1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
|
<?xml version='1.0' encoding='utf-8'?>
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC '-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN' 'http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd'>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" />
<meta name="generator" content="Docutils 0.12: http://docutils.sourceforge.net/" />
<style type="text/css">
/*
Project Gutenberg common docutils stylesheet.
This stylesheet contains styles common to HTML and EPUB. Put styles
that are specific to HTML and EPUB into their relative stylesheets.
:Author: Marcello Perathoner (webmaster@gutenberg.org)
:Copyright: This stylesheet has been placed in the public domain.
This stylesheet is based on:
:Author: David Goodger (goodger@python.org)
:Copyright: This stylesheet has been placed in the public domain.
Default cascading style sheet for the HTML output of Docutils.
*/
/* ADE 1.7.2 chokes on !important and throws all css out. */
/* FONTS */
.italics { font-style: italic }
.no-italics { font-style: normal }
.bold { font-weight: bold }
.no-bold { font-weight: normal }
.small-caps { } /* Epub needs italics */
.gesperrt { } /* Epub needs italics */
.antiqua { font-style: italic } /* what else can we do ? */
.monospaced { font-family: monospace }
.smaller { font-size: smaller }
.larger { font-size: larger }
.xx-small { font-size: xx-small }
.x-small { font-size: x-small }
.small { font-size: small }
.medium { font-size: medium }
.large { font-size: large }
.x-large { font-size: x-large }
.xx-large { font-size: xx-large }
.text-transform-uppercase { text-transform: uppercase }
.text-transform-lowercase { text-transform: lowercase }
.text-transform-none { text-transform: none }
.red { color: red }
.green { color: green }
.blue { color: blue }
.yellow { color: yellow }
.white { color: white }
.gray { color: gray }
.black { color: black }
/* ALIGN */
.left { text-align: left }
.justify { text-align: justify }
.center { text-align: center; text-indent: 0 }
.centerleft { text-align: center; text-indent: 0 }
.right { text-align: right; text-indent: 0 }
/* LINE HEIGHT */
body { line-height: 1.5 }
p { margin: 0;
text-indent: 2em }
/* PAGINATION */
.title, .subtitle { page-break-after: avoid }
.container, .title, .subtitle, #pg-header
{ page-break-inside: avoid }
/* SECTIONS */
body { text-align: justify }
p.pfirst, p.noindent {
text-indent: 0
}
.boxed { border: 1px solid black; padding: 1em }
.topic, .note { margin: 5% 0; border: 1px solid black; padding: 1em }
div.section { clear: both }
div.line-block { margin: 1.5em 0 } /* same leading as p */
div.line-block.inner { margin: 0 0 0 10% }
div.line { margin-left: 20%; text-indent: -20%; }
.line-block.noindent div.line { margin-left: 0; text-indent: 0; }
hr.docutils { margin: 1.5em 40%; border: none; border-bottom: 1px solid black; }
div.transition { margin: 1.5em 0 }
.vfill, .vspace { border: 0px solid white }
.title { margin: 1.5em 0 }
.title.with-subtitle { margin-bottom: 0 }
.subtitle { margin: 1.5em 0 }
/* header font style */
/* http://dev.w3.org/csswg/css3-fonts/#propdef-font-size */
h1.title { font-size: 200%; } /* for book title only */
h2.title, p.subtitle.level-1 { font-size: 150%; margin-top: 4.5em; margin-bottom: 2em }
h3.title, p.subtitle.level-2 { font-size: 120%; margin-top: 2.25em; margin-bottom: 1.25em }
h4.title, p.subtitle.level-3 { font-size: 100%; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-weight: bold; }
h5.title, p.subtitle.level-4 { font-size: 89%; margin-top: 1.87em; margin-bottom: 1.69em; font-style: italic; }
h6.title, p.subtitle.level-5 { font-size: 60%; margin-top: 3.5em; margin-bottom: 2.5em }
/* title page */
h1.title, p.subtitle.level-1,
h2.title, p.subtitle.level-2 { text-align: center }
#pg-header,
h1.document-title { margin: 10% 0 5% 0 }
p.document-subtitle { margin: 0 0 5% 0 }
/* PG header and footer */
#pg-machine-header { }
#pg-produced-by { }
li.toc-entry { list-style-type: none }
ul.open li, ol.open li { margin-bottom: 1.5em }
.attribution { margin-top: 1.5em }
.example-rendered {
margin: 1em 5%; border: 1px dotted red; padding: 1em; background-color: #ffd }
.literal-block.example-source {
margin: 1em 5%; border: 1px dotted blue; padding: 1em; background-color: #eef }
/* DROPCAPS */
/* BLOCKQUOTES */
blockquote { margin: 1.5em 10% }
blockquote.epigraph { }
blockquote.highlights { }
div.local-contents { margin: 1.5em 10% }
div.abstract { margin: 3em 10% }
div.image { margin: 1.5em 0 }
div.caption { margin: 1.5em 0 }
div.legend { margin: 1.5em 0 }
.hidden { display: none }
.invisible { visibility: hidden; color: white } /* white: mozilla print bug */
a.toc-backref {
text-decoration: none ;
color: black }
dl.docutils dd {
margin-bottom: 0.5em }
div.figure { margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em }
img { max-width: 100% }
div.footer, div.header {
clear: both;
font-size: smaller }
div.sidebar {
margin: 0 0 0.5em 1em ;
border: medium outset ;
padding: 1em ;
background-color: #ffffee ;
width: 40% ;
float: right ;
clear: right }
div.sidebar p.rubric {
font-family: sans-serif ;
font-size: medium }
ol.simple, ul.simple { margin: 1.5em 0 }
ol.toc-list, ul.toc-list { padding-left: 0 }
ol ol.toc-list, ul ul.toc-list { padding-left: 5% }
ol.arabic {
list-style: decimal }
ol.loweralpha {
list-style: lower-alpha }
ol.upperalpha {
list-style: upper-alpha }
ol.lowerroman {
list-style: lower-roman }
ol.upperroman {
list-style: upper-roman }
p.credits {
font-style: italic ;
font-size: smaller }
p.label {
white-space: nowrap }
p.rubric {
font-weight: bold ;
font-size: larger ;
color: maroon ;
text-align: center }
p.sidebar-title {
font-family: sans-serif ;
font-weight: bold ;
font-size: larger }
p.sidebar-subtitle {
font-family: sans-serif ;
font-weight: bold }
p.topic-title, p.admonition-title {
font-weight: bold }
pre.address {
margin-bottom: 0 ;
margin-top: 0 ;
font: inherit }
.literal-block, .doctest-block {
margin-left: 2em ;
margin-right: 2em; }
span.classifier {
font-family: sans-serif ;
font-style: oblique }
span.classifier-delimiter {
font-family: sans-serif ;
font-weight: bold }
span.interpreted {
font-family: sans-serif }
span.option {
white-space: nowrap }
span.pre {
white-space: pre }
span.problematic {
color: red }
span.section-subtitle {
/* font-size relative to parent (h1..h6 element) */
font-size: 100% }
table { margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; border-spacing: 0 }
table.align-left, table.align-right { margin-top: 0 }
table.table { border-collapse: collapse; }
table.table.hrules-table thead { border: 1px solid black; border-width: 2px 0 0 }
table.table.hrules-table tbody { border: 1px solid black; border-width: 2px 0 }
table.table.hrules-rows tr { border: 1px solid black; border-width: 0 0 1px }
table.table.hrules-rows tr.last { border-width: 0 }
table.table.hrules-rows td,
table.table.hrules-rows th { padding: 1ex 1em; vertical-align: middle }
table.table tr { border-width: 0 }
table.table td,
table.table th { padding: 0.5ex 1em }
table.table tr.first td { padding-top: 1ex }
table.table tr.last td { padding-bottom: 1ex }
table.table tr.first th { padding-top: 1ex }
table.table tr.last th { padding-bottom: 1ex }
table.citation {
border-left: solid 1px gray;
margin-left: 1px }
table.docinfo {
margin: 3em 4em }
table.docutils { }
div.footnote-group { margin: 1em 0 }
table.footnote td.label { width: 2em; text-align: right; padding-left: 0 }
table.docutils td, table.docutils th,
table.docinfo td, table.docinfo th {
padding: 0 0.5em;
vertical-align: top }
table.docutils th.field-name, table.docinfo th.docinfo-name {
font-weight: bold ;
text-align: left ;
white-space: nowrap ;
padding-left: 0 }
/* used to remove borders from tables and images */
.borderless, table.borderless td, table.borderless th {
border: 0 }
table.borderless td, table.borderless th {
/* Override padding for "table.docutils td" with "!important".
The right padding separates the table cells. */
padding: 0 0.5em 0 0 } /* FIXME: was !important */
h1 tt.docutils, h2 tt.docutils, h3 tt.docutils,
h4 tt.docutils, h5 tt.docutils, h6 tt.docutils {
font-size: 100% }
ul.auto-toc {
list-style-type: none }
</style>
<style type="text/css">
/*
Project Gutenberg HTML docutils stylesheet.
This stylesheet contains styles specific to HTML.
*/
/* FONTS */
/* em { font-style: normal }
strong { font-weight: normal } */
.small-caps { font-variant: small-caps }
.gesperrt { letter-spacing: 0.1em }
/* ALIGN */
.align-left { clear: left;
float: left;
margin-right: 1em }
.align-right { clear: right;
float: right;
margin-left: 1em }
.align-center { margin-left: auto;
margin-right: auto }
div.shrinkwrap { display: table; }
/* SECTIONS */
body { margin: 5% 10% 5% 10% }
/* compact list items containing just one p */
li p.pfirst { margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0 }
.first { margin-top: 0 !important;
text-indent: 0 !important }
.last { margin-bottom: 0 !important }
span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 }
img.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0; max-width: 25% }
span.dropspan { font-variant: small-caps }
.no-page-break { page-break-before: avoid !important }
/* PAGINATION */
.pageno { position: absolute; right: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 }
.pageno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' }
.lineno { position: absolute; left: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 }
.lineno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' }
.toc-pageref { float: right }
@media screen {
.coverpage, .frontispiece, .titlepage, .verso, .dedication, .plainpage
{ margin: 10% 0; }
div.clearpage, div.cleardoublepage
{ margin: 10% 0; border: none; border-top: 1px solid gray; }
.vfill { margin: 5% 10% }
}
@media print {
div.clearpage { page-break-before: always; padding-top: 10% }
div.cleardoublepage { page-break-before: right; padding-top: 10% }
.vfill { margin-top: 20% }
h2.title { margin-top: 20% }
}
/* DIV */
pre { font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.9em; white-space: pre-wrap }
</style>
<title>ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP, VOLUME III</title>
<meta name="PG.Title" content="Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp, Volume III (of 3)" />
<meta name="PG.Released" content="2017-04-23" />
<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" />
<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" />
<meta name="PG.Id" content="54595" />
<meta name="PG.Producer" content="Al Haines" />
<meta name="DC.Created" content="1848" />
<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" />
<meta name="DC.Creator" content="James Grant" />
<meta name="DC.Title" content="Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp, Volume III (of 3) or, A Campaign in Calabria" />
<link rel="schema.DCTERMS" href="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" />
<link rel="schema.MARCREL" href="http://id.loc.gov/vocabulary/relators/" />
<meta content="Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp, Volume III (of 3) or, A Campaign in Calabria" name="DCTERMS.title" />
<meta content="/home/ajhaines/aide3/aide3.rst" name="DCTERMS.source" />
<meta scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" content="en" name="DCTERMS.language" />
<meta scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" content="2017-04-23T22:25:06.666173+00:00" name="DCTERMS.modified" />
<meta content="Project Gutenberg" name="DCTERMS.publisher" />
<meta content="Public Domain in the USA." name="DCTERMS.rights" />
<link rel="DCTERMS.isFormatOf" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54595" />
<meta content="James Grant" name="DCTERMS.creator" />
<meta scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" content="2017-04-23" name="DCTERMS.created" />
<meta content="width=device-width" name="viewport" />
<meta content="Ebookmaker 0.4.0a5 by Marcello Perathoner <webmaster@gutenberg.org>" name="generator" />
</head>
<body>
<div class="document" id="adventures-of-an-aide-de-camp-volume-iii">
<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP, VOLUME III</span></h1>
<!-- this is the default PG-RST stylesheet -->
<!-- figure and image styles for non-image formats -->
<!-- default transition -->
<!-- default attribution -->
<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- -->
<div class="clearpage">
</div>
<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- -->
<div class="container language-en pgheader" id="pg-header" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the </span><a class="reference internal" href="#project-gutenberg-license">Project Gutenberg License</a><span> included with
this ebook or online at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>. If you
are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this ebook.</span></p>
<p class="noindent pnext"></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<div class="container" id="pg-machine-header">
<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>Title: Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp, Volume III (of 3)
<br /> or, A Campaign in Calabria
<br />
<br />Author: James Grant
<br />
<br />Release Date: April 23, 2017 [EBook #54595]
<br />
<br />Language: English
<br />
<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p>
</div>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP, VOLUME III (OF 3)</span><span> ***</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em">
</div>
<p class="noindent pfirst"><span></span></p>
</div>
<div class="container titlepage">
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>[Transcriber's note: This volume references page 186 in Volume 1.
<br />In that volume search for "186" (without the quotes).]</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold x-large">ADVENTURES</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">OF</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold xx-large">AN AIDE-DE-CAMP:</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">OR,</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold x-large">A CAMPAIGN IN CALABRIA.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">BY</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="large">JAMES GRANT, ESQ.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR."</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em">
</div>
<!-- -->
<div class="line-block outermost">
<div class="line"><em class="italics">Claud.</em><span> I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>That liked, but had a rougher task in hand</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>Than to drive liking to the name of love:</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>But now I am returned, and that war thoughts</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>Have left their places vacant; in their rooms</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>Come thronging soft and delicate desires,</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>All prompting me how fair young Hero is,</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>Saying how I liked her ere I went to war.</span></div>
<div class="inner line-block">
<div class="line"><span>SHAKSPEARE.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">IN THREE VOLUMES.
<br />VOL. III.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">LONDON:
<br />SMITH, ELDER, AND CO., CORNHILL.
<br />1848.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
</div>
<div class="container verso">
<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">London:
<br />Printed by STEWART and MURRAY,
<br />Old Bailey.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
</div>
<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CONTENTS.</span></p>
<p class="noindent pnext"><span class="small">CHAPTER</span></p>
<p class="noindent pnext"><span>I.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-third-penitent-the-monk">The Third Penitent.—The Monk</a><span>
<br />II.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-monk-s-story">The Monk's Story</a><span>
<br />III.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-narrow-escape">A Narrow Escape</a><span>
<br />IV.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#castelguelfo-the-wolf-of-amato">Castelguelfo.—The Wolf of Amato</a><span>
<br />V.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#happiness">Happiness</a><span>
<br />VI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-villa-besieged">The Villa Besieged</a><span>
<br />VII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-nuptials">The Nuptials</a><span>
<br />VIII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-tempest-the-last-of-the-hunchback">The Tempest.—The Last of the Hunchback</a><span>
<br />IX.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-military-honeymoon">A Military Honeymoon</a><span>
<br />X.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#wreck-of-the-delight">Wreck of the "Delight"</a><span>
<br />XI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-voltigeurs-the-massacre-of-bagnara">The Voltigeurs.—The Massacre of Bagnara</a><span>
<br />XII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-retreat-in-square-the-prisoner-of-war">A Retreat In Square.—The Prisoner of War</a><span>
<br />XIII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-drum-head-court-martial">The Drum-head Court-martial</a><span>
<br />XIV.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#dianora-the-forfeited-hand">Dianora.—The Forfeited Hand</a><span>
<br />XV.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-monastery">The Monastery</a><span>
<br />XVI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-sanctuary-violated">The Sanctuary Violated</a><span>
<br />XVII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#unexpected-perils">Unexpected Perils</a><span>
<br />XVIII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#captured-by-the-enemy-the-two-generals">Captured by the Enemy.—The Two Generals</a><span>
<br />XIX.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-albergo-the-bandit-s-revenge">The Albergo.—The Bandit's Revenge</a><span>
<br />XX.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-bandit-s-cavern-recapture">The Bandit's Cavern.—Recapture</a><span>
<br />XXI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#joys-of-a-military-honeymoon">Joys of a Military Honeymoon</a><span>
<br />XXII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-siege-of-scylla">The Siege of Scylla</a><span>
<br />XXIII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-fall-of-scylla-conclusion">The Fall of Scylla.—Conclusion</a></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-third-penitent-the-monk"><span class="bold x-large">ADVENTURES</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">OF AN</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold x-large">AIDE-DE-CAMP.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER I.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE THIRD PENITENT—THE MONK.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>The escape of a second victim from the vaults
caused a great surmising and anxiety at
Canne; and although, no doubt, the cardinal
suspected that I had a hand in the matter, he
never spoke of it. The astonishment of the
keeper was boundless, when he discovered his
charge vanishing so unaccountably: he was
accused of conspiracy, and imprisoned by
order of the podesta. The poor man
defended himself before the tribunal, by laying
the blame upon—whom think you, gentle
reader?—VIRGIL; who is regarded by the
lower order of Italians less as a poet, than
as a conjuror and magician, upon whose guilty
head the blame of everything wicked and
wonderful is laid.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Among the mountains, he has for ages been
deemed the architect of every devilish
contrivance, every fathomless cavern, splendid
crag, fantastic rock, and ruined tower. A
long dispute ensued between two learned
lawyers, concerning the question whether it might
or might not have been Virgil; and the
decision was given for the prisoner, on the
testimony of the chiavaro, or smith: who
declared that a venerable man with a white
beard, meagre aspect, and eyes like living
coals, had ordered a set of keys like those
produced in court, for which he paid in
strange and antique coin; and when he (the
chiavaro) looked for them next day, they
had vanished from his pouch, showing plainly
that they were coins of hell. All present
crossed themselves; and the keeper was
immediately set at liberty, and restored to his
dignity and bunch of keys.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Of the Cavalier Paola, I had intelligence
before leaving Canne. Gathering together
a band of those bold spirits who infested the
wilds of the Brettian forest, he fired the
palace of his foe, the bishop; who narrowly
escaped with a severe bullet wound, of which
he soon after died. For this outrage,
Casteluccio had to pay many a bright ducat to
the altars of mother church, before he was
permitted to resume his place in society;
and it was not until the death of Murat that
he obtained peaceable possession of his
patrimony at Cosenza.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Several days elapsed without the appearance
of the Roman courier, and I became
very impatient to rejoin my regiment.
Notwithstanding the risk of discovery, prompted
equally by curiosity and humanity, I made
a last visit to those frightful vaults, to free
the remaining captive.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The stillness of midnight was around me
when I entered, but a noisy singing rang
through the echoing cells; the measure was
a boisterous sailor's carol, such as I had
often heard the fishermen singing, as they
sat mending their nets on the shore of Messina.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I beheld in the third captive, an Italian,
about forty years of age, possessing a powerful
and savage aspect, strongly chained to a
large stone which served him for a chair and
table, while a pile of straw between it and the
wall formed his bed. He was flourishing his
arms and snapping his fingers whilst he sang;
but ceased on my entrance, and regarded me
with a sullen stare of surprise. A large
leathern flask, which stood on the stone near him,
explained the cause of his merriment.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ha! thou cursed owl that pokest about
in the night, what seek you here, when you
should be snug in the dormitory? Up helm
and away, black devil! there's no girl here
to confess—no one but Lancelloti of Fruili,
a born imp of Etna, who will break every
bone in your hypocritical body, if it comes
within reach of his grapnels!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The pirate—the companion of Petronio!"
I exclaimed; "are you that Lancelloti of whom
I have heard so much? Astonishing!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ho! ho! what are you talking about?"
asked the captive, rolling his great head about.
"I tell you, Signor Canonico, that I am Osman
Carora, a jovial monk of Friuli—(what am I
saying?) yes, Friuli—would I was there again!
Never have I seen a prospect equal to the fair
Carinthian mountains, and the deep rocky dales
through which the Isonza sweeps, on to the Gulf
of Trieste. It was my hap to look for many a
dreary day through the iron bars of my dormitory
on that gulf, and afterwards to sail, with
royals and sky-sails set, every rope a-taunto, and
the red flag of Mahomet flying at the foremast
head. Accursed bishop! I may revenge me yet,
if the good friend who brings me this jolly flask
every night proves true. Ah, Truffi, though
crooked in form and cross in spirit, thou art
an angel of light to me!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Truffi!" said I; "mean you Gaspare?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The renegade, moved alternately by
brutality, rage, and maudlin sentimentality, burst
into a shout of drunken laughter.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You know him—ha! ha! and are a jolly
priest after all. Alla akbar! instead of a
prying monkish spy, I find you a comrade.
Thou who knowest Gaspare must doubtless
have heard of me. He is now in Canne,
planning my escape from this cursed cockpit; to
which the double-dyed villany of Petronio
has consigned me. Gaspare was my stanch
gossip in the cloisters of Friuli, and my
master-at-arms and fac-totum on board the </span><em class="italics">Crescent</em><span>:
his ingenuity alone saved me when I had
nearly fallen into the clutches of the grand
bailiff, for slaying the Capitano Batello.
