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.