more unable to deal with the difficulty, and he felt himself once more sinking down deeper and deeper into that abyss of despair from which he had but recently extricated himself.

And still the time passed, and the precious moments, laden with the fate not only of Hawbury, but of all the others ­the moments of the night during which alone any escape was to be thought of ­moved all too swiftly away.

Now in this hour of perplexity the good priest bethought him of a friend whose fidelity had been proved through the varied events of a life ­a friend which, in his life of celibacy, had found in his heart something of that place which a fond and faithful wife may hold in the heart of a more fortunate man.  It was a little friend, a fragrant friend, a tawny and somewhat grimy friend; it was in the pocket of his coat; it was of clay; in fact, it was nothing else than a dudeen.

Where in the world had the good priest who lived in this remote corner of Italy got that emblem of his green native isle?  Perhaps he had brought it with him in the band of his hat when he first turned his back upon his country, or perhaps he had obtained it from the same quarter which had supplied him with that very black plug of tobacco which he brought forth shortly afterward.  The one was the complement of the other, and each was handled with equal love and care.  Soon the occupation of cutting up the tobacco and rubbing it gave a temporary distraction to his thoughts, which distraction was prolonged by the further operation of pressing the tobacco into the bowl of the dudeen.

Here the priest paused and cast a longing look toward the fire, which was not far away.

“Would you have any objection to let me go and get a coal to light the pipe?” said he to one of the men.

The man had an objection, and a very strong one.

“Would one of you be kind enough to go and get me a brand or a hot coal?”

This led to an earnest debate, and finally one of the men thought that he might venture.  Before doing so, however, a solemn promise was extorted from the priest that he would not try to escape during his absence.  This the priest gave.

“Escape!” he said ­“it’s a smoke I want.  Besides, how can I escape with three of ye watching me?  And then, what would I want to escape for?  I’m safe enough here.”

The man now went off, and returned in a short time with a brand.  The priest gave him his blessing, and received the brand with a quiet exultation that was pleasing to behold.

“Matches,” said he, “ruin the smoke.  They give it a sulphur taste.  There’s nothing like a hot coal.”

Saying this, he lighted his pipe.  This operation was accomplished with a series of those short, quick, hard, percussive puffs with which the Irish race in every clime on this terrestrial ball perform the solemn rite.

And now the thoughts of the priest became more calm and regular and manageable.  His confusion departed, and gradually, as the smoke ascended to the skies, there was diffused over his soul a certain soothing and all-pervading calm.

He now began to face the full difficulty of his position.  He saw that escape was impossible and death inevitable.  He made up his mind to die.  The discovery would surely be made in the morning that Hawbury had been substituted for the robber; he would be found and punished, and the priest would be involved in his fate.  His only care now was for Ethel; and he turned his thoughts toward the formation of some plan by which he might obtain mercy for her.

He was in the midst of these thoughts ­for himself resigned, for Ethel anxious ­and turning over in his mind all the various modes by which the emotion of pity or mercy might be roused in a merciless and pitiless nature; he was thinking of an appeal to the brigands themselves, and had already decided that in this there lay his best hope of success ­when all of a sudden these thoughts were rudely interrupted and dissipated and scattered to the winds by a most startling cry.

Ethel started to her feet.

“Oh Heavens!” she cried, “what was that?”

“Down! down!” cried the men, wrathfully; but before Ethel could obey the sound was repeated, and the men themselves were arrested by it.

The sound that thus interrupted the meditations of the priest was the explosion of a rifle.  As Ethel started up another followed.  This excited the men themselves, who now listened intently to learn the cause.

They did not have to wait long.

Another rifle explosion followed, which was succeeded by a loud, long shriek.

“An attack!” cried one of the men, with a deep curse.  They listened still, yet did not move away from the place, for the duty to which they had been assigned was still prominent in their minds.  The priest had already risen to his feet, still smoking his pipe, as though in this new turn of affairs its assistance might be more than ever needed to enable him to preserve his presence of mind, and keep his soul serene in the midst of confusion.

And now they saw all around them the signs of agitation.  Figures in swift motion flitted to and fro amidst the shade, and others darted past the smouldering fires.  In the midst of this another shot sounded, and another, and still another.  At the third there was a wild yell of rage and pain, followed by the shrill cry of a woman’s voice.  The fact was evident that some one of the brigands had fallen, and the women were lamenting.

The confusion grew greater.  Loud cries arose; calls of encouragement, of entreaty, of command, and of defiance.  Over by the old house there was the uproar of rushing men, and in the midst of it a loud, stern voice of command.  The voices and the rushing footsteps moved from the house to the woods.  Then all was still for a time.

It was but for a short time, however.  Then came shot after shot in rapid succession.  The flashes could be seen among the trees.  All around them there seemed to be a struggle going on.  There was some unseen assailant striking terrific blows from the impenetrable shadow of the woods.  The brigands were firing back, but they fired only into thick darkness.  Shrieks and yells of pain arose from time to time, the direction of which showed that the brigands were suffering.  Among the assailants there was neither voice nor cry.  But, in spite of their losses and the disadvantage under which they labored, the brigands fought well, and resisted stubbornly.  From time to time a loud, stern voice arose, whose commands resounded far and wide, and sustained the courage of the men and directed their movements.

The men who guarded the priest and Ethel were growing more and more excited every moment, and were impatient at their enforced inaction.