Fi! the recollection of that adventure haunts me
yet: the glazing eyes, the clenched teeth, the
pale visage, and the gleaming sword; the
silver hairs, and the old man's blood
streaming on the white dress and whiter bosom of
his daughter! "O, cursed flask!" said the
ruffian, pausing to squeeze the leathern
bottle. "May every monk and mollah
anathematize thee in the name of Christ and
Mahomet; for thou art now empty, useless,
and upon thy vacuity I cry anathema! Beautiful
wert thou indeed, Paula Batello, and too
pure a being for such a serpent as Lancelloti
to behold!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Caro signor, I would gladly hear her story?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"And so thou shalt: firstly, because thou
art a comrade of our Apollo with the hump;
secondly, because I would like to hear thy
opinion upon it; and thirdly, because I love
to have some one to talk to in this blasted
vault, whose walls I would that Satan rent
asunder and ruined for ever." And without
further preface, he commenced the following
story; which deserves a chapter to itself.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-monk-s-story"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER II.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE MONK'S STORY.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>The Capitano Batello was an old soldier of
the Venetian Republic, who, after an active
life, retired to spend the winter of his days
among the woody solitudes of Friuli. All
the village loved the good old capitano, who
made wooden swords and flags for the children,
and retailed his campaigns and adventures a
thousand times to the frequenters of the
cantina, where he was the military and political
oracle; and at mass, all made way for the
white-haired old man, when he came slowly
marching up the aisle, with the Signorina
Paula leaning on his arm. The old soldier's
doublet was perhaps a little threadbare, or
his broad hat glazed at the edge; yet he never
forgot his rank, even when struggling for
existence with half a ducatoon a day.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>But Paula, the gentle-voiced, the blue-eyed
and fair-haired Paula, was the admiration of
all—the glory of the village; and the old
captain watched her as a miser would a
precious jewel. Beard of Ali! she would have
brought a princely sum at Algiers.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>She was beautiful, and her soft blue eyes
looked one fully and searchingly in the face
with all the confidence of perfect innocence.
Her mother was gone to heaven, as the
captain said, when he engaged me as tutor to
Paula and her brother: an office for which I
received a trifle, that went into the treasury of
San Baldassare—a trap which swallowed everything.
The boy, Rosario, was a chubby little
rogue, and for a time I took pleasure in hearing
their lisping accents, as they conned over
their task in an arbour which Paula's hands
had formed at the back of their little cottage.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Thunder! how often have I looked back
with astonishment on those days, when on the
gun-deck of the </span><em class="italics">Crescent</em><span> I stood at the head
of five hundred of the boldest hearts of Tunis
and Tripoli. Who then could have
recognised in Osman the blood-thirsty, the
hypocritical Fra Lancelloti? Yes! I was ever a
hypocrite, and regarded with scorn and
detestation the sombre garb which tied me to the
monastery. But my fate was not in my own
hands: my parents were a son and daughter
of old mother church, and I came into the
world very unfortunately for both parties.
They threw me into the lantern of San
Baldassare, where thirty years before my father
had been found himself. As a reward for
giving me life, my mother died in the
dungeons of San Marco; and my father expiated
his share in the matter at the first general
</span><em class="italics">auto-da-fé</em><span>: so you see that I come of a martyred family.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A prisoner from my boyhood upwards, I
looked upon the world as a realm of light
and joy, from which I was for ever debarred by
those mysterious vows which the monks had
induced me to profess before their meaning
was understood. When from my iron grate
I looked on the vale of the winding Isonza,
blooming with foliage and verdure and bounded
by the blue Carinthian hills, and listened
to the rushing sound of the free bold river,
how intense were my longings to follow its
course to where it plunged headlong into
the Gulf of Trieste; where for hours I
have watched the scudding sails till my eyes
and heart ached. O, hours of longing and of
agony! To see nature spread before me in
all her glory, yet be unable to taste her sweets:
to be a prisoner without a crime. And love,
or what the world calls love, I knew not what it
was; though a secret spirit whispered within
me: I longed to look on some fair face, and
to hear a gentle voice reply to mine; but
love's magic, its mystery, and its madness, I
was yet to learn. With a heart thus formed,
and open to the assaults of that wicked little
god—whom the ancients should have depicted
as a giant—you may imagine my sensations
on finding myself in the presence of Paula;
whose face and form far outshone the famous
Madonna of our chapel. A hot blush suffused
my cheek: but the fair face of Paula
revealed only the rosy tinge of health, and her
brow the calm purity of perfect innocence. I
was silent and awed in her presence: an Italian
monk awed by a girl of seventeen!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>With evening I returned to the cloisters;
and a chill sank upon my heart as their cold
shadows fell over me. I was in my old
dormitory, where the truckle-bed, the polished
skull, the cross, and rough vaulted roof seemed
yet the same: but I was changed. The
recollection of Paula's soft gazelle-like eyes and
snowy breast never left me for a moment, and
I passed a sleepless night.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, that I were a soldier or a cavalier, for
then Batello would respect, and his daughter
might love me: but a priest—a
priest—anathema! anathema! there is no hope for me:
none! O, malediction! why did I ever
behold thee, Paula?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Thus passed the night. Noon found me
again in the arbour of Batello's garden: the
golden-haired and ruddy-cheeked Rosario was
drawling over his task; but I neither heard nor
beheld him. I saw only his sister, who, seated
beneath the shadow of the luxuriant rose-trees,
was immersed in the glowing pages of the
warrior bard, Luigi Tansilla, the brave
follower of Piero di Toledo.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The rays of the sun streamed between the
foliage of the arbour, lighting up her fair
ringlets, which glittered like living gold; her white
neck sparkled in the same mysterious
radiance: a glory seemed around her, and the
soft calm aspect of her downcast face made
her seem the very image of our lovely lady,
the famed Madonna of Cantarini. Intoxicated
with her appearance, I trembled when
addressing her, while she entered frankly into
conversation with me on the merits of the soldier's
poems. Full and calmly her mild eyes gazed
on mine, yet no suspicion struck her of the
passion which glowed within me; and which I
dared not reveal, for death was the doom: on
the one hand, her firm father's poniard; on
the other, the dungeons of the Piombi or the
horrors of the holy office.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>By night the ravings of my dreams were
heard by the tenants of the adjoining dormitories,
Petronio and Truffi the crookback; and
they soon learned from my mutterings that I
loved Paula, the daughter of the Signor
Batello. Petronio—the same accursed Petronio,
who from his archiepiscopal palace sent
forth the mandate which entombed me here,
when, after a tough battle with a Maltese
cruiser, I was cast half drowned and bleeding
on the beach of Canne—Petronio, whose
matchless hypocrisy makes his villany even of
a deeper dye than mine, then came to act the
part of friend; to counsel me to destruction,
and to become the evil genius of the good
Batello and his innocent children.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A thorough Italian monk, dark, gloomy,
and superstitious, he was my senior by fifteen
years, and had secretly plunged into all the
excesses of Venice. Like the fiendish hunchback,
he was an adept in every dissimulation
and debauchery, and boasted of his exploits;
till, ashamed of my weakness, I took heart,
and burned for distinction in the same worthy
fields. I put myself under his guidance and
tuition: to effect what? O, innocent Paula!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I had resolved, by every art of reasoning
and sophistry, to break down the barriers of
religion and modesty, and bend her mind to
my purpose. But each successive day when I
looked upon her snowy brow, her pure and
happy face, blooming with beauty and radiant
with youth, my diabolical purpose was left
unfulfilled, unattempted; and my heart shrank
from the contest.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Sometimes young and handsome cavaliers,
from the castle of Gradiska or the citadel of
Friuli, came to visit the old capitano; and the
gallantry of their air, the glitter of their
military garb and weapons, the ease with which
they lounged about, strummed on the mandolin,
or whispered soft nothings to the fair
girl, made my envious heart burn with alternate
rage and jealousy. Intensely I longed to
be like one of them: and yet I could have slain
them all, and Paula too when she smiled on them.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>But I soon found a more powerful auxiliary
to my love, than either Petronio's sophistry or
Truffi's villany could furnish: and where think
you? In Paula's own heart. Ho! ho! a
young girl soon discovers that which is the
sole object of her thoughts by day, and her
dreams by night—a lover! There is a
mysterious emotion so pleasing to her heart, so
flattering to her fancy, and altogether so
peculiarly grateful to her mind in being beloved,
that she gives way to all the fervour of a first
passion with joy and trembling. Ha! thou
knowest the hearts of our Italian girls: warm,
tender, and easily subdued; what more can
lover wish?</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The garrisons were marched to the Carinthian
frontier, and the cavaliers came no more
to the cottage of Batello: he spent the most
of his time detailing his battles and reading
the Diaries and Gazette at the wine-house;
while his old housekeeper (whom my cowl
kept in awe) was always occupied in household
matters. I kept Rosario close to his task,
and therefore had the dear girl all to myself.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>What could she hope for in yielding to such
a passion? Remorse, despair, and madness!
But of these the young damsel thought not then.
Ha! I was then graceful and well looking, and
we both were young and ardently in love.
My eyes at one time, my tremulous tones at
another, had informed her of the mighty secret
which preyed upon my heart; and which my
lips dared not reveal until the rapturous
moment when I perceived the mutual flame that
struggled in her bosom. Then, but not till
then, did I pour forth a rhapsody expressive
of my love; when yielding to its burning
impulses, all the long-concealed ardour of my
heart burst at once upon her ear. Love lent a
light to my eyes, a grace and gesture to my
figure, and imparted new eloquence to my
tongue: I was no longer myself; no more the
cold, cautious friar, but the impetuous Italian
lover. The monk was forgotten in the man;
my vows in the delight of the moment; and
the lovely Paula sank upon my shoulder
overcome with love and terror. O, hour of
joy! when I first pressed my trembling lip to
that soft and beautiful cheek. Long years of
penance and of prayer—of dreary repining, of
soul-crushing humiliation and sorrow—were all
repaid by the bliss of that embrace: which I
have never forgotten. No! not all the years
that have passed since then; not all the dark
villanies I have planned and perpetrated: and
they are many; not all the dangers I have
dared: and they are countless as the hairs of
your head; not all the toils and miseries of a
life can efface it from my memory. I was
happy then: I who, perhaps, have never been
so since. * * * * *</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A footstep aroused us, and the blushing girl
shrank from me as the little boy Rosario came
gamboling towards the arbour with a chaplet
for her hair. I cast a fierce glance of hatred
upon him. Even Paula was piqued, and
refused to receive the flowers; upon which the
child wept, and pulling my cassock, prayed
me to lecture his sister for being so coy.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Scold her, Father Lancelloti!" said he,
rubbing his glittering eyes with his plump
little hands; "for she will neither kiss me nor
receive my roses to put among her pretty hair,
as she used to love to do."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Give me the flowers, child," said I; "shall
</span><em class="italics">I</em><span> kiss sister Paula for you, Rosario?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, yes, yes," cried the little boy, "or
sister Paula will kiss you, and then me."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Our lips met, and the agitated and infatuated
Paula embraced the child, who laughed
and clapped his hands with innocent glee;
and yet he knew not at what. At that
moment the long sword of the captain jarred on
the gravel walk, and his heavy tread rang
beneath the trellis of the garden. Aware that,
as a priest, I had wronged him in the declaration
made to his daughter, and that I had
committed a deadly sin before God, I shrank
from meeting him; and, leaping over the
garden-wall, returned to the monastery, where,
not without sensations of triumph, I recounted
my conquest to Petronio and the hunchback.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Three days I visited her as usual, and
rejoiced in the success of my amour; for I
loved her tenderly and dearly. My air was
so sanctified that the most jealous guardian
would not have suspected me; then how much
less the good Batello, who, by his profession,
had been accustomed to intercourse with men
of the strictest honour, and suspected no man
of duplicity, because his own brave heart was
guileless.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>My rose-bud of love was just beginning to
bloom, when matters were doomed to have a
terrible crisis.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>One bright forenoon, when Rosario had
finished his task, I was about to return to
Friuli, and merely bowed to Paula, because
her father was present.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Brother Lancelloti," said he, grasping my
cope, "hast heard the news? The senate is
about to declare war against the Turks, and
the capeletti are to be doubled. Brave news
for an old soldier, eh! I may be a colonello,
with Rosario for captain! Come hither, thou
chubby rogue—wouldst like to be a captain?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, yes, if sister Paula would play with me
as she used to do, and kiss me instead of
Father Lancelloti."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Rosario! what sayest thou?" cried the
fierce old soldier with a stentorian voice, while
Paula grew pale as death, and my spirit died
away within me; but the terrified child made
no reply. The captain's face was black with
rage: his eyes sparkled, and stern scorn curled
his lip; yet he spoke calmly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Go—go, Father Lancelloti, and may God
forgive you! I will not require the services of
your faithful reverence from to-day.
Away—march! or you may fare worse: dare not to
come here again, I am Annibal Batello—thou
knowest me!" And, touching the hilt of
his sword, he turned on his heel and left me.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I rushed away, overwhelmed with bitterness,
rage, and humiliation, and hating Rosario with
the hate of a fiend.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>To Truffi and Petronio, my story was the
source of endless merriment: the hunchback
snapped his fingers, whooped, and laughed
till the cloisters rang with his elfish joy.
Deprived of my mistress, whom I dared not visit
for dread of the captain's sword, stung by the
taunts of my friends, dejected and filled with
gloomy forebodings, the cloisters soon became
intolerable to me. I formed many a romantic
and desperate scheme to rid myself of those
cursed trammels which monkish duplicity had
cast around me in boyhood: but thoughts of
the holy office, the Piombi, and the fate of my
father, filled me with dismay; and I dared
not fly from Friuli.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>One day, whilst wandering far up the banks
of the Isonza, with a heart swollen by bitter
thoughts, I plunged into the deepest recesses
in search of solitude. Reaching the cascade
which falls beneath the ancient castle of Fana,
I paused to listen to the rushing water, whose
tumult so much resembled my own mind. The
voice of no living thing, save that of the lynx,
broke the stillness around me: the lofty trees
of the dense forest, clad in the richest foliage
of summer, cast a deep shadow over the bed
of the dark blue stream; which swept
noiselessly on, between gloomy impending cliffs,
until it reached the fall, where it poured over
a broad ledge of rock, and thundered into a
terrible abyss, whence the foam arose in a
mighty cloud, white as Alpine snow. Rearing
its grey and mossy towers high above the
waving woods, the shattered rocks, and roaring
river, the ancient castello looked down on the
solitude beneath it. A mighty place in days
gone by, it had been demolished by the bailiff of
Friuli, for the crimes of Count Giulio (see
vol. i. p. 186), and was now roofless and ruined;
the green ivy clung to the carved battlement,
and the rays of the bright sun poured aslant
through its open loops and empty windows.
But the scenery soothed not my heart: I
burned for active excitement, to shake off the
stupor that oppressed me.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A turn of the walk brought me suddenly
upon the little boy, Rosario, who was weaving
a chaplet of wild roses and trailing daphne;
culled, doubtless, for the bright tresses of
Paula. Remembering some stern injunction
from his father, on beholding me he fled as
from a spectre. Like a tiger, I sprang after
him: fear added wings to his flight; but I
was close behind. A fall on the rocks
redoubled my anger and impatience, and I
caught him by his long fair hair, while he
was in the very act of laughing at my mishap.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Cursed little babbler!" said I, shaking
him roughly; "what deservest thou at my
hands?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Spare me, good Father Lancelloti, and I
will never offend again."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Silence, or I will tear out thy tongue!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>My aspect terrified him, and he screamed
on his father and Paula to save him.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Paula!" said I, shaking him again, "thy
devilish tongue hath destroyed Paula and
me too!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Spare me," said he, whimpering and smiling;
"and pretty sister Paula will kiss you for
my sake."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Anathema upon thee!" His words redoubled
my fury, and I spat on him. The
cascade roared beside me, the deepest solitude
was around us, hell was in my heart, and the
devil guided my hand; I launched the
screaming child from the rocks: headlong he fell
through the air, and vanished in the cloudy
spray of the vast abyss. The bright sun
became suddenly obscured by a cloud, and a
deeper gloom stole over the dell of Fana: the
ruined tower seemed a monstrous head, and its
windows invidious eyes looking down on
me—the landscape swam around, and I heard a cry
of </span><em class="italics">murder</em><span> above the roar of the cascade. The
yell of a lynx completed my terror, and I
rushed in frenzy from the spot. * * *</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I was in my dormitory; the darkness of
night was in my soul and all around me:
overwhelmed with an excess of horror for my
wanton crime, I spent the night in the agonies
of penance and prayer, and making mental
vows to sin no more. Had the universe been
mine, I would have given it that Rosario
might be restored to life. O, that I could
have lived the last day over again, or have
blotted it for ever from my mind! But,
alas! the strong and dark fiend had marked me
for his own. Through the silence of the still
calm night, came the rush of the distant
river: there was madness in the sound; but
I could not exclude it, and the cry of the poor
child mingled ever with its roar. Humble in
spirit, and contrite in heart, at morning matins
I bowed down in prayer among the brotherhood.
The sublime symphonies of the hymn
Veni Creator, or of the litanies of our lady of
Loretto, the song of the choir and the
mellifluous strain of the organ, rang beneath the
vaulted dome like the voice of God and the
knell of death; and yet they spoke of hope—hope
to the repentant—and I prostrated myself
before the altar: tears burst from my eyes,
and the fire of my heart was assuaged.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I left the monastery to seek some calm
solitude, wherein to pour forth my soul in secret
prayer; but my evil genius was beside me,
and guided me to detection and disgrace.
I wandered on, but knew not and cared not
whither; wishing only to fly from the haunts
of men and my own burning thoughts. Vain
idea! Rosario, as he sank among the spray,
his sister's tears, his father's sorrow, were ever
before me, and I looked upon myself with horror.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Good father!" cried a voice, disturbing my
dreadful reverie; "O, reverend signor, help, in
the name of the Blessed Trinity!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I started with dismay—what did I behold?
The white-haired veteran, Batello, bearing in
his arms the dripping corpse of Rosario, while
Paula clung to him overcome with sorrow and
terror. Even the venerable goatherd, whose
crook had fished up the dead child, was moved
to tears; while I, the cause of the calamity,
looked on with unmoved visage. Was it an
index of my mind? O, no! a serpent was
gnawing my heart: I could have screamed
with agony; and my breath came close and
thick. I trembled and panted while Batello
spoke.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Fra Lancelloti," said he, "thou comest
upon me in an hour of deep woe, when I have
much need of godly consolation; but not from
thy lips. A week ago we quarrelled: I know
the weakness of the human heart, and from
the bottom of my soul forgive thee; for in
this terrible moment I cannot look on any man
with anger. Pass on, in the name of God! for
thy presence is—I know not why—peculiarly
hateful to me at this moment. Many a dead
face have I looked upon by breach and
battlefield, but thou—my Rosario—thy mother—"
and the old soldier kissed his dead child, and
wept bitterly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The goatherd, who had been observing me
narrowly, now whispered in Batello's ear.
His eyes glared, and relinquishing the body,
with one hand he grasped his sword, with the
other my throat.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Double-dyed villain!—hypocrite!—thou
knowest of this, and canst say how Rosario
died! Speak, or this sword, never yet stained
with the blood of a coward, shall compel thee."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Sacrilege!" I gasped, while Paula swooned:
"Sacrilege!—I am a priest—"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Rosario's hand grasps part of a rosary—lo! thy
chaplet is broken, and the beads are
the same. Speak, ere I slay thee!" and he
drew his sword.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Trembling, I glanced at my girdle: but
a half of my chaplet hung there; the other
was grasped in the tenacious hand of Rosario.
Overwhelmed with terror, I attempted to
escape; and, in the blindness of his fury, the
old man struck me repeatedly with his sword,
while he cried aloud for help. Transported
with fury at the sight of my own blood, and
dreading discovery, I became mad, and plunged
yet deeper into crime: closing with him, my
strength and youth prevailed over his frame,
now enfeebled by age, wounds, and long
campaigns; I struck him to the earth, and with
his own sword stabbed him to the heart. His
blood streamed over Paula—I remember
nothing more. I fled to the hills, and,
throwing off my upper vestments, wandered in wild
places, far from the reach of the Grand Bailiff;
who offered five hundred ducats for my head,
sent the carbineers of Gradiska and the vassals
of the duchy to hunt me down, and established
such a close chain of communication along the
frontiers that escape was almost impossible.
He solemnly vowed to avenge the murder of
Batello (who had been the friend and fellow-soldier
of his father, the old Count of Lanthiri)
and I should assuredly have become his victim,
and been consigned to the gallows or the
Holy Office, had I not been joined by Gaspare
Truffi; who, after transferring to his own pouch
every bajoccho in the convent treasury, had
come to share my fortunes in the wilderness.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Changing our attire, we embarked for Greece;
but were captured off Calabria by a corsair of
Tunis. Whereupon I instantly turned
Mussulman, and served his highness the Bey with
such courage and devotion, that, as Osman
Carora, I became the idol of the Tunisians, and
terror of the Mediterranean. Enough!—thou
knowest the rest. Shipwreck and the fortune
of war placed me in the power of my old friend
Petronio—and I am here."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"And Paula?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Became Contessa di Lanthiri, and soon
forgot poor Fra Lancelloti."</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Such was the story related to me by the
third captive whom those vaults contained:
I have jotted it down just as it was related to
me; but without the many pauses of maudlin
grief, or oaths of rage, with which his
half-intoxicated state caused him to intersperse it.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I need hardly add that I left this deliberate
ruffian to his fate, locking all the doors
securely behind me; and, to make the keeper
more alert in future—as I intended to return no
more—I left my false keys in his niche in the
little chapel. The terrified warder, on finding
a set of keys the exact counterpart of his own,
declared they must have belonged either to
Virgil or to the devil: they were destroyed,
the vaults sprinkled with holy water, and the
wizard was seen no more.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="a-narrow-escape"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER III.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A NARROW ESCAPE.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>It was a clear and beautiful morning when I
issued forth on my return to the cardinal's
villa. As I passed a cantina by the roadside,
under a trellis in front of it, I encountered two
personages whom I had no wish to meet on
that side of Massena's lines: the surly
Captain Pepe, who treated me so insultingly at
Crotona, and Truffi the hunchback, whom I
recognised notwithstanding his disguise—a
white Cistertian frock and shovel hat.
Draughts, dominoes, and wine-horns were
before them; and they had apparently passed
the night at the table over which they leaned,
sleeping away the fumes of their potations.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>As I passed, an unlucky house dog leaped
forth from his barrel, yelling and shaking his
chain. The captain, yet half intoxicated,
started up and felt for his sword, and I saw a
bastia knife gleaming in the long lean fingers
of the cripple.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Corpo!" said he, "'tis only a priest."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Hola! call you that fellow a priest?"
replied Pepe, balancing himself with difficulty:
but, drunk as he was, he had the eyes of a
lynx, and knew me in a moment. "Mille
baionettes! an English spy. Ah, Monsieur
Aide-de-camp!—villain! Hola, the quarter
guard! Hola, the provost, and the noose from
the nearest tree: </span><em class="italics">à la lanterne</em><span>!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>He staggered towards me with his drawn
sabre, and I supposing the cantina was full
of soldiers, became alarmed, as the hideous
Truffi yelled and whooped till the welkin rang.
My death was certain if captured: not even
York could have saved it, or those important
despatches with which the general entrusted
me. But I thought less of them than of
Bianca, life, liberty, and honour. I easily
wrenched Pepe's sabre from him, and knocked
him down with my clenched hand: his head
clattered on the hard dusty road, and he lay
motionless. Truffi rushed on me with his
poniard, but I dealt him a blow across the
head with my sabre, and he fell prone over the
body of his companion.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I fled to the villa, entered unseen, and threw
myself panting upon my bed; where, notwithstanding
my fears and agitation, I soon fell fast
asleep.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>In two hours after I was awakened by
Catanio, whose countenance betokened something
unusual. My first thought was of Captain
Pepe.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The courier has arrived from Rome, and
his Majesty awaits you." I leaped up, joyful
at being undeceived so agreeably.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Has he brought the signora's dispensation?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"His Majesty has not said."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>My toilet was soon completed, and I was
ushered into the presence of the cardinal, who
was seated at breakfast. His Irish valet was
in attendance. The plainness of his equipage
contrasted strongly with the splendour of his
pretensions. He was busy reading, and heard
not our approach.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You see him, perhaps, for the last time,"
whispered Catanio. "Behold! does there not
reign around him a mystic dignity that makes
him seem as much a king as if he stood in the
halls of Windsor or Holy rood? Ah, who can
look on such a man, declining into the vale of
life, venerable with years, the majesty and
memory of ages, without being moved? But
this is a cold and calculating age, without
veneration for the past; and the regrets of
those who love it, provoke but a smile from
the selfish and unreflecting."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Without partaking of his enthusiasm, I was
not a little moved by his tone and words.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Catanio, place a chair for Captain Dundas,"
said the cardinal, perceiving us. "Sir,
you will breakfast with me, as I have
intelligence for you. Our most Holy Father
has been pleased to dispense with the vows
of the Signora D'Alfieri at my intercession;
and on presenting this document to the
Abbess at Canne, she will be free to quit
the convent and resume her place in society.
This is the despatch from the spedizioniere of
the papal court."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I returned thanks with suitable sincerity of
manner.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Zamori, a Calabrian fisherman of Gierazzo,
is now in the harbour of Carine with his little
vessel, which, as Catanio informs me, will sail
in the evening; on receipt of my order,
Zamori will convey you to any part in
Calabria, or place you on board the British
frigate now cruising in the Adriatic."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A fisherman's bark will be but a
comfortless place on these rough waters, for the
delicate signora. But O, most sincerely have
I to thank your Eminence for the interest you
have taken in this matter, and the kindness
you have shown me."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Captain Dundas, here at least I am a
king!" said the old man, whose broad brow
became clouded for the first time. "Though
exiled, forgotten by Britain, and standing on
the verge of the tomb, I will yield my
pretensions only with my last breath."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>My reply was interrupted by the appearance
of six French soldiers, with a sergeant, coming
down the avenue at a quick pace, with their
bayonets fixed. I remembered my encounter
with Pepe, the keen glances of Compere in
the church, and all the dangers of my situation
flashed upon me: I stood irresolute whether
to fight, fly, or surrender.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Sir, they are no doubt in pursuit of you,"
said the cardinal, his aged cheek beginning
to flush: "but will they dare to cross my
threshhold? Alas! what will they not? The
invasion of Rome, the expulsion of the sacred
college, and the seizure of Pius himself, are
yet fresh in my recollection. Catanio meet
them at the porch, and in the name of God
dare them to enter the house of one of his
servants!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Alas!" replied Catanio, "let me implore
your majesty to pause. We are but three
aged and infirm men, against seven soldiers,
armed, insolent, and rapacious; as the followers
of a usurper ever are."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"This is no time for delay. Away, Captain
Dundas!" exclaimed York; "you must fly.
Catanio will lead you to the beach ere the
house is surrounded. Farewell, sir! a long
farewell to you: we may never meet again!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Deeply moved by the old man's manner,
I bowed, and, according to the custom, kissed
the hand he extended towards me: a massive
ruby ring—the great coronation ring of our
ancient kings—sparkled on his finger.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Catanio hurried me away, and by the most
unfrequented paths we reached the beach;
while the soldiers surrounded and searched the
villa.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The cardinal died a few months afterwards,
at Rome, in the eighty-second year of his
age, and was buried between his father and
brother at Frescati. Henry IX. is inscribed
on his tomb; which the genius of Canova has
adorned with the most splendid sculpture.
It is a curious fact, that till the last day of
his life, the cardinal was in communication
with many men of rank, wealth, and power,
who seemed still to have entertained the
chimerical hope of placing him on the British
throne; and many documents discovered after
his decease, and now preserved in our archives,
prove that his family had, even then, numerous
adherents in the three kingdoms: some of
them men whom the Government could little
have suspected of such sentiments. Buonaparte,
too—that overturner of kings and
kingdoms—is said to have expressed a wish to
place him on the throne; and, as an earnest
of his friendship, robbed him of his French
estates: but the star of the Stuarts had set.
George III. kindly and wisely passed over
in silence the names of those whose romantic
enthusiasm, or political bias, the papers
of the cardinal-duke had so awkwardly revealed.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I got on board Zamori's little sloop in safety;
and, in obedience to the cardinal's command,
the warp was cast off, the sweeps run out, and
he anchored about half a mile from the shore.
Catanio left me, promising to return after
dusk with the signora, whom I anxiously
awaited; expecting every minute to see bayonets
glittering on the sunny beach, or a boat
filled with armed men push off towards the
barque of Zamori.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The latter was a garrulous old fellow, whose
tongue gave me very little time for reflection.
Night began to close over Canne; and I beheld
its approach with joy: the day had seemed
interminably long. The evening gun was fired
from the French fort, the tricolor descended
from its ramparts, and I heard the evening
hymn floating over the glassy sea from the
various craft around us; where many of the
sailors lay stretched upon bundles of sails,
smoking cigars, tinkling the mandolin, and
enjoying the rich sunset of their glorious clime.
Sinking behind the mountains, the sun bade
us adieu; darkness gradually crept along the
winding shore, and white vapours curled in
fantastic shapes from the low flats and ravines:
slowly and brightly the moon soared into view,
bathing land and ocean in a flood of silvery
light.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I lay on a bundle of sails listening to the
skipper's legends of the young Count of
Caulonia, who fell in love with a mermaid that
arose from her coral cave in the Gulf of Gierazzo,
and sat beneath his castle walls singing as
the syrens sung to Ulysses; and of the
wondrous demon fish caught in Naples, in 1722,
with a man in armour in its stomach; and
Heaven knows what more. Hearing the
dash of oars alongside the </span><em class="italics">Echino</em><span>, as Zamori's
bark was named, and seeing a boat shoot under
her quarter, I leapt up. I went to the side
and received Catanio, who handed up Francesca
D'Alfieri. The poor girl was so happy
to find herself free, and entrusted to my care,
that she could only weep with joy; uttering
sobs in the depths of an ample satin faldetta
which the abbess had given her, with two
rosemary sprigs sewn crosswise in front, to scare
away evil spirits.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Farewell to you, captain!" said Catanio,
or Duncan Catanach; "do not forget us when
you go home to the land we love so well."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-bye: God bless you, old man!" I
replied, as the boat was pushed off and moved
shoreward.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The dark grave has long closed over the
faithful Catanach and his illustrious master;
but memory yet recalls the old man's visage:
I can see it as I saw it then; clouded by
honest sorrow, and its hard wrinkled features
tinged by the light of the moon.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>An hour afterwards we were ploughing the
waters of the gulf, with the broad latteen sail
of the </span><em class="italics">Echino</em><span> bellying taut before the breeze
as she cleft the billows with her sharp-beaked
prow. Zamori grasped the tiller with important
confidence; the crew, his two athletic and
black-browed sons, remained forward, and I
seated myself beside the signora, who permitting
her hood to fall back, the moon shone
on her beautiful features and glossy hair. So
dangerous an attraction near old Zamori
disturbed his steering, and the </span><em class="italics">Echino</em><span> yawed till
her sail flapped to the mast.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A sweet face!" he muttered, as the boat
careened over; "but it will work mischief, like
the mermaids."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, signor, I am happy, so very happy!"
said Francesca: the richness of her tone, and
the artlessness of her manner moved me.
"Shall we soon see Calabria?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"That is Capo Trionto," said I, pointing ahead.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear Calabria!" she exclaimed, kissing
her hand to the distant coast; "there was a
time when I thought never to behold thee
more! Beautiful star!" continued the
enthusiastic girl, pointing to a twinkling orb:
"Signor, is it not lovely? alas! 't is gone:
perhaps it is a world!" she added, clasping her
hands, as it shot from its place and vanished.
The increasing roughness of the sea, as we
sailed along the high Calabrian coast, soon
made Francesca uneasy: her prattle died
away; she became very sick, and lay in the
stern-sheets of the boat, covered up with
Zamori's warm storm jacket, and a spare jib:
both rather coarse coverings for a beautiful
and delicate female. At length she slept; and
I was left for a time to my own reflections.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>About midnight, I was roused from a sound
nap by Zamori.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Look around you, excellency," said he, in
a whisper; "saw you ever aught so splendid—so
terrible?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Like a vast globe of gold the shining moon
was resting on the summit of Cape Trionto;
which, rising black as ebony from the ocean,
heaved its strongly-marked outline against the
illuminated sky: its ridge was marked by a
streak of fiery yellow. The water was
phosphorescent; the waves seemed to be burning
around us, and we sped through an ocean of
light! The spray flying past our bows
seemed like sparks of living fire; the ropes
trailing over the gunnel, and the myriads of
animalcules which animate every drop of the
mighty deep, were all shining with magic
splendour. An exclamation of rapture
escaped me: at that moment the moon sank
down behind Trionto; in an instant the
sea became dark, and not a trace of all that
glorious and magnificent illumination
remained behind.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you seen these often, Zamori?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"No!" said he, shuddering and crossing
himself; "but such sights never bode good.
We shall have the French in Lower Calabria
soon. 'Tis Fata Morgana," he added, whispering;
"she dwells in the straits of Messina:
I have seen her palace of coral and crystal
rise above the waves. She is a mermaid of
potent power: God send that we have no
breeze before morning!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Cape St. James was in sight when the sun
arose from the ocean, revealing all the glories
of the beautiful coast and sparkling sea. After
the stout Calabrians had knelt and prayed to
a rudely-carved Madonna nailed above the
horse-shoe on the mast, I partook of their
humble breakfast; which consisted of olives,
salt-fish, maccaroni, and sour wine: the signora
was too much indisposed to join us.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I looked forward with pleasure to assuming
my important command at Scylla; but other
prospects made me happier still: I welcomed
the freshening breeze, as the little bark
rushed through the surging sea which boiled
over her gunnels, and roared like a cascade
under her counter; while the ruin-crowned or
foliaged headlands, and the countless peaks
which towered above them, changed their
aspect every moment as we flew on. I thought
of my smiling Bianca, and hailed with joy the
hills of Maida. We beheld the evening sun
gilding the Syla, and at night were off Crotona,
and saw the lights glimmering in its narrow
streets and gloomy citadel, where Macleod was
stationed with his Highlanders. Anchored
close under its ramparts, lay the </span><em class="italics">Amphion</em><span>, and
brave Hanfield's sloop of war, the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span>.
The sky was dark and lowering, the sea black
as ink: everything portended a rough night,
and I was well pleased that our voyage was over.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>My despatch for Captain Hoste required him
to bring round the Ross-shire Buffs without
delay to Messina; and the order was forthwith
given to heave short, to cast loose the sails,
and lower away all the boats.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>My old friend Castagno, with a party of the
Free Corps, formed the guard at the citadel
gate; I was immediately recognized, and
consigning the happy Francesca to his care, beat
up the quarters of Macleod: I found him
comfortably carousing with Drumlugas and some
of his officers, who were passing a portly jar
of gioja round the table with great celerity.
When the curiosity and laughter occasioned
by my attire had subsided, and when the
general's order had been read, I related my
adventures; passing over the visits to the
vaults, and the discovery of Francesca D'Alfieri.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>An hour before gun-fire the Buffs were
all on board the frigate: her ample canvas
was spread to the breezes of the Adriatic,
and by sunrise we saw her vanish round the
promontory of Lacinium. The Cavaliere
Benedetto, with four hundred rank and file of the
Free Corps, was left to hold Crotona; while,
by Macleod's order, I took command of a
company of those troops which the </span><em class="italics">Amphion</em><span>
could not accommodate: that evening, bidding
adieu to brave Castagno (whom I never saw
again), we marched </span><em class="italics">en route</em><span> for St. Eufemio,
where I was to see them safely embarked for Messina.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Thanks to Macleod and his officers, my
attire had now become a little more
professional: one gave me a regimental jacket,
another a tartan forage-cap, a third a sash, and
Drumlugas presented me with a very handsome
sabre; of which he had deprived the Swiss
colonel whom he vanquished at Maida. In
this motley uniform, I rode at the head of the
Free Company; which formed a very respectable
escort for Francesca and her sister, who
accompanied us: both were mounted on fiery-eyed
Calabrian horses, a breed famous for their
strength and endurance. While so many
bayonets glittered around them, the ladies
had no fear of banditti; Ortensia laughing
merrily, made her horse curvet and prance,
and lent her soft melodious voice to the jovial
chorus with which the Italian soldiers lightened
the toil of their morning march. But Francesca
was reserved; and beneath her veil I
often saw tears suffusing her mild and melancholy eyes.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear Francesca, why are you so sad?" asked
her sister; "O, now is the time for joy! See
how brightly the sun shines on the distant sea,
and how merrily the green woods are waving
in the breeze. Most unkind, Francesca! for
your sake, I have left my poor Benedetto in
that gloomy castle of Crotona. Laugh and be
joyous. Think on the happiness awaiting us
at home, and the embrace of our dear little
Bianca, when she throws her arms around you."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"And Luigi," added Francesca, unable to
restrain her tears.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The path we pursued was different from that
which I had travelled before, and the intense
solitude around it was almost oppressive. We
were marching through a dense forest, where
not a sound broke its stillness, save the cry of
a solitary lynx or the flap of an eagle's wing,
as he soared to his eyrie in the sandstone cliffs
which reared their rugged front above the
woodlands. White wreaths of distant smoke
shot up in vapoury columns through the green
foliage, announcing that the wild contained
other human beings than ourselves; but
whether these were poor charcoal-burners, or
robbers roasting a fat buck on the green sward,
we knew not. We passed one or two lonely
cottages, where the labouring hinds were
separating grain from its husks, by the ancient
modes—trampling the corn under the hoofs of
cattle, or rolling over it a large stone drawn
by a team of stout buffaloes.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Calabria was then (and perhaps is yet)
widely different from every other part of Italy:
its peculiar situation, its lofty mountains, its
dense forests spreading from sea to sea and
intersected by few roads, and its hordes of
banditti, made it dangerous and difficult of
access to the artist and tourist; consequently,
until the close of Manhes' campaign of
blood, it was an unknown territory to the
rest of Europe. These circumstances
rendered the natives rude in character and
revengeful in spirit; and thus a mighty
barrier rose between the lower orders and the
noblesse: who (in the words of a recent writer
on Italy) "live wholly apart from the
people—they compose two entirely distinct worlds."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>After halting in forests during the sultry
noon, cantoning in villages, and marching in
the cool morning and evening for two days, we
arrived near Amato, a little town within a few
leagues of the Villa D'Alfieri. We were
traversing a deep pass of the Apennines, when
the evening, which had been serene and fine,
became clouded: the lowering sky portended
a coming tempest. We pushed on, at an
increased pace, to reach a castellated villa, the
residence of a Calabrian of rank, which we
saw perched on an isolated mass of rock, about
a league up the mountains. Striking and
picturesque appeared the Vale of Amato, as the
setting sun poured its last blaze of radiance
down the deep gorge between the dark wooded
hills, gilding the crenellated battlements,
Saracenic galleries and Norman keep of the distant
castle; and reflected in the river, which glowed
like a stream of molten gold between thickets
of sombre cypress and fragrant orange-trees.
Gradually, the hue of the setting orb changed
from bright saffron to deep red; and a flood
of crimson lustre fell over everything, tinging
the lofty hills, the thick woods, the glassy
river with a blood-red tint, which rapidly
became more sombre as the sun disappeared
behind the pine-clad hills. Then thunder
rumbled through the darkening sky; gloomy
banks of cloud came scudding across it, and
volumes of vapour rolled away from the bed
of the Amato.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"On, on!" cried Francesca; "O, the storm
will be a terrible one: feel you not the very
blast of the sirrocco? Alas! we may die among
the mountains. Yonder is the residence of
Guelfo the Buonapartist—ah! the subtle
knave! If we trust ourselves under his roof,
say not a word of Luigi, and mention not our
names. Ah! if he should recognise us: you
remember that terrible night with the
conciarotti and the mob of Palermo."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>They pushed forward at a gallop, and I
followed; after leaving orders with old Signor
Gismondo, who—as I ought to have
mentioned before—was captain of the Free
Company, to continue his route double-quick to
Amato, where we would rejoin him by
daybreak next day. Gismondo was now grave,
reserved, and melancholy in the extreme: but
I was much pleased at renewing my acquaintance
with him. Poor man! it was fated to be
of short duration. We had scarcely separated
before the lightning gleamed between the
splintered rocks of the pass; the air became
sulphurous, close, and dense; in five minutes
it was dark; we saw the luminous glow-worms
sparkling amid the dewy grass beneath
the shady foliage, while ever and anon the red
lightning shot from peak to peak, illuminating
the scenery with its lurid glare. After
scrambling up a steep ascent, the face of which was
scarped and defended by four pieces of </span><em class="italics">French</em><span>
cannon, we reached the gate of this Neapolitan
lord; whom I had no wish to meet again,
as his bad political bias had gained him an
unfavourable name in Calabria. Numerous
towers and curtain walls of red stone
surrounded the building; few windows were
visible outwardly, and those were far from
the ground and well barred with time-worn
stancheons.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Passing through a gate surmounted by a
wolf's head cabossed on a shield, and
surrounded by the collar of shells, with the
crescent and ship of the Knights' Argonauts
of San Nicolo, we dismounted in the courtyard.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Alas! for poor Gismondo and his soldiers!"
exclaimed Francesca, as the gates
were closed; and the descending storm burst
forth in all its fury.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="castelguelfo-the-wolf-of-amato"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IV.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">CASTELGUELFO—THE WOLF OF AMATO.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>By the barone, a short and meagre little man
of a most forbidding aspect, we were received
with all due honour and courtesy, and without
being recognised; but his residence was so
full of armed men, that it could scarcely afford
us accommodation, ample though its towers
and corridors seemed to be.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"These are Lucchesi, the most hideous
provincials of Italy; those wanderers who
spread over all Europe with organs and
monkeys," whispered Ortensia, as we passed
through the court, which was crowded with
the most savage-looking fellows imaginable.
Many were half naked, or clad only in the
skins of sheep and lynxes, beneath which
might be seen the remains of a ragged shirt,
a tattered vest, or breeches, once red or yellow;
their legs and feet were bare; some had old
battered hats, or red slouched caps: but the
greater number had only their shock heads of
hair, bleached by the weather till it was coarse
as a charger's mane, and overhanging their
gaunt ferocious visages, grim with starvation and
misery: which ever accompanied French invasion.
A few wore the gallant bandit costume
of the south, and all were carousing, and
filling the hollow towers, the dark arcades,
and echoing corridors with bursts of brutal
laughter to lighten their work: for all were
busy, polishing rifle and pistol locks, and
grinding the blades of sabres, poniards, and
pikes. My fair companions shrank with
dismay from the hall windows when they viewed
the assemblage below, and even I did not feel
quite at ease; especially after seeing about
two hundred stand of </span><em class="italics">French</em><span> arms and
accoutrements ranged along the vestibule.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor Barone, you keep a strong garrison
here," said I, smiling, while we surveyed
the motley crew of ruffians from a lofty oriel;
"do you expect Massena to pass the Amato soon?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"That would be superb!" replied he, with
a grin, which revealed his ample and wolfish
jaws. "No, no, 't is only my good friend
Scarolla, the valiant captain of four hundred
free companions, who is here with his band: we
are bound on a little piece of service together.
Ha! ha! if that fool Belcastro had not
poisoned himself instead of the Maltese
Knight, he would have been here too."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment Scarolla approached: I
attentively surveyed the celebrated bandit-chief,
whose name, in the annals of Italian ferocity,
stands second only to that of Mammone, "the
blood-quaffer." He was above six feet high,
and moulded like a Hercules; dark as that of
a Negro, his mean visage announced him a
Lucchese; long black hair hung down his
back, and a thick beard fringed his chin.
The band of his ample beaver, his velvet
jacket and mantello were covered with the
richest embroidery, and a silver hilted poniard
glittered in his waist-belt. His brows were
knit and lowering, his eyes keen and sinister:
the ladies trembled beneath the bold scrutiny
of his glance, and shrank close to my side for
protection while the withered little barone
introduced us.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor Inglese, the valiant Capitano
Scarolla; brave men ought to know each other:
you are both captains, remember."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Serving under different leaders," I replied,
while bowing, and repressing a scornful smile.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Superba!" cried the little barone, laughing
and rubbing his hands; but Scarolla's brows
knit closer, and his eyes kindled at my
inuendo.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The hall was now lighted by several tall
candelabra; their lustre was reflected from
the gilded columns and pendants of the lofty
roof, and the frames of dark, gloomy, and
mysterious portraits of the ancient Guelfi;
who seemed scowling from their pannels on
their degenerate descendant and his unworthy
confederate.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>That ancient apartment, when viewed as I
beheld it, one-half bathed in warm light, and
the other sunk in cold shadow, seemed the
very scene of a romance; to which the graceful
figures of the Signora del Castagno and her
sister, and the picturesque garb of the tall
Scarolla gave additional effect. Now were
appropriate sounds wanting; for a storm raged in
the valley below, thunder growled in the
mountains above, and the rain rushed like hail on
the casements; the painted traceries of which
were often lit by fitful gleams of the moon or
the blue forked lightning, as it shot from hill to hill.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Uneasy in the presence of Scarolla, the
ladies, after a slight refreshment, withdrew to
repose; promising to be up with the lark for
our journey to-morrow.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>When travelling, or on active service, one
is compelled to accommodate oneself to every
kind of society, place, and circumstance; and
upon this philosophical principle, I made
myself quite at home, and supped merrily with
the barone and bandit: of whom the servants
stood in the greatest awe. Supper over,
wine was produced: however abstemious the
Italians may be, I saw no sign of the national
trait that night, at Castelguelfo; where we
drank the richest continental wines, emptying
the decanters in rapid succession, as if we had
been three Germans drinking for a wager.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Rendered mellow by his potations, our host
became talkative; and, in spite of the nods and
contemptuous frowns of the impatient Scarolla,
informed me that he was collecting men to
make a political demonstration, of which I
should soon hear at Palermo—an attack on a
powerful feudatory, with whom he had a
deadly quarrel, which the presence of our army
only smothered for a time.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"It will be superb," grinned the barone.