“They must be soldiers,” said one.

“Of course,” said another.

“They fight well.”

“Ay; better than the last time.”

“How did they learn to fight so well under cover?”

“They’ve improved.  The last time we met them we shot them like sheep, and drove them back in five minutes.”

“They’ve got a leader who understands fighting in the woods.  He keeps them under cover.”

“Who is he?”

Diavolo! who knows?  They get new captains every day.”

“Was there not a famous American Indian ­”

“True.  I heard of him.  An Indian warrior from the American forests.  Guiseppe saw him when he was at Rome.”

“Bah! ­you all saw him.”

“Where?”

“On the road.”

“We didn’t.”

“You did.  He was the Zouave who fled to the woods first.”

“He?”

“Yes.”

Diavolo!”

These words were exchanged between them as they looked at the fighting.  But suddenly there came rapid flashes and rolling volleys beyond the fires that lay before them, and the movement of the flashes showed that a rush had been made toward the lake.  Wild yells arose, then fierce returning fires, and these showed that the brigands were being driven back.

The guards could endure this no longer.

“They are beating us,” cried one of the men, with a curse.  “We must go and fight.”

“What shall we do with these prisoners?”

“Tie them and leave them.”

“Have you a rope?”

“No.  There is one by the grave.”

“Let’s take the prisoners there and bind them.”

This proposition was accepted; and, seizing the priest and Ethel, the four men hurried them back to the grave.  The square hole lay there just beside them, with the earth by its side.  Ethel tried to see into it, but was not near enough to do so.  One of the men found the rope, and began in great haste to bind the arms of the priest behind him.  Another began to bind Ethel in the same way.

But now there came loud cries, and the rush of men near them.  A loud, stern voice was encouraging the men.

“On! on!” he cried.  “Follow me!  We’ll drive them back!”

Saying this, a man hurried on, followed by a score of brigands.

It was Girasole.

He had been guarding the woods at this side when he had seen the rush that had been made farther up.  He had seen his men driven in, and was now hurrying up to the place to retrieve the battle.  As he was running on he came up to the party at the grave.

He stopped.

“What’s this?” he cried.

“The prisoners ­we were securing them.”

It was now lighter than it had been, and dawn was not far off.  The features of Girasole were plainly distinguishable.  They were convulsed with the most furious passion, which was not caused so much by the rage of conflict as by the sight of the prisoners.  He had suspected treachery on their part, and had spared them for a time only so as to see whether his suspicions were true or not.  But now this sudden assault by night, conducted so skillfully, and by such a powerful force, pointed clearly to treachery, as he saw it, and the ones who to him seemed most prominent in guilt were the priest and Ethel.

His suspicions were quite reasonable under the circumstances.  Here was a priest whom he regarded as his natural enemy.  These brigands identified themselves with republicans and Garibaldians whenever it suited their purposes to do so, and consequently, as such, they were under the condemnation of the Pope; and any priest might think he was doing the Pope good service by betraying those who were his enemies.  As to this priest, every thing was against him.  He lived close by; every step of the country was no doubt familiar to him; he had come to the camp under very suspicious circumstances, bringing with him a stranger in disguise.  He had given plausible answers to the cross-questioning of Girasole; but those were empty words, which went for nothing in the presence of the living facts that now stood before him in the presence of the enemy.

These thoughts had all occurred to Girasole, and the sight of the two prisoners kindled his rage to madness.  It was the deadliest purpose of vengeance that gleamed in his eyes as he looked upon them, and they knew it.  He gave one glance, and then turned to his men.

“On! on!” he cried; “I will join you in an instant; and you,” he said to the guards, “wait a moment.”

The brigands rushed on with shouts to assist their comrades in the fight, while the other four waited.

All this time the fight had not ceased.  The air was filled with the reports of rifle-shots, the shouts of men, the yells of the wounded.  The flashes seemed to be gradually drawing nearer, as though the assailants were still driving the brigands.  But their progress was slow, for the fighting was carried on among the trees, and the brigands resisted stubbornly, retreating from cover to cover, and stopping every moment to make a fresh stand.  But the assailants had gained much ground, and were already close by the borders of the lake, and advancing along toward the old stone house.

The robbers had not succeeded in binding their prisoners.  The priest and Ethel both stood where they had encountered Girasole, and the ropes fell from the robbers’ hands at the new interruption.  The grave with its mound was only a few feet away.

Girasole had a pistol in his left hand and a sword in his right.  He sheathed his sword and drew another pistol, keeping his eyes fixed steadily all the while upon his victims.

“You needn’t bind these prisoners,” said Girasole, grimly; “I know a better way to secure them.”

“In the name of God,” cried the priest, “I implore you not to shed innocent blood!”

“Pooh!” said Girasole.

“This lady is innocent; you will at least spare her!”

“She shall die first!” said Girasole, in a fury, and reached out his hand to grasp Ethel.  The priest flung himself forward between the two.  Girasole dashed him aside.

“Give us time to pray, for God’s sake ­one moment to pray!”

“Not a moment!” cried Girasole, grasping at Ethel.

Ethel gave a loud shriek and started away in horror.  Girasole sprang after her.  The four men turned to seize her.  With a wild and frantic energy, inspired by the deadly terror that was in her heart, she bounded away toward the grave.