"I hate him with the stern bitterness of a
thorough old Calabrese. Thrice has he
crossed me at court: he caused Ferdinand to
regard me with coldness and jealousy, and
when all the nobles of the province received
the order of San Constantino, I alone was
left undecorated; and my name, the oldest in
Naples, was forgotten. We have now the
country to ourselves; and taking advantage of
the lull, all Italy, from Scylla to the Alps,
shall ring with my retribution. Yesterday,
Crotona was abandoned to the Calabri; the
soldiers who fought and won at Maida have
all withdrawn, and there is no one to mar my
revenge. O, it will be signal! In their king's
service, the followers of my foe are all in
garrison at Reggio; and his residence is
unprotected. I have a hundred sbirri well mounted,
armed and faithful; Scarolla has four hundred
of the bravest rogues that ever levelled a
rifle. Superba! Loyal visconte, beware the
fangs of the Wolf! Per Baccho! there shall
be a modern feud between the Guelfi and
Alfieri, famous as that they had of old—ha! ha!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The Villa D'Alfieri is then the point of
attack," said I.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Superba!" screamed the little barone, who
was becoming more inebriated: "yes; I will
clothe its walls in flames; and if blood can
quench them, then so shall they be quenched.
Yea, in blood, shed where my ancestor's yet
cries for vengeance. Viva Guesippe Buonaparte!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"One alone shall be spared, excellency;"
remarked Scarolla, who was also becoming
excited.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"So I have promised you, prince of rogues,
as the price of your services. The plunder of
the villa belongs to your followers; and to you
falls that glorious prize, the theme of our
improvisatori, the pride of the Calabrias——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Bianca D'Alfieri!" added Scarolla, his
eyes lighting with insolent triumph.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Superb! is she not?" laughed the barone.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"God curse you both," I muttered;
instinctively feeling for my sabre, and gulping
down my wine, to hide the passion that boiled
within me. I thanked Heaven that they knew
not of Gismondo and his company; by whom I
hoped the villa would be saved from this
revengeful rebel.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"When does the attack take place, signor?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"To-morrow, at midnight. We will burn
a light at St. Eufemio that will astonish the
good citizens of Messina, and scare Fata
Morgana in her ocean palace. You are on your
way to Palermo?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I bowed.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Say, when you get there, that Castelguelfo
is in league with Regnier, has burned the
grand bailiff, and hoisted the standard of
Guiseppe of Naples: cospetto! the cross of the
iron crown will outweigh the star of Constantine!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Success to the expedition, signori," said I,
drinking to conceal my anger and confusion.
"Faith! this is quite a revival of that ancient
feud, of which the improvisatori sing so
much."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"And long will they sing of the diabolical
treachery of the Alfieri."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor, I would gladly hear the relation."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You shall, in a few words. You have
heard of the famous fighting Dominican
Campanella, who, in 1590, raised the banner of
revolt in the Calabrias: my ancestor, Barone
Amadeo, disgusted by Spanish misrule, joined
him with three hundred men-at-arms; but
these were all defeated and slaughtered by
the followers of the then Visconte Santugo,
on the same field of Maida where you so lately
vanquished Regnier. Then commenced the
quarrel between the Guelfi and the Alfieri;
which, though we never came to blows, has
survived for two centuries, and has settled
down into coldness, mistrust, and jealousy,
intriguing at court and petty squabbling at
home. We are old-fashioned people here;
but France holds out civilization and
regeneration to us. Well, Messer Amadeo was
defeated, and Santugo gave his castle to the
flames, so that the Wolf of Amato might have
nowhere to lay his head. An outcast, deserted
by his followers and abandoned by all, he
wandered long in the wild forest of St. Eufemio,
until, reduced to the last extremities
of hunger and despair, he resolved to throw
himself upon the generosity of his triumphant
enemy; and knocking at the gate of the castle
of Santugo, craved the insolent porter to
admit him to the visconte's presence. He was
absent, fighting against Campanella; but
Theodelinde of Bova, his young wife, resided at the
castle during his campaign.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Gaunt, from long continued misery, overgrown
with a mass of beard and hair—clad
in the skins of his namesake the wolf instead
of the knightly Milan steel, and grasping a
knotted staff in lieu of the bright-bladed
falchion of Ferrara—Messer Amadeo had more
the aspect of an ancient satyr than a
Neapolitan cavalier.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Madonna mia!" cried Theodelinde, with
dismay, 'Who art thou?'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Signora, thou beholdest Guelfo, the
persecuted lord of Amato, who is come to cast
himself at thy feet. My territories spread
from the Tyrrhene to the Adriatic Sea; they
have passed away, my people are destroyed,
my castle is ruined, and I have nowhere to
lay my head, save in the grave. Though thy
husband's foe, take pity upon me, gentle
signora! I am perishing with want; for the
ban of God and the king are upon me, and
no man dares to give me a morsel of bread
or a cup of water.'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Gentle in spirit, and milder in blood than
our Italian dames, Theodelinde came of an
old Albanian race; and, moved with pity,
wept to behold a warrior of such high courage
and birth reduced to such exceeding misery.
Enjoining her maidens to secrecy, she
provided him with food and raiment, and
concerted means for his escape into Greece.
The unfortunate Amadeo was grateful, and,
touched with her generosity, swore on the
cross that he would forgive the visconte for
all the persecutions to which he had subjected
him. That night he retired to rest in peace,
beneath the roof of his deadliest enemy.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Long exhaustion caused a deep slumber
to sink upon his eyelids, and he heard not
the clang of hoofs and the clash of steel
ringing in the wide quadrangle, announcing that
Santugo had returned, flushed with victory
and triumph; his sword reeking with the
blood of the revolters. Theodelinde rushed
forth to meet her husband, and their meeting
was one of joy: her tears of happiness fell
on the steel corslet of the stern visconte,
and he too rejoiced; for the Spanish king had
promised to bestow upon him all the possessions
of Amadeo, if before the festival of the
Annunciation, which was but three days
distant, he placed the Wolf's head on the high
altar of St. Eufemio.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The gentle viscontessa knew not of this
bloody compact; but presuming on the joy and
tenderness displayed by her husband, and
shrinking from aught that resembled duplicity,
she led him to the chamber of Amadeo. He
was reposing on a stately couch, and fitfully
the beams of the night-lamp fell on his pale
forehead and noble features. He started,
awoke, and saw—what? Theodelinde by his
bed-side, with her stern husband clad in
complete armour. Santugo, his barred visor up,
regarded him with a lowering visage; while
he grasped a heavy zagaglia, such as our
estradiots used of old, and which glittered
deadly like the eyes of him who held it. Then
Theodelinde knew, by the glare of that terrible
eye, that Amadeo was lost, and she sank
upon her knees.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Oh, pity him and spare him for my sake:
spare him if you love me, my husband.'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"But the ruthless Alfieri heard her not—saw
her not: he beheld only the aggrandisement
of his power, and hearkened only to
the whisperings of avarice and enmity.
Amadeo leaped up; but his foe was too swift for
him. Hurled with equal force and dexterity, the
zagaglia flew hissing from Santugo's hand, and
its broad barbed head cleft the skull, and
lay quivering in the brain of Amadeo.
Theodelinde sank down on the floor in horror; while
the visconte cut off the head with his poniard,
and knitting the locks to his baldrick,
galloped to the church of St. Eufemio, where
he flung the gory trophy on the altar. The
ghastly skull remained there on a carved stone
bracket, for half a century; until the cathedral
of St. Eufemio was destroyed, on the
anniversary of the deed, by the earthquake of
1638. Those who viewed its fall beheld a
spectacle which was beyond description
terrible! The earth yawned, and the stately
church with its three tall taper spires; its
pinnacles, rich with gothic carving; its windows,
sparkling with light and gorgeous with tracery;
its massive battlements and echoing aisles, sank
slowly into the flaming abyss,—down, down,
until the gilded cross on the tallest pinnacle
vanished. Convents, stately palaces, and
streets sank down with it, and where
St. Eufemio stood, there lay a vast black fetid
lake, rolling its dark sulphurous waves in the
light of the summer moon. Ho! ho! what
a tomb for the skull of the Wolf!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The Guelfi were landless outcasts, until,
by the treaty of Utrecht, in 1713, Naples
passed away from Spanish domination; and
under Charles of Parma, my father recovered
the old possessions of our house: now, in
imitation of Amadeo, I am ready for revolt;
and, with every chance of success, to-morrow
shall unroll the banner of Joseph of Naples,
whom Madonna bless! To-morrow, let the
Alfieri and loyalists beware! I will not spare
even the linnet in the cage, or the dog that
sleeps on the hearth. Drink, Scarolla, to the
Signora Bianca; who by to-morrow eve will
be hailed as thy gay capitanessa!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>But Scarolla heard him not: his head had
fallen forward on his breast, and long ere the
host's story was concluded, he was snoring
with the force of a trombone.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="happiness"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER V.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">HAPPINESS.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>By daybreak next morning we were clear of the
castello; for we quitted its walls while its
ruffian inmates were buried in slumber. I was
happy when the ladies were mounted, and
once more on the road; having been under
considerable apprehension for their safety:
dreading, perhaps, our detention as royalist
prisoners in the barone's residence.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A rough night the last for a march,
signor," said I to Captain Gismondo, whom
we found parading the Calabri in the street of
Amato.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A tempest, signor! the blue glare of the
lightning alone revealed to us that foaming
river which we forded, the water rising to our
waist-belts; and the rain that rushed down
from heaven was every drop large enough to
beat in our drumheads."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Ordering the company to march by a solitary
and long forgotten road, towards St. Eufemio,
I informed Gismondo and my fair charge
of the diabolical plan laid by the barone and
his revolters to destroy the villa, and assign the
innocent Bianca to the wretch Scarolla as the
price of his co-operation. Her sisters shrieked
with terror, and old Battista gave me a stern
smile while laying his hand on his sword.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I know a path across the mountains,
signor; I travelled it once to Monteleone: my
little daughter was with me then;" he sighed
deeply. "By Ave Maria this evening our
good friends the Alfieri will have a hundred and
fifty bayonets at their disposal. Compagna! threes
right, quick march!" and we moved
off with rapidity.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Marching by the most retired roads, we
made a circuit among the mountains to deceive
the barone, if any of his scouts should have
followed us. The evening sun was casting
the long shadows of the lofty hills of Nicastro
across the woods and valleys of St. Eufemio,
the waters of the bay were rolling in their
usual varied tints of sparkling blue, and the
eve was so calm and still, that the dash of the
lonely breakers, as they flowed on the sandy
beach, was heard many miles from the shore;
mingling with the solemn hymn of the Sicilian
mariners, and the crews of those picturesque
feluccas which spread their striped latteen sails
to the breezes of the strait.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Leaving Gismondo with his company to follow,
I pushed on with the ladies at full gallop
towards the villa: they were both expert
horsewomen, and quite outstripped me, as we
flew along the sandy marino. Their merry
laughter and taunting cries of "Fi! fi! Signor
Capitano," were very galling to me; for I
was considered the best horseman (except
Lascelles) on the Sicilian staff, and had twice
won the regimental and brigade cup at the
Palermitan races.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"On my honour! ladies, if I held the reins
of my brave English grey instead of those of
a chubby Calabrian horse, you would not have
distanced me thus," said I, when they halted
to let me come up with them.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The battery erected by the soldiers of Sir
Louis de Watteville was now abandoned and
demolished; the cannon were away, and the
platforms overgrown with luxuriant grass.
How stirringly my time had passed since the
morning when our army landed on the beach
close by!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The moment we rode into the quadrangle
of the villa, the clattering hoofs roused the
whole household, as the blast of a trumpet
would have done. To be brief: great was the
joy diffused by our arrival. We disturbed the
old viscontessa from cards, with which she
was rapidly gaining from old Adriano all the
ducats she had paid at confessional an hour
before for peccadilloes. The young visconte,
pale and worn with long illness of mind and
body, received the trembling Francesca to his
arms as if she had been restored to him from
the tomb. The Italians are peculiarly
exciteable, and his transports were wild in the
extreme. He had expected to behold his bride
no more; and now she was hanging on his
bosom, free, happy, and more beautiful than
ever. As I had long foreseen, he placed in my
hand that of his blushing cousin, Bianca; while
the venerable viscontessa wept and prayed
with joy, scattered a handful of cards and
counters over us, in her confusion, and
embraced us by turns. The whole household,
male and female, from Andronicus the
chasseur to the little ragazzo who turned the
spits, joined in a general chorus of joy; they
commenced the furious tarantella in the
quadrangle, and the whole mansion rang with shouts:
which were soon to be changed for those of a
less agreeable nature.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Around the white neck of Bianca, I threw
the riband with the gold medal presented to
me by Cardinal York, whose kindness had
restored Francesca to light and life; and the
sweet girl kissed it, promising to treasure it
for his sake and mine. She appeared so
beautiful, so blooming and happy, as she hung
upon my shoulder in the recess of a lofty
window, with the light of the western sky
streaming on her bright curls and glittering dress;
and Santugo seemed so much absorbed in the
presence of her sister, who was seated between
him and his mother, with a hand clasped
fondly by each; that I was loath to disturb the
happy group and blight their general joy, by
speaking of Guelfo: but the appearance of
Gismondo's company marching along the
marino, and the advanced hour of the evening,
made it imperative that arrangements should
be made for fighting or flying. All changed
colour when I mentioned Castelguelfo:
Santugo's brow grew black, and his mother burst into tears.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, Luigi! to remain would be madness,
when Giacomo and all our people are serving
as soldiers at Reggio!" she exclaimed.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"It ill beseems you, signora, to counsel me
to my dishonour;" replied the fierce young
man, with singular hauteur, while his lip
quivered and his dark eyes shone with fire.
"Like all the family of Amato, Dionisio is a
coward at heart, and a rebel Buonapartist;
and shall I, who am esteemed among the
bravest and most patriotic of our noblesse, fly
before a base leaguer with banditti? Never!
With Gismondo's Calabri, and the armed men
I can collect on an hour's notice, to the last
will I defend my father-house; fighting from
chamber to chamber and story to story, and
die rather than yield, even should Guelfo
involve the whole fabric in flames and destruction."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ammirando!" exclaimed Gismondo, entering,
"you speak as I expected to hear the son
of my old comrade; whose honours you will
never tarnish. Courage, ladies! One hundred
and fifty bayonets are here, under my orders;
and with Madonna's blessing, and our own
hands, the Wolf may fall into as great a snare
as old Amadeo did in the days of poor Campanella."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The viscontessa shuddered: but her son
took down his sword from the wall.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dundas," said he; "to you, who are a
soldier of greater experience than any here (not
even excepting our old guerilla, Gismondo),
I look principally for advice during this
night's uproar. Come, signor, leave Bianca,
and loosen your sabre in its sheath. Ladies,
away to your mandolins and embroidery, or
to ave and credo; your presence alone
unmans me. Ola, Zaccheo! where the devil is
my old courier tarrying now? Bolt and
barricade every door and window, and muster and
arm the valets. Even the little ragazzo must
handle a musket to-night."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Had we not better send a horseman to the
Royal Reggitore of Nicastro for aid?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"An insolent Sicilian dog!" replied Santugo.
"No, no; we must trust to Heaven and
our own bravery."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Land and ocean had grown dark, or
what is deemed so in fair Ausonia. The
bright stars studding the whole firmament,
and the pale silver moon rising over the dark
green ridges of the wooded hills, shed their
mystic light on cape and bay over Amato's
frowning rocks and flowing river; illuminating
the tall round tower, the broad façade, and
many arcades of the Villa D'Alfieri, and
bathing in silver the orange woods around it.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Before the hour of the projected attack, we
had all prepared for defence; and our arrangements
had been made for a vigorous one: every
door, window, and aperture were strongly
barred and barricaded; piles of furniture,
statues, cushions, ottomans, massive tomes
from the library, and everything suitable, were
pressed into the service; forming barriers in
the passages and on stair-landings, in case of
an assault. Ere midnight tolled from the
sonorous old clock in the quadrangle, all the
ladies and their attendants were stowed away
in the attic story, and one hundred and
eighty men were stationed at the different
posts assigned them below. Gismondo
commanded one wing of the mansion; his
lieutenant and Alfiero, two cavaliers of the House
of Bisignano, the other; while Santugo and
myself occupied the centre.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The soldiers were so well posted, that the
different approaches to the villa were
completely enfiladed; while that by the quadrangle
would be exposed to a deadly cross fire
from fifty windows. In this order we awaited
the revolters.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>On making my rounds, to see that all were
on the alert, I visited the ladies; who, in the
attic story of the old round tower, were quite
secure from musketry. The old viscontessa
was on her knees praying: she had
relinquished her cards for "The Litanies of our
Blessed Lady;" and a crowd of female domestics
knelt around her. Bianca and her sisters
were clustered together, with arms entwined,
like three beautiful graces; but looking pale
and terrified: awaiting the strife with beating
hearts and eyes suffused with tears.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dearest Claude!" said she whose gentle
voice I loved best, "for God's sake! O, for my
sake! do not expose yourself heedlessly to
danger."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Courage, dear one," said I, putting an
arm playfully round her; "we must all fight
like the Trojans of old. Think of what will
be the fate of us all—of yourself in particular—if
Guelfo and his ruffian compeers capture the
villa to-night. If I can put a bullet into the
head of this new suitor, Scarolla—Tush,
Bianca! ridiculous, is it not?" She made a
sickly attempt to smile, but bowed her head
on my shoulder and wept. I heard Santugo
and his chasseur uttering my name, and calling
aloud through various parts of the mansion;
but I was too agreeably occupied to attend to
them just then.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Allerta!" cried Gismondo; and knowing
the military warning, I hurried away to the
scene of action.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"See you the rascals, signor?" said he,
pointing from a barricaded window, to a
dark mass moving along the distant roadway,
and rapidly debouching into the lawn. They
marched in the full glare of the moonlight,
and the gleam of steel flashed incessantly from
the shapeless column. They carried two
standards, and one was a tri-color.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Some of those Jacobin dogs are the iron
miners of Stilo: they have long been stubborn
traitors," said Santugo, in accents of rage.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"And bold Scarolla, so long the scourge of
Frenchmen, why leagues he with villains such
as these?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You forgot, signor," replied the young
lord, with a grim smile, "that he is either to
gain a noble bride, or an ounce bullet to-night."</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-villa-besieged"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VI.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE VILLA BESIEGED.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>"Trombadore, sound the alert!" cried I to
the little Calabrian trumpeter. The sharp
blare of his brass instrument awoke every
echo of the great villa; there was a clatter of
accoutrements, a clashing of bayonets and
buckles, a hum, and all became still as the grave.
We now heard the tread of the advancing
force, which divided into two bodies; one to
assault the house in front, the other in flank.
A red light shot up between the trees of the
avenue, as an earnest of what was to ensue:
the gate lodge had been given to the flames.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A steep sloping terrace, enclosed by a high
balustrade, encircled the whole villa: six iron
wickets, leading to the lawn and garden, had
been well secured, and this outer defence
formed our first barrier against the foe; who
advanced within a few yards of it, before I
ordered the trumpeter to sound again. At
the first note, a volley, which the assailants
little expected, was poured upon them, throwing
them into the utmost confusion, and driving
them back with slaughter. They replied with
promptitude, and poor old Gismondo fell dead
by my side. My blood now got heated in
earnest!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Bravissimo soldateria!" I cried to the
Free Calabri, while brandishing my sabre and
hurrying from post to post to animate their
resistance: "level low, and fire where they are
thickest!" The roar of the musketry stirred
all the echoes of the vast resounding building:
its long corridors, lofty saloons, and domed
ceilings, gave back the reports with redoubled
force; every place was filled with smoke,
without and within; every window and aperture
was streaked with fire, bristling with bright
steel bayonets, and swarming with dark fierce
visages.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Our fire made frightful havoc among the
revolters; who numbered above a thousand,
all keen for plunder, infuriated by unexpected
opposition, and maddened by wine drank in
the various houses and cellars they had
pillaged on their march: their yells were like
those of wild beasts or savages.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The sbirri, or feudal gens-d'armes who
wore the barone's livery, were lost among
the dense rabble of barefooted miners from
Stilo, grim charcoal-burners, and Scarolla's
squalid banditti. A revolting array of hideous
faces I beheld moving beneath me in the
moonlight; distorted by every malignant and
evil passion, and flushed with wine, fury, and
inborn ferocity. In the blaze of their
brandished torches, glittered weapons of every
description, from the pike twelve feet long,
to the short spadetto and knife of Bastia.
Onward they rushed, a mighty mass of ferocity
and filth; and again they were repulsed,
leaving the quadrangle strewn with killed and
wounded.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Viva Giuseppe! superba!" cried a shrill
quavering voice: it was that of the barone,
whom we now saw heading a third attack
in person; whilst a strong party, making a
lodgment under the portico, assailed the
grand entrance with crowbars and levers.
The colonnade protected them from our fire,
and the massive frame-work of the door was
fast yielding to the blows of pickaxes and
hammers with which the strong-armed miners
assailed it; whilst their courage increased, as
the barrier gradually gave way before their
strenuous efforts. At last a tremendous shout
announced that an aperture was made; upon
which I ordered the barricades of the vestibule
to be strengthened, and lined by a double
rank of soldiers, entrusting their command to
the young Alfiero Caraffa.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The fire of the besiegers had now reduced
our force to about eighty effective men; and
my anxiety for the safety of the villa and its
inmates increased with the wounds and deaths
around me. The whole terrace on the land-side
was lined with marksmen, who knelt behind
the stone balusters, and fired between them
with deadly precision at the large upper
windows; through which the white uniforms and
gay trappings of the Royal Calabrians were
distinctly visible in the moonlight. I dreaded
the continuation of this deadly fire more than
a close assault; and to increase my anxiety,
Andronicus, who acted as our commissary,
came with a most lugubrious visage to inform
me that the ammunition was becoming expended,
and that the pouches of the Free Calabri
were almost empty.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"God! we are lost then!" I exclaimed:
this information fell upon me like a thunderbolt.
I hurried to Santugo, whom I found
kneeling, rifle in hand, before a narrow
loophole, endeavouring to discover the little
barone, the main-spring of this revolt; whom
it was no easy task to perceive, among such a
rabble, although we heard his croaking voice
and chuckling laugh every moment.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Superba! viva Giuseppe Buonaparte! </span><em class="italics">viva
la Capitanessa Scarolla</em><span>!" The banditti answered
by a yell of delight. "On, on brave rogues;"
he added, "we will have two pieces of cannon
here in an hour."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Cannon!" I reiterated, and exchanged
glances with Santugo. We were both
astounded by the intelligence.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, Claude!" said my friend, "I tremble
only for my mother, for Francesca and her
sisters. For myself, per Baccho! you know
I would fight, without a tremor, till roof and
rafters, column and cupola, fell in ruins above
me. Is all lost, then?'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"No," said I, speaking through my hand;
for the noise of the conflict was deafening;
"we may save the villa yet, and all its inmates:
but a bold dash must be made. Look yonder! what
see you?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I understand—the task is mine."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Mine, rather."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, Signor Claude, I have Francesca
at stake."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"And I, Bianca—we are equal."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I care not. Ola, Andronicus! saddle my
cavallo Barbero, and look well to girth and
holster—quick, away, Signor Greco!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>What we saw was the British fleet, consisting
of a gigantic ship of the line and three or four
frigates and corvettes, standing slowly down
the Straits of the Pharo, and keeping close in
shore; attracted, probably, by the sound of the
firing. I knew the flag-ship of Sir Sidney
Smith, by its old-fashioned poop-lantern; and
my project was to despatch a messenger on
board, craving help. But how could one leave
the villa? it was environed on one side by surf
and steep rocks, shelving down to a whirlpool;
on the other by fierce assailants who were
merciless as the yawning sea.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Desperate was the venture: but that it must
be attempted, we knew was imperative. A
friendly contest ensued between us and the
two Cavalieri Caraffa; each insisting on being
the executor of the dangerous service. We
contested the point so long, that it was at last
referred to a throw of dice: the lot fell on
Luigi; who prepared at once for the deadly
mission, by divesting himself of his mantle,
buttoning his short velvet surtout closely about
him, and taking in three holes of his sword
belt; while I hurriedly indited the following
note to the admiral.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em">
</div>
<!-- class: noindent white-space-pre-liine -->
<p class="pfirst"><span>"VILLA D'ALFIERI.
</span><em class="italics">Sept.</em><span> 20*th*, 1808.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>"Sir,</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>"I have the honour to request that you will
order as strong a detachment of seamen or
marines as you may deem necessary, to be
landed at the villa of the Alfieri, which is
closely besieged by the Baron of Castelguelfo,
a Buonapartist, who is now at the head of a
numerous force of Italian rebels. To protect
the loyal family of the bearer, the Visconte di
Santugo, I placed in the villa a company of
the Free Corps, and have already to regret
the loss of Captain Battista Gismondo, and
nearly sixty rank and file. Our case is
desperate. The villa will not be tenable one
hour longer, as the barone (whom Regnier has
supplied with all munition of war) is bringing
two pieces of cannon against it, and our
cartridges are totally expended. I have the
honour, &c. &c.</span></p>
<p class="noindent pnext"><span>"CLAUDE DUNDAS,
<br />Capt. 62d Regt."</span></p>
<p class="noindent pnext"><span>Admiral Sir SIDNEY SMITH,
<br />H.M. ship </span><em class="italics">Pompey</em><span>.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>According to the fashion of many large
Italian houses, the stables formed a part of
the principal building; and so in the present
emergency it was lucky that the horses were
at hand. Santugo's black Barbary horse,
with its red quivering nostrils, eyes sparkling
fire, and its mane bristling at the noise of the
musketry, was led by the Greek chasseur
through a long corridor to a saloon which
overlooked the grottoes by the sea-shore. The
saddled steed was an unusual visitor in that
noble apartment; where statues, vases,
pictures, and sofas, were piled up in confusion to
form barricades before six tall windows which
faced the straits. One was open, revealing the
bright sky, the sparkling sea, Sicilia's coast
and the sailing fleet; while ten Calabri, with
their bayonets at the charge, stood by to guard
the aperture.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The brave young noble mounted, and stooping
as he passed out, guided his horse along a
ledge of slippery rock, and the casement was
immediately secured behind him. We watched
him with equal anxiety and admiration, as he
rode along the perilous path, where one false
step of the Barbary would have plunged him
in the whirlpool, which roared and sucked in
the foaming eddies, beneath the villa walls.
The instant he passed the angle of the building
which was swept by the fire of the assailants,
there burst from them a simultaneous
yell; which was answered by a shout of
reckless defiance from the daring Santugo, who
driving spurs into his fleet horse, compelled it
to clear the high balustraded terrace by a
flying leap. Then his long sword flashed in
the moonlight as he slashed right and left,
crying—"Viva Carolina! Ferdinando nostra
e la Santa Fede!" cutting his way through the
yelling mass, escaping bullet and steel as if he
had a charmed life, he passed through them
and was free; and I had no doubt would gain
the village (where the boats lay) safely and
rapidly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Enraged at his escape, the revolters pressed
on with renewed fury, but changed their mode
of attack. A cloud now passed over the moon
involving the scenery in comparative darkness;
but it was soon to be illuminated in a manner
I little expected.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>There flashed forth a sudden glare of light,
revealing the sea of ferocious visages and
glancing arms of the enemy, the bloody
terrace heaped with dead, the dark arcades,
carved cornices, and lofty portico of the villa:
a lurid glare shone over everything, and a man
advanced to the terrace holding aloft an Indian
sky-rocket; a terrible species of firework often
used by the French. Its yellow blaze fell full
upon the face of the bearer, in whom I
recognised the villainous engineer, Navarre; I
snatched a musket from the hand of a dead
soldier, but ere it was aimed the traitor had
shot the fiery missile from his hand and
disappeared.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>This terrible instrument of eastern warfare
forced itself forward, roaring and blazing
towards the villa, and breaking through a
window, plunged about as if instinct with life,
setting fire to everything inflammatory within
its reach. From its size and weight, and the
formation of its sides, which were bristling
with spikes, it finally stuck fast to the flooring
of a room; where its power of combustion
increased every instant, and a succession of
reports burst from it as its fire-balls flew off in
every direction. All fled in dismay, to avoid
being blown up by the sparks falling into their
pouches, scorched to death by remaining in its
vicinity, shot by its bullets, or stabbed by the
spikes; which it shot forth incessantly, like
quills from a "fretful porcupine."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>In vain I cried for water: no one heard me;
the diabolical engine bounded, roared, and
hissed like a very devil, involving us in
noisome and suffocating smoke; and in three
minutes the magnificent villa was in flames,
and its defenders paralysed.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Superba!" cried the barone. "Viva Guiseppe!"
and the triumphant yells of his enraged
followers redoubled. I turned to the
Cavalieri Caraffa.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Gentlemen, keep your soldiers at their
posts to the last," said I, "while I provide
for the retreat of the ladies."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"How, signor?" asked Andronicus; "on
every hand they environ us, save the seaward;
where a whirlpool—O, omnipotente!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment we heard the report of a
cannon; a round shot passed through the great
door, demolishing in its passage a beautiful
fountain of marble and bronze, and the water flowed
in a torrent over the tessellated pavement,
while musketry was discharged in quick
succession through the breach. To augment our
distress, the barone's guns had come up; and
the triumphant cries, the ferocity and daring
of the assailants increased as the hot flames
grew apace around us. Shrieks now burst
from the summit of the round tower:
overwhelmed with anxiety and rage, and faint
with the heat and smoke of the fire-arms and
conflagration, I hurried up the great staircase
to bring away the females, who could not
remain five minutes longer: but where or how I
was to convey them, Heaven only knew!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The moon, which had been obscured for
some time, now shone forth with renewed
lustre; and I saw the sea brightening like a
silver flood, as the last clouds passed away
from the shining orb. O, sight of joy! Three
large boats filled with marines and seamen
were at that moment pulled close under the
rocks; to which they had advanced unseen by
the foe. The headmost had already disappeared
in the sea grottoes; and I heard the
measured clank of the rowlocks, and saw the
oar-blades of the sternmost barge flash like
blue fire as they were feathered in true
man-o'-war style. The boats shot under the rocks,
like arrows: one moment the glittering moon
poured its cold light on the glazed caps and
bristling bayonets of the closely packed
marines—on the bright pike-heads, the gleaming
cutlasses, and little tarpaulins of the
seamen—and the next, it shone on the lonely
seething ocean.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Saved, thank Heaven!" I exclaimed, rushing
down the stair. "Bravo, soldateria! fight
on, brave Calabri, for aid is near. Hollo,
Zaccheo! throw open the windows to the back,
and bring down the ladies before the fire
reaches the upper stories. Hollo, signor
trombadore! sound the </span><em class="italics">rally</em><span>, my brave little
man!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The poor boy was so terrified that his
trumpet-call was only a feeble squeak; but the
survivors of the company, about fifty in
number, rushed from all quarters to the spot. A
volley of musketry announced that our marines
had opened on the assailants.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Let us sally out—away with the barricades!"
cried Lieutenant Caraffa; and we
rushed forth with charged bayonets, eager to
revenge the slaughter and devastation of the
night. The regular fire of a hundred marines
from the terrace—to which Santugo led them
by a secret passage from the grottoes below—threw
the revolters into a panic; and their
discomfiture was completed by a strong
detachment of seamen, headed by Hanfield the
gallant captain of the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span>, whom Sir Sidney
had sent in command of the expedition.
Rushing over the lawn with a wild hurrah, they
fell slashing and thrusting with cutlass and
pike among the recoiling rabble of the barone;
who, abandoning their two six-pounder guns,
fled, </span><em class="italics">en masse</em><span>, with rapidity: but fighting every
step of the way towards the mountains, and
firing on us from behind every bush and rock
which afforded momentary concealment. In
the pursuit I encountered the formidable
Scarolla, who fired both his pistols at me without
effect, as I rushed upon him with my sabre:
clubbing his rifle, he swung it round his head
with a force sufficiently formidable; but
watching an opportunity when he overstruck
himself, I sabred him above the left eye, and beat
him to the ground; when some of his followers
made a rally and carried him off.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Viva Guiseppe!" cried a well-known voice
close by me; and looking round, I beheld the
little author of all the mischief, struggling in
the grasp of a seaman; whom, by his
embroidered anchors, I recognised as boatswain
of the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span>. He was not much taller than
his antagonist, the barone, but strong and
thickset, with the chest and shoulders of an
ox; an ample sunburnt visage, surmounted by
a little glazed hat, and fringed by a circular
beard of black wiry hair below, his cheek
distended by a quid, and an enormous pig-tail
reaching below his waist-belt, made him seem
a very formidable antagonist to Guelfo; whom,
he had knocked down, and over whom he was
flourishing his heavy cutlass, squirting a little
tobacco-juice into his eyes from time to time.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Maladetto!" growled the Italian lord, "O,
povero voi, Signor Marinero!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Avast, old Gingerbread! I speak none of
your foreign lingos," replied the boatswain.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Flushed with rage and disappointment, the
barone struggled furiously with his strong
antagonist, who held him at arms' length, in
doubt whether to cleave him down or let him
go; till Zaccheo, the Greek, approached, and,
ere I could interfere, ended the matter, by
driving his couteau-de-chasse through the
heart of Guelfo, who expired without a groan.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>By daybreak, the fighting was over. A
poor little midshipman and several seamen
were killed; a hundred of our mad assailants
lay dead in the quadrangle, and as many
more round the terrace. In the villa, half its
garrison lay killed or wounded around the
windows, from which the flames and smoke
rolled forth in mighty volumes; many were
roasted or consumed before we could remove
them: poor old Gismondo with the rest.
Hanfield ordered his men to save the villa
from further destruction; but the flames had
gathered such force, that for a time every
effort seemed fruitless. Assisted by three
boats' crews from the flag-ship, they pulled
down a part of the mansion, and turned the
water of the </span><em class="italics">jets d'eau</em><span> on the rest, to prevent
the fire (which was confined to one wing) from
spreading to the main building. After an hour
of toil and danger, during which I worked
away in my shirt-sleeves until I was as black
as a charcoal-burner, the flames were
suppressed: but how changed was the aspect of
the once splendid villa!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>One portion of the building was roofless
and ruined: its lofty casements shattered, its
corbelled balconies, tall pillars, and rich
Corinthian entablatures, scorched by fire, and
blackened by smoke; the ravaged gardens
and terraces were strewn with corpses, the
halls, saloons, and corridors, encumbered with
the same ghastly objects, splashed with blood,
and filled with confusion and destruction;
pier-glasses, vases, and statues, were dashed
to pieces, hangings and pictures rent and torn.
The quiet library and elegant boudoir rang
with the cries of the wounded, or the reckless
merriment of the sailors, who caroused on the
richest wines. But Santugo looked around him
with the most perfect </span><em class="italics">sang froid</em><span>.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Twenty prisoners we had captured were sent
over to Palermo, where they expiated their
revolt in the horrible dungeons of the Damusi,—the
most frightful perhaps in the world, where
their bones are probably lying at this hour.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-nuptials"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VII.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE NUPTIALS.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>When the fight was over, the fire extinguished,
and the dead all interred, I repaired to the
grotto, where the ladies and their attendants
were shivering with terror and the cold air of
the sea, which every instant threw a shower of
sparkling spray into the damp vaults. A statue
to St. Hugh, before which three dim tapers
were always burning, gave a picturesque aspect
to the natural grotto; and a rill of limpid water,
at which the saint had quenched his thirst,
gurgled from the rocks into a rich font of white
marble. Around this little shrine the females
were clustered; and a cry burst from them
when I approached in my unseemly garb,
spotted with blood, blackened by powder, smoke,
and toil, and plastered over with clay, as if I
had been dipped in the mud-baths of Abano.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The carriage was brought; the horses of the
ladies were saddled, and they left the half
ruined villa with a strong escort, to take up a
temporary residence at the castle of Angistola,
the property of the Duke of Bagnara, near
Pizzo. After seeing the remains of the
Calabrian company embarked for Messina in our
gun-boats, I, accompanied by Santugo, followed
the ladies at full gallop; leaving the old
chasseur to act as commandant at the villa. I
despatched a mounted servant to Scylla, for
some of my baggage; a suit of uniform
especially, as my harness was quite ridiculous in
the gay </span><em class="italics">salons</em><span> of the duchess.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At Angistola, the ladies soon recovered from
their terror and fatigue: the beauty of the
scenery, where the steep Apennines sloped
down to the Gulf of St. Eufemio, covered with
dark pines or orange trees, and the
deep-wooded dell through which the river wound,
seemed gloomy, solemn, and picturesque. The
Duke of Bagnara held a military command at a
distance; but his fair duchessa, who was one of
the reigning beauties of the Sicilian Court,
received us with every honour and kindness.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A few days after our arrival we had the
castello filled with milliners from Palermo, and
the ladies were constantly clustered in deep
consultation around the duchess in her
boudoir; the visconte was joyous and gay—a fête
was evidently approaching: he was about to
espouse his cousin, with all the splendour that
wealth could yield, and the imposing pomp of
the Catholic Church impart; and (to be brief)
I found myself on the same happy footing with
my dear little Bianca, without the portentous
question having been asked. It was all quite
understood: we had made no secret of our
mutual attachment, which was revealed by every
gentle word and tender glance. Our marriage
was the earnest wish of Santugo and the
vicontessa; and as for her principal relative, the
withered little Prince of St. Agata, as the girl
was without a ducat, he cared not a straw who
became her husband.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The day before the auspicious one, old Fra
Adriano came jogging up to the castello on his
ambling mule, in the execution of his office as
family confessor, to confess us all, according to
the Italian custom, before marriage. To this I
objected, first with a joke, and then gravely;
much to the horror of the reverend friar: he
turned up his eyes, and muttering "ahi! eretico!"
went in search of Bianca, who confessed
to him—Heaven knows what! So innocent a
being could have nothing to reveal, save her
own happiness and joy.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Adriano had scarcely left me, when I saw a
sergeant, in the welcome and well-known
uniform of my own regiment, ascending the steep
avenue to the castle porch.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"What can be the matter now?" thought I;
and at such a time—the deuce! "Well, Gask,
what news from the corps, and what has brought
you here?" said I, as he entered the room and
stood straight as his half-pike, which he held
advanced. "Take a chair, man," I added, with
that kind familiarity with which an officer
ought always to greet a soldier of his own
regiment in a strange place.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Sir, I have brought a letter from Sir John
Stuart. Being on my way to join the garrison
at Scylla castle, he sent me over in a gun-boat
from Messina, that I might deliver this; which
he was anxious you should receive without
delay."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I tore open the note. It ran thus;—</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Messina, Tuesday morning</em><span>.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>"DEAR DUNDAS,—Join your garrison at
Scylla without a moment's delay: General
Sherbrooke threatens to supersede you, and
order you to join the 'Wiltshire' at Syracuse;
as he understands that you attend more to the
ladies than H.M.'s service. Massena and
Regnier are concentrating forces in Upper
Calabria; the chiefs of the Masse are
wavering; and you may expect more broken heads
by Christmas. Adieu! I start for London
to-morrow.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em">
</div>
<dl class="docutils">
<dt class="noindent"><span>"I am, &c. &c.,</span></dt>
<dd><p class="first last noindent pfirst"><span>"J. STUART, Major-General."</span></p>
</dd>
</dl>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>"So, Gask, you are bound for Scylla?" said
I, glad the note contained only a friendly hint.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, sir."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You will go with me, as it is unsafe for you
to travel alone in such a country as this. I set
out the day after to-morrow."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I am much obliged to you, sir, for your
forethought. Do we march by daybreak?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no," I answered, laughing; "that would
scarcely suit; but retire with the chamberlain,
who will order you a luncheon and tell you
news."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Though pleased with Sir John's friendly
attention, I could very well have dispensed
with the presence of my countryman, the
sergeant; who was a true blue Presbyterian from
the Howe of Fife, an ardent worshipper of Eben
Erskine, and one, consequently, who would
look with pious horror on the popish ceremonies
of the morrow: which there was no doubt
he would witness, with the household of the
castello.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Poor Gask! He was a worthy and good
soldier, for whom the whole corps had a sincere
respect. Educated for our stern Scottish kirk,
some misfortunes in early life forced him into
the ranks, where his superior attainments and
classical education made him a marvel among
the Wiltshire men, and gained him three
stripes, although it could do nothing more; the
quiet tenor of his way being the reverse of the
smart drill-corporal or bustling sergeant-major,
who looks forward to the post of adjutant. He
was the beau-ideal of a Scottish soldier, grave,
intelligent, and steady; and was seldom seen,
unless, book in hand, reading in some retired
nook, when his comrades were roystering in
the canteen or sutler's tent. Poor Gask! this
page is the only tribute to your memory.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Next day the marriages were celebrated
with great pomp, in the church of St. Eufemio,
at Nicastro: that of the visconte and Francesca
took place first, and was followed by that of
Bianca and myself. A new uniform coat was
quite spoiled by the holy water, which the
bishop sprinkled over us very liberally; and
my white "regimental breeches" were totally
ruined by the rough Mosaic of the church,
when I advanced on my knees, with a lighted
candle in one hand, to present bread and wine
to the bishop, while old Adriano waved the
stole over us, according to the usage of the
land.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah! if any of our mess could see me just
now, how the rogues would laugh!" thought I,
while scrambling along the aisle, with the hot
wax dropping on my fingers from the confounded
taper, which I did not hold so gracefully
as Bianca held hers. Grand as the
ceremony was, I disliked so much of it, and dreaded
to encounter the cold smile and smirking face
of Sergeant Gask; who stood, upright as a pike,
among the kneeling domestics.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>We were glad when the bishop concluded
the ritual, the fundamental part of which was
simple enough; but I could very well have
dispensed with all that Italian superstition had
added to it: yet I behaved with such decorum,
that the bishop believed me as stanch a
Catholic as ever kissed cross, and fain would
gentle Bianca have thought me so too. The
moment we left the altar a bright circle of
young ladies clustered round her, covering her
with kisses, while the people shouted, "O
giorno felice! Viva il capitano! Viva la
capitanessa!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>All blessed her, and muttered, "Bell'
Idolo!" as she passed forth: indeed, she
appeared as enchanting as beauty of the
most delicate caste, the richest attire, and most
splendid diamonds could make her; and if
always lovely, even in the plainest garb,
imagine how she must have shone in her
magnificent bridal dress, when her eyes
beamed with delight and her soft cheek
turned alternately deep red and deadly pale,
as the blood came and went with the varying
thoughts that agitated her—awe and modesty,
love and exultation!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Giorno felice, indeed!" thought I; and
springing into the carriage beside her, we
drove off for the castello, as fast as four
galloping horses could take us. The sonorous
organ, the chanting priests, the ringing bells,
the shouts and discharge of fire-arms, died
away behind us; and accompanied by a gay
cavalcade of the fairest and noblest in the
province, our marriage train swept through
the solitary vale of the Angistola at full speed,
towards the castle: where a lordly fête awaited
us, and from the tall windows of its hall a
blaze of light was shed on the darkening
scenery and winding river as we rode up the
gloomy avenue.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-tempest-the-last-of-the-hunchback"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VIII.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE TEMPEST—THE LAST OF THE HUNCHBACK.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Leaving Santugo and his bride with the
duchess, we set out next day for Scylla; our
calesso having an escort, without which, it
was impossible to travel in such a country.
Gask occupied the rumble beside Annina,
while a chasseur with ten sbirri sent by
the duchess, rode five in front and five in
the rear; their leader riding some hundred
yards in advance. All these men wore the
duke's livery; they were well mounted, and
armed with carbines, sabres, and pistols. The
calesso was furnished with a loop-hole,
opening under the rumble, through which I could
blaze away with my pistols, in case of having
to retreat skirmishing.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The scenery was now beginning to assume the
brown warm tints of autumn; but the savage
mountain gorges, the deep woods, the winding
shore and beetling cliffs, through which the
road lay, were not less beautiful than when I
passed them before, with poor Castelermo.
The ramparts of Monteleone, the bosky forest
of Burello, the silver windings of Metramo,
the famous vineyards of Rossarno and Gioja
were all passed rapidly; and plunging down
into the wilderness, between the Apennines
and the sea, we had accomplished half our
journey, when a tremendous storm overtook us.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Our hearts were so full of happiness, and
each was so much absorbed in the presence of
the other, that we marked not the flight of
time; and though our carriage rolled on
through the most beautiful scenery of that
wild province, we bestowed scarce a glance or a
thought upon it. Yet we conversed very
little; for an overwhelming sense of happiness
had quite subdued Bianca's vivacity.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I deemed myself the luckiest member of our
Calabrian army. Hundreds had come only
to find a tomb on the plains of Maida, before
the ramparts of Crotona, or in the trenches
of Scylla. A few had gained a step of
promotion and a little honour; the general a
great deal—the title of count, and from the
city of London a substantial dinner at the
Mansion-house, with the present of a splendid
sword: but I had gained Bianca d'Alfieri,
who had last season turned half the heads in
Palermo. "Bravo Claude!" thought I; "it
is quite a regimental triumph, and deserves
to be borne on our colours. At Syracuse, the
mess will drink deep when they hear of it!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The darkening of the sky, across the azure
surface of which dense columns of cloud were
moving in rapid succession, and the exhalation
of a chilly vapour and malaria from the
stagnant pools of a dismal swamp in which we
suddenly became entangled, all foreboded a
coming storm. The sea, when seen at intervals
between the opening hills, was black as
ink, and fleckered with masses of foam.
Vessels were making all snug aloft and getting
close under the lee of the shore to avoid the
threatened tempest, which was soon to sweep
over the bosom of the trackless ocean. The
rumbling of the carriage, and the hoofs of
our galloping escort sounded deep and hollow
between the echoing hills.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor," said their decurione or chasseur,
riding up to the window which I had let
down for the admission of air, "in three
minutes we shall have a tremendous storm:
perhaps la capitanessa would wish to seek
a place of safety."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"But where?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Madonna only knows, excellency. The
earth shakes, the air is thick. I am an old
man, and remember with dread when last I
saw such signs. Fly to the shore—the sea
may ingulph you; to the hills—they may fall
down and overwhelm you; to the plains—and
the solid earth may yawn beneath your feet."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Pleasant!" I said, considerably startled;
"what do you advise? to seek Seminara?
The spire of the Greek cathedral rises yonder
above the pine woods and vapour of the marshes."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"No, signor, we are safer on the mountains
or in the marshes: here let us remain and
trust to Madonna for protection."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"In God alone is all my trust!" said the
Scottish sergeant, whose knowledge of Latin
enabled him to understand the sbirro; "but
as for your Madonna——" he snapped his
fingers without concluding.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The blackness was increasing fast, and we
sought the shelter offered by a thick pine
wood to escape the pelting rain; which rushed
down in a torrent, every drop larger than
a pistol bullet. As it would have been
unsoldier-like to remain in the calesso while
our escort were exposed to the storm, I passed
the time under the trees rolled up in my
military cloak, after securing the carriage
doors to protect Bianca and her attendant;
who drew their veils close to shut out the
flashes of vivid lightning which every instant
illumined the darkest dingles of the forest.
A terrible noise, such as I had never heard
before, rumbled in the earth and air. I looked
to the sbirro; he was crossing himself and
muttering an ave, while a sour presbyterian
smile curled the lips of Gask, who leaned on
his pike beside him. The chasseur, or
decurione, ordered the horses to be unharnessed
from the carriage; and I had soon reason to
thank him sincerely for his forethought.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>We saw the flames of distant Etna casting
a light across the western sky; but in every
other direction the heavens were involved in
gloom or dark grey twilight. The whole
atmosphere, however, soon began to assume an
aspect so fiery, that over Seminara the dense
clouds seemed as if rolling in flames; and we
beheld the tall </span><em class="italics">façade</em><span> of the Greek abbey, the
dark mountains and the arches of a ruined
aqueduct between them, standing in bold
outline and strong relief on the red and
luminous background. The scene was wild
and magnificent; but the drenching rain, and
the roaring wind, which shook the strongest
pines like ostrich feathers, and almost blew
us away with the branches, leaves, and stones
which it swept over the waste, the sulphureous
state of the atmosphere, and the ground
trembling beneath our feet, made us feel,
altogether, too uncomfortable to enjoy the
splendid aspect of the heavens and earth agitated
by such a storm.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>It was truly Calabrian! Our horses snorted
and pranced, their manes bristled, their
prominent eyes shot fire; and it required all our
efforts to calm them, and keep them from
breaking the bridle-reins which we had
buckled to trees. Suddenly a most appalling
clap of thunder burst over our heads, like
the broadside of a fleet. A lofty and
precipitous cliff of volcanic rock, which reared up
its rugged front not far from us, heaved and
reeled like some mighty animal convulsed with
agony: shaken to the base by some tremendous
subterranean throe, it rocked visibly, and
the foliage on its summit was tossed like
raven plumage on a hearse by the motion.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Anon a cry of dismay burst from the sbirri.
An enormous mass became detached from the
highest peak; rolling from its perpendicular
front and rebounding from cliff to cliff it
came thundering into the plain below, bringing
with it a mighty ruin of shattered stones,
dust, trees and soil, which fell like the
fragments of a mountain, and with a force that
shook the ground we stood on. The crash
was deafening; a storm of leaves, small
stones, and dust flew past us, and for a
minute the air was fearfully dense, gloomy,
and palpable. I reeled, and clung to the
carriage-wheels for support; Bianca swooned;
Gask was praying devoutly with his grenadier
cap off, and the sbirri muttered their aves
aloud: above us the thunder rolled on from
peak to peak, and the lightning shot between
them, while the air grew darker and more
sulphureous.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Terrified by the shaken rock and the bursting
thunderbolts, our fiery horses became mad:
they foamed, snorted, plunged, and kicked
fire from the stones; the four that were
unharnessed from the calesso broke loose and
fled, at full speed, towards Seminara, pursued
by the decurione and his sbirri, who were
eager to save them: they were noble bays, and
favourites of the duchess. Thus the sergeant
and I were left alone standing by the calesso.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ghieu, ho! ho!" cried a croaking voice
in the thicket; I heard a chuckling laugh,
and a figure rolled up like a ball, making a
summerset over the rocks and stones, lighted
close by my feet. "Buon giorno, signor
capitano! he, he! ho, ho! fine evening, eh?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Like a gigantic toad, Gaspare Truffi stood
before me, with his long matted hair waving
over his frightful visage; his torn cassock
revealing a leathern baldrick furnished with
pistols, poniard, and horn. Like the very
demon of the storm, he whooped and yelled.
A broad-leaved hat of the largest size
overshadowing his figure like an umbrella, gave
a peculiarly droll effect to his aspect.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A delightful evening!" he croaked; "how
does our Calabrian weather agree with your
stomach, Signor Inglese? Ill, I think, to
judge from that lugubrious visage of thine.
Ola, Lancelloti! come hither and behold the
good padre confessor who came so devoutly
to worm a story out of you in the bishop's
vaults: he, he! ho, ho! Feel you how the
ground shakes?" he added, stamping his
shapeless feet on the quaking turf; "feel you
how earth and air tremble? Ammirando! there
is a rebellion in hell, for our good friend
the devil is gone to the witch-tree at
Benevento to-night: ha, ha!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Beard of Mahomet!" cried a distant voice,
"where are you, cursed crookback?" and at
that moment I saw my friend of the vaults
advancing towards us, clad in the usual
brigand costume, with malice in his eye and a
cocked rifle in his hand. Other figures, like
dim ghosts appeared through the dark misty
vapour that floated round us, and I knew that
we had fallen in with a party of banditti.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Come on, comrades," cried Truffi; "here
is a calesso containing, I doubt not, the Signora
Bianca, whom we all know of. Viva! a prize
worth a thousand scudi!" He advanced to the
door of the carriage, but with the butt of his
pike Gask dealt him a blow which levelled
him on the turf. Uttering a yell he rushed
like a lion upon his assailant; who, not
expecting so vigorous an onset from a figure so
decrepit, was taken completely by surprise and
deprived of his weapon, which Truffi snapped
like a reed; rending the tough ash pole to
threads with his sharp teeth and long bony
fingers.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>He drew his stiletto; and I, narrowly escaping
a rifle-shot from Lancelloti, closed with
the hideous dwarf, whose insulting demeanor
had roused both my hatred and anxiety.
Though once before, in a personal struggle
I had obtained convincing proof of his
wondrous strength, I disdained to use my sabre
against him; but striking the poniard from
his hand, endeavoured to hurl him to the
earth by grasping his leather girdle. In
vain! his short bandy legs upheld his shapeless
body, like pillars of steel, while his strong
and ample hands grasped me like grappling
irons.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Lancelloti advanced with his clubbed rifle;
but Gask assailed him with his sword, and I
was left to deal with Truffi alone. I heard the
cries of Bianca during the lulls of the storm,
and my anxiety was great: the sbirri had all
disappeared, the misty figures were rapidly
increasing in form and number, and shouts
rang through the echoing wood. At this most
critical moment, when engaged in a desperate
struggle, the earth shook under our feet and a
sensation like an electric shock shot over every
nerve. We paused and glared fiercely at
each other.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Again, there was a rumbling in the lurid air
above, and the quivering earth beneath: yet
we relaxed not our vice-like grasp. What a
moment it was! The shaking rocks, the
waving trees and the whole country around us
were torn by one of those mighty convulsions
so common to the Calabrias.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Never shall I forget my sensations when,
within a yard of where we struggled, the earth
gaped and rent; showing an awful chasm
about twenty feet wide: my heart forgot to
beat; my blood curdled! From the gap there
arose a thin sulphury light, illuminating the
trees above and the distant dingles of the wood,
shining on the wet trunks and glistening
leaves; showers of sparks and columns of
smoke arose from it, with balls of ignited
matter, which hissed in succession as they rose and
fell, or exploded among the wet foliage of the
forest. Beautiful was its aspect when
illuminated by the mysterious yellow glare of
that smoky chasm; and I saw the distorted
form of Truffi, in strong outline between it
and me. I felt his grasp tightening: we were
near the gulf, and I read his hellish purpose
in the twinkling of his red hollow eyes.
Gathering all my strength for one tremendous
effort, great beyond my hopes, I flung him
from me into the flaming chasm: but the shock
threw me prostrate on the turf. I leaped up:
Truffi had vanished in that appalling grave,
which was now closing rapidly, and soon shut
altogether; the sparks and ignited matter
arose no more, and the wood became involved
in double gloom.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Dismayed at the horrible living tomb which
had so suddenly engulphed the hunchback,
Lancelloti shrank back; and I leaned against
the carriage overcome with my own emotions.
The wind was dying away: the heavy pine
branches hung down motionless. One voice
alone broke the stillness; it was that of the
Scottish serjeant who prayed devoutly. Though
as brave a fellow as ever drew sword, he was
terrified at that moment.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>We soon heard the galloping of hoofs, and
the decurione, with the ten sbirri, came back;
upon which Lancelloti and his company
disappeared and we saw them no more that
night.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The carriage horses?" I inquired.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, signor! they have all rushed over the
cliffs of Palmi and perished in the sea!"
replied the breathless sbirro.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Bianca," I exclaimed, "O God, what a
fate you have escaped! Signor decurione,
never can I sufficiently reward you for desiring
the horses to be unharnessed so soon!" I
shook the hand of the sbirro, while my heart
sank at the contemplation of what might have
happened.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>It was long ere Bianca recovered from the
horrors of that night; which, indeed, were such
as might have shaken a stouter heart than that
of the gentle Italian girl.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>We reached Seminara with great difficulty,
dragging the calesso by the saddle horses; but
on obtaining mules at the Greek abbey, we
again set out for Scylla, </span><em class="italics">viâ</em><span> Bagnara: where
soon afterwards I had a sharp encounter with
the voltigeurs of the 23d regiment (French).</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="a-military-honeymoon"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IX.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A MILITARY HONEYMOON.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>On the day after assuming my command at
Scylla, I ordered out the little garrison in heavy
marching order, and found it to consist of picked
young fellows of my own regiment, 250 file,
with five officers. This small party, with the
garrisons at Reggio and Crotona, Amanthea
and Monteleone, formed the whole force left in
Calabria, with orders to defend their several
posts to the last extremity. The last four
places were held by Italians alone.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I found that every means had been taken to
render the famous rock, and the stronghold of
the race of Ruffo, yet more impregnable. In
place of the princely cardinal's banner, our
gaudy union spread its scarlet folds to the wind,
the mighty breach—to me the scene of an
adventure never, never to be forgotten—was
now closed up, and a strong stone bastion,
surmounted by six iron twenty-four-pounders,
frowned grimly in its stead.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>We were often visited by Santugo and his
bride: he belonged to the Reggio garrison,
which was commanded by the Prince of St. Agata.
My brother officers were all agreeable
men, and the time passed very pleasantly.
Bianca's residence shed quite a halo over the
formal barrack and rugged castello, which was
enlivened by a continual round of fair visitors
from Fiumara, Reggio, and the neighbouring
villas. Those gay subs who had looked forward
with repugnance to detachment duty in the
gloomy castle of Cardinal Ruffo, became
delighted with the station and the gaiety of the
entertainments. The towers rang perpetually
with the dulcet voices of Italian girls, the
twangling of mandolins, or the notes of the
piano. Every evening, the hall—where the
ambitious cardinal had formed his deep laid
schemes of political intrigue, where his mailed
ancestors had drunk "the red wine through the
helmet barred," and where the Norman knight
and Saracen emir had met hand-to-hand in
deadly strife—was the scene of a waltz or
quadrille party; or rang to the mad and merry
tarantella, the modern remnant of the ancient
bacchanalian dance. Never since the days of
Faunus, Saturn's fabled son, Ausonia's oldest
king, had the rock of Scylla witnessed such a
continuance of festivity.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Amid this joyous career, we had all a narrow
escape from malice and treason.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>One evening Gask appeared with a very long
face, and informed me that the castle well had
been poisoned, for the purpose of destroying us
all. Twenty men lay sick in hospital, and a cry
of rage went through the whole castle.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Poisoned—O, lord!" cried Gascoigne,
who was with me at the time, and snatching up
a decanter of brandy, he nearly drained it at
one gulp. Gask had seen a man in the garb
of the Campagnia di Morti prowling about the
margin of the well, whom we had no doubt was
the perpetrator of the villany. While I was
making inquiries and despatching parties in
pursuit of him, Oliver Lascelles entered my
room with a drawing in his hand.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Oliver was an artist, and a complete enthusiast
in Italian scenery, and still more so in
Italian women; every moment stolen from
duty was devoted to the pencil, and many of his
warmly tinted sketches, done in a masterly
manner, are at this moment in my portfolio. I
have often admired his coolness, when, under a
heavy fire, he has seated himself to sketch the
enemy's position, a striking ruin, a fallen
column, or piece of ancient sculpture, from
which his sword had scraped the moss.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Behold a portrait of our friend of the Campagna
di Morti," said he, displaying his drawing.
"I saw the rogue seated by the fountain, and
admiring his picturesque costume, and his
striking countenance, with well-knit brows, the
eyes deep set in the head, and having that
determined scowl which is esteemed so classic, I
gave the fellow a ducat to sit; so here you have
his features fairly done in crayon."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The scoundrel! they are those of Navarro,
the Italian engineer, who deserted to the French
after assassinating the Maltese knight in
mistake for me. He is no doubt employed by
Massena as a spy upon us. By Heaven, Lascelles,
if I had the rascal here I think I could
pistol him this instant!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"That would make a spirited sketch too:
but he cannot be far off, and Gask with his
party will probably capture him."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I resolved to hold a drumhead court-martial
on him the moment he fell into our hands, and
promised twenty guineas to his capturer. But
we saw him no more: for a time at least; and, to
prevent such attempts in future, I placed a
sentinel at the fountain, which after a time became
purified. Macnesia's skill saved the twenty
soldiers, who were brought almost to the brink
of the grave: they had all narrowly escaped
death; as a quantity of acquetta was found in
the water when Macnesia analyzed it.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>To expatiate on the happiness I enjoyed at
Scylla would be too common-place; and I have
a great press of other matter to relate.
Rumours of Massena's advance from Cassano,
and the retreat and dispersion of the chiefs of
the Masse, spread dismay through all the Lower
Province, and roused us from our short dream of
pleasure. All families of rank again returned
to Palermo; but a few spirited cavaliers retired
to the savage fastnesses of the hills, where the
brave Paesani and wild banditti made common
cause against the invader. The arrival of a
detachment of the Royal Artillery, brought
from Messina by the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span>, and a despatch
from Major-General Sherbrooke, directing me
to "defend Scylla while one stone stood upon
another," caused me to make the most strenuous
preparations for a vigorous resistance; being
anxious to render myself worthy of the
important trust reposed in me—the defence of
the key of the Italian Peninsula.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The presence of Bianca was the only damper
to my ardour; for I anticipated with dread the
dangers to which she would be exposed when
the coming strife closed around us: but to my
earnest entreaties that she would join her aunt
and the young viscontessa, who had retired to
Carolina's court at Palermo, she answered only
by her tears and entreaties that I would not
send her away, but permit her to share all the
perils to which I might be exposed. Poor
girl! little knew she of war and the manifold horrors
of a protracted siege, or a fortress carried by
assault: but to resist her charming entreaties
was impossible; and my anxiety increased as
the distance between us and the enemy lessened.
How marriage spoils the </span><em class="italics">esprit du corps</em><span>! Every
officer and private of the 62nd looked forward
with ardour and hope; and I felt the old reckless
spirit rising, notwithstanding the fears that
oppressed me.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The daily arrival of couriers from the Masse,
and from the armed cavalieri on the mountains,
the telegraphing of despatches to and fro with
Messina, the hourly training of soldiers at the
batteries, the visiting of guards, which were
doubled at night, and all the eternal hubbub
created by the near approach of the foe, kept
me fully occupied; and never, even when
tenanted by the martial cardinal, had Scylla
witnessed such military bustle and excitement.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Advices soon reached us that General
Regnier had invested the castle of Crotona; which,
after a bold defence by the Free Calabri, had
been compelled to capitulate when the heavy
battering train of the French opened on its
decayed fortifications. All Naples was
exasperated by the intelligence that the gallant
Cavaliere del Castagno had been hanged as a
traitor by orders of Regnier; whose forces,
eager to revenge the triumph of Maida, marched
rapidly by the shores of the Adriatic: they
crossed the mountains at Francavilla, fighting
every inch of the way with the Masse and the
bold comrades of Francatripa, Fra Diavolo,
Benincasa, and Mamone, and reached Monteleone,
which the Italians abandoned; and once
more the tricolor of the Buonapartists was
triumphantly hoisted on its ramparts.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="wreck-of-the-delight"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER X.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">WRECK OF THE </span><em class="bold italics medium">DELIGHT</em><span class="bold medium">.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Towards the end of December, the French
had pushed forward as far as Seminara; and,
by the concentration of troops and a train of
heavy ordnance at that place, I had no doubt
that preparations were making to besiege the
castle of Scylla. Every exertion was made by
the loyalists to prevent the carriage of
cannon into that corner of Calabria: working
parties of soldiers and armed peasants were
continually employed in trenching and
barricading the roads, and rendering the passes of
the Solano impracticable; thus making every
approach down from the hills of Milia as
difficult as possible.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Along these heights and passes, I stationed
strong bodies of armed Calabrese, entrusting
the defence of the Solano to the Cavaliere di
Casteluccio; who, since his escape, had
distinguished himself on a thousand occasions:
so miraculous were his adventures, that the
superstitious provincials believed he had been
rendered bullet-proof by the witches of Amato.
But so overwhelming was the force of Regnier,
that all attempts to bar the passage of his train
proved, ultimately, unavailing.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>On the last day of that eventful year, the
glitter of arms and the pale white smoke of
musketry were seen spreading over the Milia
Hills; between the peaks of which the morning
sun poured down his strong and ruddy light on
the scene of contest. The drums beat, and we
got under arms. Our Calabrian out-picquets
and fatigue-parties were driven down from the
mountains by three battalions of French
infantry, led by General Milette, and were
pursued by four squadrons of hussars until close
under cover of our twenty-four-pounders.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Regnier was now in complete possession of
those important heights; and his working
parties were daily and nightly employed in
repairing or forming roads for the conveyance
of their battering train from Seminara. Their
operations were retarded and rendered perilous
by the incessant attacks of the followers of
Casteluccio and Francatripa; but a damper
was given to our zeal by the surrender of a
numerous garrison at Reggio, where an Italian
force, under the Prince of St. Agata, capitulated
after a brief resistance. The castle of
St. Amanthea, a property of the Prince di Bisignano,
was captured by assault, after a desperate
defence by the gay Captain Piozzi: he was
slain by a cannon-ball, and thus the fair and
fickle Despina was once more left a widow.
On—on pressed the foe. The banner of
Ferdinand IV. had sunk from every rampart in
Calabria, save the solitary stronghold of Scylla.
We found ourselves alone, and could hope for
little from resistance; as all the forces of
Massena were pouring southward, with orders to
capture it at every risk of life and expense of
blood.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Every night the sky was streaked with fire,
showing where Favazina, Fiumara, San Batello,
and many a hamlet were given to the flames,
after being ravaged by the foragers of the
enemy; and every breeze bore past us the cries
of slaughtered men and the shrieks of miserable
women.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The fall of Reggio was first announced to us
by seeing Santugo's battalion of the Calabri
retreating upon Scylla in solid square, pursued
by cavalry, and galled by three curricle guns;
which followed them at a gallop and were
discharged from every eminence that afforded
an opportunity of sending a shot into the
retiring column: on its arrival, it occupied the
half-ruined town below us.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Shortly afterwards, four Sicilian gun-boats,
each carrying a twenty-four pounder in its bow,
were captured by the enemy close by Scylla;
and these cannon were landed and added to
the train against the fortress. The moment it
was known they had fallen into Regnier's
hands, the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span> sloop-of-war, commanded
by Captain Hanfield, stood close in shore
to recapture them; and we watched her
operations, from the ramparts, with the greatest
interest.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Although the last day of December, it was a
beautiful evening, and the golden Straits were
gleaming in the light of the setting sun, then
verging, through a sky of the purest azure,
towards the green and lofty mountains which
rise behind the spires and towers of Messina.
The French beached the gun-boats in succession;
and, covered by field-pieces and surrounded
by squadrons of cavalry, we feared the
sailors of the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span> would never cut them
out or destroy them. Protected by the ship's
broadside, three well-armed boats put off from
her, and pulled shoreward, with the gallant
intention of spiking the gun-boats' artillery at
all risks.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Fire flashed incessantly from the red portholes
of the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span>; and the white smoke of
her cannon, rising through her taut rigging in
fantastic curls, rolled away over the still bosom
of the glassy Straits. The shot of the French
field-pieces fell in a shower round her advancing
boats; and wherever a ball plunged into
the bright ocean, a pillar of liquid, like a
water-spout, reared into the air with a hollow roar:
a dozen of those crystal columns shot up
their foamy heads at every moment, as the
sailors pulled steadily towards the beach. In
the headmost boat waved a large union-jack;
and beside it, in the stern-sheets, sat Hanfield,
waving his sword and cheering on his men.
Close in his wake came the other boats,
crowded with red and blue jackets, and glittering
with boarding-pikes, bayonets, and cutlasses;
while the glistening blades of the feathered oars
flashed like silver in the sunlight, as they rose
and fell in measured time, shooting the swift
boats onward.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Crowding on the ramparts, the 62nd cheered,
and threw their caps into the air; a response
arose from the deck of the distant sloop,
when lo! a most unlooked-for misfortune took
place. Scylla, that place of horror and mystery
to the ancient mariner, and before whose
"yawning dungeon" Æneas and Ulysses
quailed with terror, was still fraught with
danger. Under a press of canvass, the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span>
sailed obliquely, to keep company with her
boats: there was a stiff breeze blowing straight
from Sicily, and she stood close along shore,
with every inch of her snowy canvass filled,
when we beheld her shaken by a tremendous
shock: her stately masts shook like willow
wands, her long pendant fluttered, her broad
sails shivered in the breeze, and she careened
suddenly over. An exclamation burst from
every lip.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ashore!" cried the soldiers, with sorrow
and dismay, as her tall fore-topmast fell
overboard; the main and the mizen followed it
with a hideous crash: the beautiful vessel,
which a moment before had been sailing so
smoothly and swan-like, so trimly and saucily,
lay a dismasted wreck, bulged on a sunken
rock within a few furlongs of the beach, with
her lee guns buried in the water, and all her
seamen and marines who were not floundering
in the wreck around her, clinging to her
windward bulwarks.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A triumphant </span><em class="italics">vivat!</em><span> burst from the enemy,
who plied their field-pieces with redoubled
ardour; and a cry, loud, fierce and hoarse,
answered from the English boats. The oarsmen
paused, and the utmost confusion took place:
there seemed a doubt whether to advance to
the attack, or return to the assistance of their
drowning messmates. Exasperated by the
wreck of his dashing vessel, and filled with a
desire for vengeance, the gallant Hanfield (an
officer of great professional knowledge, and
high individual worth) ordered the boats to
advance: but his efforts were fruitless. His
craft were soon crippled by the French
cannon-shot and grape, which killed or wounded
the majority of his force before it came near
the Sicilian prizes. Hanfield, with many
of his sailors, was killed, and Captain
Seccombe, of the </span><em class="italics">Glatton</em><span> frigate, who happened to
be on board the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span>, received a severe
wound, of which he died a few days after.
The boats' crews were all captured; and those
men on the wreck went off in two remaining
boats to save themselves from the same fate.
To prevent Regnier from using the cannon
remaining in the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span>, in prosecution of
the siege, the moment it was dark enough
I left the sea-staircase, in a boat, with ten
soldiers, and setting fire to the vessel, burned
her to the water's edge: so ended this catastrophe,
which shed a gloom over us all for
some time.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-voltigeurs-the-massacre-of-bagnara"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XI.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE VOLTIGEURS.—THE MASSACRE OF BAGNARA.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Il Cavaliere di Casteluccio, some of whose
followers still hovered about the Solano, having
sent me accurate information of the position
and arrangement of Regnier's outpost at
Bagnara—the point nearest to us in his possession,
and held by the voltigeurs of the 23rd (French)
Light Infantry—I concerted a plan to form a
junction with the Cavaliere's Free Company,
and cut off that detachment; as the castle had
been quite blocked up on every side since
Regnier had pushed his advanced parties as
far south as Bagnara and Favazina.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>On a misty night in the month of February,
an hour after tattoo-beat, I marched out one
hundred rank and file (more indeed than could
be spared from my small garrison), and was
joined by three times that number of the Free
Calabri, led by Santugo. Guided by the
distant watchfires of General Milette's picquets,
which formed a fiery chain along the Milia
heights, we moved by the most unfrequented
paths and gorges: the last were numerous
enough, as the whole country bore traces of
that terrible convulsion of nature, which
twenty-four years before engulphed Bagnara
and three thousand of its inhabitants. Hideous
scaurs and chasms rent in the sandstone rocks
and salt-hills, together with the banks of vapour
exhaled from the marshes, completely screened
our movements from the enemy; scattered
parties of whom watched the operations of the
banditti and the Masse (a force now rapidly
melting away), who were apt at all times to
beat up their quarters. The system of perpetual
harassing was vigorously maintained, to prevent
the formation of roads for the conveyance of
their battering train towards the scene of the
intended siege.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>After a time, the night became so dark that
the visconte was doubtful which was the way;
as the dense vapour rolling down from the
mountains cast a double gloom over everything.
Opening the door of a wretched hut, I found
an old crone, who dealt in spells and love
potions, spreading her shrivelled hands over the
expiring embers of a few dried sticks.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Beware, excellency, the hag is a sorceress!"
said Giacomo, as I entered.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signora," said I, unheeding his caution,
"we are in want of a guide to the olive wood
of Bagnara: can you procure us one for the
service of Ferdinand and la Santa Fede?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I glanced at her son, or grandson, a boy
about fifteen, a model of that bloom and
symmetry so common in the youth of Spain and
Italy; he was almost naked, or clad only in
skins. "Go thou, Pablo," said the crone.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ahi! madre," said he, shrinking back, "like
my father, I may be shot by the French."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Via—away!" she replied, sternly. The
strict filial obedience exacted by the ancients
yet existed in these remote provinces; so
taking his knife and pole, the youth at once
prepared to accompany us.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Guided by him, we reached the neighbourhood
of Bagnara about midnight, and halted
in an olive wood, situated on an eminence
above the town: it was then reduced to a few
cottages, occupied by the voltigeurs; who had
taken all the usual means to render their post as
strong as possible, by loop-holing the walls to
enfilade the approaches, and barricading the
ends of the little street with trees, furniture,
brushwood, and banks of earth.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Chi è là?" cried a sonorous voice from the
wood as we entered it.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Italia</em><span>," answered the first file of our
advanced guard, and the Cavaliere di Casteluccio
rode up at the head of his company of volunteers;
all bold athletic fellows, armed with rifles
and poniards, and carrying their ammunition in
leather pouches or large buffalo horns.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Below us, in Bagnara, all was still; the poor
doomed soldiers slept soundly: not a light
twinkled, not a sound broke the silence, save
the rustle of the leafless trees, or the dash of
the lonely sea as it rolled on the shingly beach.
At times a red light shot across the sky to
the westward; it rose from the peak of Stromboli
in the distant isles of Æolus. We held a
council in the olive grove before advancing.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor Casteluccio, be so good," said I,
"as to describe the enemy's post."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The voltigeurs are 600 strong, and
commanded by a Colonel Pepe——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Any relation of Don Pepe?" asked the
visconte, laughing.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A tall lanthorn-jawed fellow, with a scar
over the left eye," said the cavaliere.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The same," said I: "we have met before."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"He occupies the house of the podesta, a
stone building, well loop-holed and barricaded;
the approach to it is defended by three
twelve-pounders, which sweep the principal street, and
are always loaded with round and tin-case shot.
A hundred voltigeurs garrison the house; the
others are quartered in those adjoining; and
the defensive arrangements are such, that they
can all act in concert, and, like a star-fort, the
post gives a cross fire at every angle."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The safest approach?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Is from the seaward. There a deep rut
leads directly from the shore to the town;
thick foliage overhangs it, under which we
can advance unseen. A single sentinel guards
the point—the night is dark—you comprehend
me?" added the cavaliere, smiling grimly, as
he touched one of those villainous stilettos,
which his countrymen were never without.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ay, Signor Paolo," I replied; "once in
we will do very well; but as the voltigeurs
sleep with their muskets loaded and their
belts on, they will start to arms the moment
the sentinel fires his piece."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"But he must be disposed of," said Santugo,
coolly. "Giacomo!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>His fac-totum appeared immediately.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A French sentinel occupies the ravine
through which we must advance undiscovered.
He must not fire: you will see to this as you
value life."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Giacomo bowed intelligently, and was withdrawing,
when the voice of Gascoigne arrested
him.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You murdering: villain, come here! what
the devil—will you permit this piece of
rascality, Dundas?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Assuredly not!" said I, dismounting from
Cartouche.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I am an English officer, and not an
assassin!" said Lascelles, in great wrath.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You have both only anticipated me," I
replied. "Santugo, we cannot permit the
poor soldier to be slain in a manner so
dastardly. No! I would rather advance under
the hottest fire of musketry, than consent to
it: my own soldiers at least will follow me." A
murmur of assent rose from the 62nd.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Cospetto!" exclaimed Santugo, impatiently;
"and to save the life of this paltry
voltigeur, who will perhaps be shot afterwards,
you may sacrifice all our lives and the
success of the expedition?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I understand the scruples of our friends,"
replied Casteluccio; "and will undertake that
in ten minutes Signor Dundas will have the
voltigeur beside him, safe and sound: unless,
indeed, he makes a great resistance; in which
case I cannot assure you of my being very
patient."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>In three columns we moved to the attack.
Santugo with his corps marched on one flank
of the post; the cavaliere, with his Free
Company, on the other; with my hundred men, I
chose the central point of assault by the gorge;
and the report of the first volley was to be the
signal for the onset. Luckily for us, a thick
white vapour, rolling from the sea, enveloped
all Bagnara, veiling our movements
completely: the enemy had not the remotest
suspicion of our vicinity. My soldiers were in
light marching order, with sixty rounds of
ammunition; we went down the hill double
quick, and entered the gorge softly in sections
of threes. Casteluccio accompanied us to
seize the sentinel; but I had little reliance to
place on the successful fulfilment of his promise.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The sentinel once captured, we will rush
upon them like a herd of wolves; and the
massacre of Bagnara shall live in Calabrian
story, like the Sicilian vespers of old!" said
the cavaliere, in a low, hoarse tone. His eyes
sparkled; he drew his poniard, and stole from
my side towards the unsuspecting voltigeur,
whom we discerned about fifty yards from
where my party halted. Under the shade of
a foliaged cliff he stood motionless, with his
musket ordered, and his eyes bent on the
ground. His voice alone broke the intense
stillness of his post, and had he been less
occupied with his own thoughts, he must
undoubtedly have seen us; but the mind of the
poor Swiss conscript was perhaps far away,
where his mother's vine-clad chalet looked
down on the vales and cataracts of his native
canton: sadly and slowly he hummed the
pastoral "</span><em class="italics">Ranz des vetches</em><span>," and saw not the
foe who, crouching like a lynx, with one hand
on his lip and the other on his weapon, stole
softly towards him. I waited the issue with
anxiety.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Silenzio!" exclaimed the strong cavalier,
in a fierce whisper, as he grasped the sentry
by the throat. The poor Swiss boy (for he
was but a boy after all) understood not the
word; but the sudden stifling grasp, and the
sight of the glittering bastia poniard, almost
deprived him of his faculties: taken
completely by surprise, he dropped his musket,
and was dragged among us a prisoner.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor, I have redeemed my promise,"
said the breathless Paolo. "May this be an
omen of what is to follow!" He sprang up the
rugged face of the gorge to rejoin his party,
while mine moved forward double quick.
Leading the way, sabre in hand, I scrambled
over a bank of earth; a strong wicket in which
led to the guard-house. We were provided
with sledge-hammers; and the noise of breaking
it down brought out the guard: they fired,
and two soldiers fell dead beside me; we
answered by a volley, and the whole cantonment
was alarmed in a moment. With the
charged bayonet and clubbed musket we
rushed upon the guard, which we overwhelmed
and captured in a moment.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Lascelles, take twenty men, and beat down
the Seminara gate: Santugo will enter that
way. Off, double quick!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The surprise was so complete, that the
resistance we encountered on every hand was
faint: the guards were overpowered, the
avenues beaten open, and the fierce followers
of the visconte and Cavaliere Paolo spread
like a pack of famished hounds over the little
town; slaying all they met, without mercy or
remorse.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The party occupying the podesteria gave us
more trouble than we had expected. I saw
Colonel Pepe, in his shirt and trousers, rush
from the door to the three field-pieces, which
he discharged in rapid succession; and their
canister shot did terrible execution among the
dense column of Calabrians rushing up the
street. Ere he regained the door, a shot from
a rifle arrested him; he tossed his arms wildly
above his head, and then fell backwards a
corpse. The entrance was closed and barricaded;
and a close and destructive fire was
opened from every window, and those countless
loop-holes with which the walls had been
hastily perforated: flashes, smoke, and half
naked men were seen at every aperture; and
the gleams of the musketry illuminated the
whole place.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Aware that not a moment was to be lost, as
the cavalry at Seminara or the picquets of
Milette would be all under arms at the sound
of the first shot, I resolved that a vigorous
attempt should be made to storm the podesta's
house; which, from its size and strength, had
become the principal keep or stronghold of
the enemy. Desiring Gascoigne, with a
suitable party, to collect as many prisoners as
possible, I led forward my own immediate
command. Our approach was completely
enfiladed by the adjoining houses, from which
the French poured forth a fire with such
destructive precision and rapidity, that in a few
minutes the street presented a horrible
spectacle; being heaped with killed and wounded,
whose blood crimsoned the gutters on both
sides of the way. Directing Santugo to assail
the house in rear, Casteluccio and I led on a
mixed force of British and Calabri; but so
terrible was the leaden hail the French
showered on three sides of us, that we
were repulsed with immense slaughter: the
cavaliere received a severe wound in the
sword-arm; yet he quitted not the ground,
but brandishing his sabre with his left hand,
continued to animate his followers by his
presence and cries of "Viva Ferdinand IV!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Again I led forward the remnant of my
party, and again we were forced to recoil, but
succeeded in bringing off one of the curricle
guns; with a wild shout of triumph it was
wheeled round, double shotted, and discharged
against the house.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Hurrah!" cried I, almost frantic with
excitement, ramming home another ball with my
own hand; "Bravo! Gask, keep your hand
tight on the vent—ready the match—stand
clear of the recoil—fire!" and again it belched
forth destruction. Thrice it was fired, and
thrice the shot struck the same place; an
enormous rent yawned in the wall, and a mass
of masonry fell to the earth: yet the French
fought with undiminished courage. The side
of a room had been completely breached.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Forward the 62nd! Advance the Calabri!
On them with the bayonet—charge—hurrah!" Animated
by my example, and notwithstanding
the deadly fire poured on them from every part,
onward they went, with that heroic ardour
which soon after swept the armies of Napoleon
from the fields of Spain and Flanders. We
burst in amongst the voltigeurs; whose
diminutive stature placed them at the utmost
disadvantage, when opposed to English soldiers
and the tall athletic Calabri in the fierce
hand-to-hand combat which ensued. A desperate
struggle followed; for a time the podesteria
seemed shaken to its base, and in the close
melée I received a severe blow from a clubbed
musket: but the voltigeurs yielded themselves
prisoners of war in five minutes; and my
soldiers immediately encircled them, to
protect them from the knives and bayonets of the
infuriated Italians.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>In the despatch of General Sherbrooke it is
mentioned, that "in the night attack on
Bagnara, the voltigeurs of the 23rd Light Infantry
were cut to pieces." This was literally the
case: so merciless were the Calabrese, that a
great number of the poor Frenchmen were
slaughtered in their beds (a blanket, a
greatcoat, or a bundle of fern), and no wounded
man escaped them. Of Colonel Pepe's 600
voltigeurs, 450 lay, like himself, weltering in
blood, in the streets and houses of Bagnara.
I did all that man could do, short of assaulting
the Calabrians, to stop the horrid slaughter;
but my efforts were unavailing, and the blood
of these brave men was poured forth like
water: the soldiers of the 62nd revolted at
such cold-blooded cruelty, and expressed their
indignation aloud. The poor remnant of the
23rd were moody and silent, cast down in spirit
and pale in visage, ragged and half naked, when
I paraded them outside the town; just as the
grey day-light brightened the Milia peaks, and
the sea began to change its hue from inky grey
to sparkling blue, as it rolled on the rocky
promontories of Scylla and Palmi. Our casualties
were numerous: but one officer, a hundred and
fifty rank and file, and three pieces of cannon
were the prizes of the night. To gain these,
four hundred and fifty of their comrades had
been destroyed; and almost in cold blood too!</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="a-retreat-in-square-the-prisoner-of-war"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XII.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">RETREAT IN SQUARE.—THE PRISONER OF WAR.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Borne on the morning breeze from Seminara,
the distant sound of a cavalry trumpet warned
us to retire with precipitation. We spiked the
guns, blew up the tumbrils, and, setting the
town on fire, soon destroyed all of Bagnara
that the last earthquake had left unengulfed.
Lighted by the red blaze which the burning
houses cast on the green hills, the dark pine
woods, and the impending masses of basaltic
rock frowning over mountain-streams and deep
defiles, we continued our retreat double-quick,
without the aid of our little guide, Pablo; who,
at sound of the first shot, had vanished, without
waiting for his promised reward.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Hark to the tantara of the trumpets!
Milette's cavalry brigade is coming on," said
Santugo, checking his black Barbary horse and
listening to the distant sound.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>As he spoke, French cavalry appeared on
the Seminara road, galloping in file along the
narrow way by which we were hurrying towards
Scylla; whose ramparts we discerned
above the morning mist, about three miles off.
The rising sun gleamed gaily on the long
lines of shining helmets and glancing sabres, as
the horsemen swept through the deep dell in
close pursuit. The fire of Casteluccio's
volunteers, who formed our rear-guard, served to
keep them in check for a time, and impede
their advance by the fall of steeds and their
riders; but on our debouchement into more
open ground, I formed the whole into a
compact square, with the prisoners in the centre.
The cavalry now pushed on at a furious gallop,
and, as they cleared the gorge, the trumpeters
sounded in succession "form squadron;" the
right files trotted, while the left swept round at
full speed; and, the moment each troop formed,
it rushed upon us with a force and impetuosity
which must have stricken terror into the
Calabrese: but the proud troopers recoiled before
the levelled bayonets and steady fire of a few
brave men of my own corps, who formed the
rearward face of the square.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Successively the six squadrons of a whole
corps of light cavalry swept after us, and
successively they were compelled to break into
subdivisions, and retire to the right and left
round the flanks of their column, while the
next in order advanced to the charge. They
suffered severely: both horses and riders lay
rolling in heaps, while we lost not a man, as
the troopers never fired their pistols: probably
to spare their countrymen who were our
prisoners. Just as a brigade of horse artillery
came at a gallop from the dell, and were
wheeled round on an eminence to open upon
us, we gained the shelter of a pine thicket, and
in perfect safety retired leisurely upon Scylla.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Casteluccio's band—whose retreat to their
fastnesses in the Solano the advance of Milette's
cavalry had completely cut off—I added to the
garrison of the town. The wound of the brave
cavaliere was severe, and a musket-ball had
broken his left arm. Our surgeon, Macnesia,
reduced the fracture; but the patient was quite
unserviceable, and therefore retired for a time
to Messina.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>After the transmission of our prisoners and
wounded to the same place, in the boats of the
</span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span> frigate, I gladly retired to my quarters;
where the joy and tenderness of Bianca soon
made me forget the excitement and weariness
of the past night. That evening the mist,
which had all day hovered over land and sea,
cleared away; when we plainly saw the French
working parties on the mountains, forming the
road from Seminara, under the protection of
strong escorts of cavalry and infantry.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Occasionally a puff of white smoke, curling
from the brow of a cliff or from a neighbouring
thicket, and an immediate commotion among
the enemy, announced a sudden shot from a
concealed Calabrian rifle, which had struck one
from the roll of the soldiers of the empire.
Banditti, and broken parties of the Masse,
stuck like burrs in the skirts of the French;
and the loss of life occasioned by such desultory
warfare was immense.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Bianca shuddered as she surveyed the distant
foe and glanced at the castle batteries below
us; where, in regular order, stood the long
lines of iron twenty-fours and thirty-twos, with
all the accompaniments of rammers, sponges,
and handspikes; pyramids of balls occupying
the spaces between. The glittering bayonets
shone on every bastion and angle; while the
numerous sentinels, and the hourly rounds of
the watchful commanders of guards, denoted
an alertness and excitement: a vicinity of
warfare equally appalling and novel to her. Whilst
we were watching all these preparations, a
little drummer beat the warning for the
"evening retreat;" the sharp rattle of his drum
agitated Bianca so much, that she burst into
tears, and, sinking on my shoulder, exclaimed,
"Oh, Claude! would to God, we were safe at
Palermo! All this is indeed terrible."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"All </span><em class="italics">this</em><span>!" I reiterated. "Faith! Bianca,
I see nothing terrible here. The guards on the
alert, the cannon in order, the duty carried on
strictly, all bespeak the orderly garrison. But
if the mere sight of these things and the clatter
of that little boy's drum affright you, think
what will be your terrors when yonder hill
bristles with brigades of cannon, vomiting death
and fire; when every point around us glitters
with steel, and even the roar of Dragara is lost
in that of the conflict; when men are falling
like ripe grapes in a storm, and the shot flying
thick as hail, rending battlement and tower.
Oh! think of all these dangers, dear one; and,
once more, let me entreat you—implore you,
to retire to Messina. Consent, Bianca; and I
will this moment order a gun to fire for the
</span><em class="italics">Electra's</em><span> boat."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"And you counsel me to leave you so
soon?" said she, bending her soft eyes on
mine.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Your gentle mind cannot conceive the
horrors of a siege. Scylla I must defend to the
last, for such are my orders: but how long can
such a little fortress withstand the mighty army
of Massena? Our separation, Bianca, can only
be for a time——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Caro Claude, for a time—but how long?
You may be taken prisoner and carried to Don
Pepe's dungeons in Dalmatia, and I may never
see you again. When I think of poor Benedetto's
fate—oh, horror! Say no more, Claude:
death only shall separate us."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The entrance of Bob Brown or Annina
(they now composed our entire household) put
an end to this pathetic interview. Bianca
smiled through her tears, and looked so
beautiful and happy, and love made me so selfish,
that I said no more of her retiring to Sicily.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The evening was sunny and still, the air
serene, and the sea calm, except around the
rock of Scylla. The green Sicilian shore
rose up, clearly and distinctly, from the azure
ocean; and the sails of the </span><em class="italics">Amphion</em><span>, the
</span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span>, the </span><em class="italics">Glatton</em><span>, the </span><em class="italics">Pompey</em><span>, and all our
numerous war-ships which studded the Straits,
shone white as snow in the sunbeams; while
Sicilian gun-boats, slave-galleys, and xebecques
dotted the sea between: the cloudless sky
and the range of hills which terminates at the
Faro, formed the background. Our casements
were open, and the setting sun poured his
bright rays into the castle-hall; the roof of
which was covered with the dilapidated frescoes
of Matteo Prette, and the faded coats armorial
of the princes of Ruffo Scylla. It was a noble
relic of other days. Massive Ionic columns of
Sicilian marble, with bases of green Corsican
jasper, rising from a tessellated floor, supported
its arched roof; between these, in niches, were
some rare pieces of ancient sculpture, dug from
the ruins of the neighbouring Columna Rhegini:
or, perhaps, relics of that edifice which Anaxilaus,
its prince, first raised on the rock to defend
him against the warriors of Tuscany. The
early flowers of a warm Italian spring were
blooming in the balconies, and their sweet
perfume was wafted around us.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Bianca was seated at work, brocading a piece
of scarlet Palmi silk, while I lounged on a
sofa reading the last "Gazetta Britannica;"
a silver caraffa of the cardinal's muscadel stood
close at hand, and I thought, while knocking
the ashes from my third cigar, that my situation
on the staff would be a very pleasant one,
if Monsieur le General Regnier contented
himself by remaining entrenched at Cassano,
instead of beating up my quarters at the
extremity of lower Italy.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A smart single knock at the door announced
Sergeant Gask.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Lascelles has sent me to say, sir, that
the officer taken prisoner at Bagnara, who
wished to be sent to Dalmatia on parole,
appears to be an Italian."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The rascal!" I exclaimed; "but perhaps
he is a Roman or Venetian."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"He says the last, sir; but I could swear
that he is a Calabrian born and bred."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Bring him here, with a file of the barrier
guard, that I may examine him myself."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Gask retired, and in five minutes returned
with the prisoner—a sullen and dogged-like
fellow, wearing a plain French uniform, blue,
with scarlet facings, an aiguilette and
shoulder-scales. He was swarthy, and his lank
moustaches gave him a melancholy aspect; while
the rolling of his restless eyes announced that
he was very ill at ease.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>On his entrance with the escort, Bianca
withdrew. Imagine my surprise on recognising
Pietro Navarro, who grew deadly pale on
beholding me.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-evening! Signor Navarro," said I;
"I did not expect to meet a descendant of the
worthy inventor of mines under circumstances
so degrading."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I am Pepe Biada, a Venetian, bearing a
commission in the artillery of the emperor.
You are making some mistake, signor, and I
warn you to beware of reprisals. A heavy
brigade of guns are already </span><em class="italics">en route</em><span> for Scylla,
which cannot hold out a day against the forces
now marching on it—no, San Martino!—not a
single day."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"San Marteeno? ha! the true Neapolitan
twang that," I exclaimed. "How many men
are moving on this point?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Six thousand, exclusive of artillery, horse,
and sappers," he answered, gruffly. "I
demand, signor, as a Venetian, in the service of
the King of Italy, that I may be permitted to
retire on my parole of honour." He spoke
boldly, and seemed to imagine that his
information had staggered me a little.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You must first be examined by a military
court-martial. I have not forgotten that night
when you poniarded the brave cavaliere of
Malta in mistake for me. On clearing
yourself of that, and several other gross
misdemeanours, you will be transmitted to Sicily,
to be treated as the government shall deem
fit. You will be good enough to hand me
your sabretache? Take him away, Gask, and
guard him well—he deserves no mercy. Give
Captain Gascoigne my compliments—send him
here, and desire the orderly drum to beat for
orders."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Navarro, finding that his assertions of
innocence were made to one who was too well
convinced of his guilt, in silence unbuckled his
belt, threw it with the sabretache towards me,
and retired with his escort. From its bulk
and weight, I thought it contained something
of importance; but found only an Italian work
on engineering by Donato Rosetta the canon
of Livournia, together with a few sketches of
forts and roads. One of these was important
enough: it showed the castle of Scylla,
with the positions to be occupied by the
French cannon; their proposed approaches
and trenches were laid down, and our weakest
points were marked. This document was a
fresh cause for exasperation: from his knowledge
of the fortress and its locality, Navarro
must have been of the utmost use to General
Regnier; and I was determined to bring him
to trial without delay. My process was harsh:
but let the peculiar nature of my position, the
power with which I was vested, and Navarro's
crimes, excuse it.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-drum-head-court-martial"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIII.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE DRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>I paraded the whole of the little garrison, and
ordering a drum-head court to assemble
immediately, wrote the charges on which the
prisoner was to be arraigned before it: but
I was interrupted by an outcry and combat
in the guard-house. Snatching the sword
from Gask's belt, he had attempted to stab
him, and break away by force; but the
soldiers beat him down with the butts of their
muskets, and he was secured with handcuffs,
an iron bar, and a padlock.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Formed in close column, the whole garrison,
including the free corps of Santugo (who,
although their lieutenant-colonel, was, oddly
enough, under my orders,) paraded to hear
and behold the proceedings. So exasperated
were the Calabri, that the presence of British
soldiers alone prevented them from sacrificing
the unhappy Navarro, and thus destroying
all that judicial form which I meant to give
to our proceedings.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>In centre of the castle court was placed a
drum, with a Bible, pens, ink and paper upon
it. The president stood on one side, and
the members on his right and left hand;
Navarro, with his escort, stood opposite: I
had to act in the triple capacity of prosecutor,
witness, and approver. The paper found
attached to the poniard in Castelermo's bosom,
the likeness of Navarro, disguised as one of
the Campagnia di Morti, together with the
contents of his sabretache, I laid before the
court for examination.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Brief as the proceedings of such a tribunal
always are, ours were necessarily unusually
so: a forward movement was at that moment
being made by the French cavalry, and we
were pressed for time. The following is
a literal transcript of the short and singular
document indicted by Lascelles on that
occasion: it is still in my possession:—</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Proceedings of a drum-head court-martial,
held on PIETRO NAVARRO, late of the
Sicilian Engineers, by order of Captain
DUNDAS, 62d Regiment, Commandant of
the Castle of Scylla.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The court being duly sworn, and having
weighed and considered the evidence against
the prisoner and his defence, are of opinion
that he, Pietro Navarro, is guilty of the
following charges:—</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">First</em><span>, Of assassinating Marco di
Castelermo, a Knight Commander of Malta, and
Captain of the Free Corps.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Second</em><span>, Desertion to the enemy.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Third</em><span>, Conspiring with rebels to destroy
the Villa D'Alfieri.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Fourth</em><span>, Poisoning the well of H. M. Castle
of Scylla, and thereby endangering the lives of
the garrison.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Sentence</em><span>, To be shot or hanged, as the
Commandant shall direct.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em">
</div>
<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>"MEMBERS.
<br />"PAT. GASCOIGNE, Capt. 62d Regt. Pres.
<br />"O. LASCELLES, Lieut. 62d Regt.
<br />"PELHAM VILLIERS, Lieut. 62d Regt.
<br />"CONTE D'ARENA, Lieut. Free Corps.
<br />"CONTE DI PALMA, Lieut. Free Corps.
<br />"Scylla, Feb. 1808."</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>To this I affixed my signature, with the fatal
words "</span><em class="italics">confirmed—to be shot</em><span>." Navarro grew
pale as death when I laid down the pen; and
as I gave the command, forming the close
column into a hollow square by marching it
to the front and wheeling the subdivisions
of the central companies outward, he seemed
to receive an electric shock. He moved
mechanically to the front; when I desired
Lascelles, who acted as our adjutant, to read the
brief proceedings. So flagrant were his crimes
that to have yielded him one privilege as an
officer, was not even to be thought of, and he
was treated in every respect as a private soldier.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Oliver read the proceedings and sentence
first in English, and then in Italian; Navarro
listened with dogged silence, knowing well
that entreaties were useless if made to the
stern military tribunal before which he found
himself so suddenly arraigned. His lip
quivered, and his brow blanched, when the last
words "to be shot," fell upon his ear, and he
gave me a dull inquiring stare, as I folded the
paper and thrust it into my sabretache.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Though my glance was firm and my voice
never quavered, I felt for the poor wretch,
undeserving as he was. He hovered on the
brink of eternity, and my lips were to utter
the command which would at once send him
into the presence of his Creator.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><em class="italics">Mine</em><span>—there was something terrible in the
idea: I paused for a moment; a beam of hope
lightened his gloomy eyes and brow. The
place was so still that one might have heard
a pin fall: but delay was cruel.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Unhappy man!" said I, "you have heard the
opinion and sentence of the court. The latter
must be carried into execution in twenty minutes,
and it would be well to employ that little time
in pure repentance, and in solemn prayer."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, omnipotente!" he exclaimed, raising
up his eyes and fettered hands; "in twenty
minutes, can so many years of sin and
enormity be repented of? O, San Giovanni, thou
whose most holy order I have outraged! O, San
Marco the glorious! Eufemio the martyred! and
thou, sweetest Madonna! intercede for me
with One whom I am unworthy to address?"
Deeply touched with his tone, I turned to
Santugo: but he was too much used to hear
such pious ejaculations on every frivolous
occasion to care a straw about them; and
leaning on his sabre he surveyed the culprit
with a stern glance of distrust and contempt.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Down on your knees, villain!" he
exclaimed, "and pray with a will; for I fear
you are standing on the brink of eternal damnation!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, horror!" cried Navarro; and losing all
self-possession, he sank on his knees, and began
to repeat his paternoster with great devotion.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I regret that we have here no priest of
the Catholic church to attend you in this
terrible hour;" said I, "but yonder is a good
and worthy soldier who has once been in holy
orders, and if his prayers——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Away!" cried Navarro, as Gask took a
Bible from his havresack, and laying his
grenadier cap aside, advanced towards him.
"Better a Turk than a Jew; but in such an
hour as this, better the devil than a heretic!
Away, accursed! I spit upon you! I will
trust rather to my own prayers than thy
intercessions——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I presume not to intercede," said poor
Gask, meekly, as he closed the Bible; "I am
but a humble soldier, though I have seen
better days; and I am a sinner, doubtless,
though never committing sin wilfully. I
entreat your permission to accompany you in
prayer, to soothe your last moments, in such
wise that through the blessed mercy of the
Lord of Hosts——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ghieu, setanasso!" screamed the assassin,
quite beside himself; "away, heretic! Better
the most ribald monk of Pistoja than such
as thee!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Fall back, Gask; the man is frantic,"
said I. "Tell off a section with their arms
loaded; desire the pioneers to dig a grave in
the cardinal's bastion, and their corporal to
bind up the prisoner's eyes."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Gask saluted and retired to obey; while
the prisoner, covering his face with his
fettered hands, appeared to be engaged in the
deepest prayer. The men of the 62nd evinced
considerable repugnance to become his
executioners: such a duty being always reserved as
a punishment for bad or disorderly soldiers;
and there was not one among them who could
be deemed to come under either of these
denominations. A whisper circulated through
the ranks, and I knew that I was imposing
an unpleasant duty upon good men. The
visconte divined my dilemma.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dundas," said he, "as Italians, let ours
be the task to punish this wretch: whom I
blush to acknowledge a countryman!
Giacomo, take twenty of our corps, and shoot
him through the back: but unbind his hands,
that he may tell over his beads once more
before he dies."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Giacomo selected his marksmen, and drew
them up opposite a high wall, before which
Navarro knelt about thirty paces from them.
As the Calabrians loaded, two pioneers with
a shovel and pickaxe approached; and on
seeing them the prisoner seemed seized with
a frenzy. Suddenly he sprang up and fled
towards a parapet wall with the fleetness of
a hare, and a scene of the utmost confusion
ensued: shot after shot was fired at him, but
missed. It was madness to hope to escape
from Scylla, filled as it was with armed men,
enclosed on three sides by the surging sea,
on the fourth by steep cliffs, and girdled by
lofty towers and bastions. Frantic with
desperation and terror, the miserable Navarro
rushed up the platform of one of the
gun-batteries, and swung himself over the
parapet; escaping a shower of balls aimed at him
by the half-disciplined Calabri, who had all
rushed in disorder to the walls: destruction
dogged him close. Beneath, the cliff
descended sheer to the sea three hundred
feet below; above, the parapet bristled with
weapons, and was lined with hostile faces.
Chilled with a sudden horror, when the dash
of the foaming sea and the hollow boom of
those tremendous caverns by which the rock
is pierced, rang in his ears, he became
stunned; and closing his eyes, clung to a
straggling vine or some creeping plants, with
all the stern tenacity that love of life and fear
of death inspire: never shall I forget the
expression of his face when I looked over the
parapet upon him. It was ghastly as that of
a corpse: his short black hair bristled and
quivered on his scalp; his deep dark eyes
glared with terror, hatred, and ferocity, till
they resembled those of a snake; and every
muscle of his face was contracted and
distorted. He swung in agony over the
beetling cliff, on which he endeavoured in vain to
obtain a footing; but its face receded from
him, and he hung like a mason's plummet.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Giacomo," said the visconte, "end his misery."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The Calabrian levelled his musket over the
breast-work, and his aiming eye, as it glanced
along the smooth barrel, met the fixed and
agonized glance of Navarro. He fired; the
ramparts round us, and the rocks and caves
beneath gave back the reverberated report
like thunder: the ball had passed through the
brain of Navarro, who vanished from the cliff,
and was seen no more.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>So perished this unhappy traitor.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="dianora-the-forfeited-hand"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIV.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">DIANORA—THE FORFEITED HAND.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>The exciting affair with Navarro was scarcely
over, before we became involved in another;
which, though of a different description, caused
me no little anxiety: of this, my gay friend,
Oliver Lascelles, was the hero.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Oliver was a handsome, good-humoured,
light-hearted, curly-headed, thoughtless, young
fellow; heir to one of the finest estates in
Essex, with a venerable Elizabethan manor-house
and deer park, a stud of horses and
a kennel of hounds. He was a good shot,
and a sure stroke at billiards; could push
his horse wherever the hounds went, and,
when hunting, was never known to crane in
his life: he would spur, slapdash over
everything; and he always led the field.
However, these were but the least of his good
qualities: he possessed others that were of
a better order. Oliver was, every inch, an
English gentleman and soldier; possessing a
refined taste, and more solid acquirements
than such as are necessary merely to enable
a man to acquit himself in fashionable or military
life: for, in truth, a very "shallow fellow"
may pass muster, at times, in the ball room,
on parade, or in the hunting-field.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>About this time, when Regnier's advance
kept us all on the alert, Oliver, as if he had
not wherewithal to occupy his thoughts,
contrived to fall in love; and, to all appearance,
so earnestly, that I was not long in discovering
and rallying him about it. People are very
prone to fall in love in that land of bright
eyes: the little god Cupid is still "king of
gods and men," in sunny Ausonia; where
love seems to be the principal occupation of
the inhabitants.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Though the advanced posts of the enemy
were now pretty close to us on all sides, our
fiery spark, Lascelles, went forth every
evening, to visit his inamorata; who dwelt in the
neighbourhood of Fiumara, which had now
become a French cantonment. I have
elsewhere alluded to his artistic talent: he had
now conceived a violent fancy for delineating
Italian girls in all the glory of ruddy and
dimpled cheeks, dark eyes, braided hair, and
very scanty petticoats. His apartments were
strewed with such sketches; and Bianca rallied
him smartly on finding that the same pretty
face was traceable in every drawing: Oliver
had evidently one vivid and particular idea
ever uppermost in his mind. He had a rival,
too,—a devil of a fellow,—who contrived to
infuse an unusual quantum of mystery into
this love affair: all the perils of which I
will relate to the reader, while our friends,
the French, are labouring at the Seminara
road, in order to bring up their train of
cannon.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Where away so fast, Oliver?" asked I, as
he was hurrying past me, one evening, about
dusk, muffled in his cloak.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Only a little way from the castle," he
responded, somewhat impatiently.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Southward, eh?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah—yes."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"To Fiumara?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Why—yes."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Take care, Oliver, my boy! The French
101st, a thousand strong, are cantoned there;
and the end of this nightly visiting may be
a few years unpleasant captivity in Verdun or
Bitche."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Tush!" said he, impatiently; "I have my
sword and pistols."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"So much the worse; they may only provoke
the wrath of your captors. 'T is a pity
your fair one, Signora Montecino (that's her
name, I believe) lives in so dangerous a
vicinity."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I am only going to visit the bishop of
Nicastro."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A shallow excuse, Oliver: you are not a
man to relish the old bishop's society.
By-the-bye, his niece is very pretty; is she not?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Rather," said he, drily.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"So much so, that you think her face cannot
be delineated too often?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Stay, Claude; no quizzing: I won't stand it."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"She has a brother, or cousin, a sad fellow—an
outlawed guerilla, or something of that
sort; who has served under Francatripa, and
is stained with a thousand nameless atrocities.
And do you know what people say about the
pretty signorina herself?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"What say they?" he asked, sternly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"That she is a nearer relation of the good
padre bishop than he cares to have generally
known: priests' nieces——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"D——n their impudence! only yourself,
Claude—Capt. Dundas, I must request——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, yes; I understand all that: ha! ha!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"No man in the service——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"What! do you really love this girl, Oliver?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; on my honour, I do."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Very possibly: but—I speak as an old
friend—you do not mean seriously?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>He started, and coloured deeply.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I know not," he muttered, hurriedly: "and
yet, Claude, I cannot be so base as to think of
her otherwise than as a man of honour ought
to do. Her relationship to the old padre is,
to say the best of it, somewhat dubious: but
then, she is so good-tempered and ladylike—so
gentle, so beautiful, and winning—that I
cannot, for the soul of me, help loving her;
and I pledged——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Pledged! Maladetto! as they say here, are
you engaged to her?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, I did not make a particular—that is
to say, not quite an engagement—pshaw! what
am I talking here about?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I see! Ah, Oliver, you are evidently very
deeply dipped with her: you cannot steal a
march upon me. Let me advise you, Lascelles,
to be cautious in your affair with this young
lady. Your family, your fortune, all entitle
you——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Thanks, Dundas! I don't require this
tutor-like advice," said he, putting his foot in
the stirrup of his roan-horse, with a dash of
hauteur in his manner.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"At Fiumara, the French keep a sharp look
out," I urged.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Be it so," said he: "thither I go at all
risks."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not acting wisely."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Granted—one never does so in love."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Be cautious, Oliver! I would be loth to
lose you; and I find it will be necessary to
'come the senior over you,' as the mess say,
and order that no officer or soldier shall go
beyond one mile from camp or quarters."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Do so to-morrow," he added, laughing;
"but, meanwhile, ere the order is issued, I shall
ride so far as Fiumara to-night. What is the
parole?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Maida</em><span>—countersign </span><em class="italics">Italy</em><span>."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you: I do not wish to be fired on
by the blundering Calabri," he replied; little
imagining he would never require the watch-word.
"Adieu! by midnight I will return."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Breaking away, he leaped on his horse, and
dashing through the arched portal of the castle,
rode down the hill through Scylla at a furious
gallop.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I was under considerable apprehension for
my rash friend's safety. Midnight passed:
slowly the hours of morning rolled on. Day
was breaking, and the peaks of Milia were
burnished by the yet unrisen sun, when I visited
the posts to inquire for Lascelles. He had not
returned; and as he had never before been
absent so long in such a dangerous neighbourhood,
I became very uneasy: deeply I regretted
that, even at the risk of unpleasant words, I
had not exerted my authority as commanding
officer, and compelled him to stay within the
castle. The bugle sounded for morning parade
at the usual hour; but Oliver Lascelles was
not forthcoming: his place in the ranks was
vacant.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>On the advance of the French, the old
bishop, before mentioned, had retired from the
city of Nicastro; abandoning to them his
residence—the ancient castle, famous as the place
where Henry, of Naples, expiated his rebellion.
Retiring to his little paternal villa, near
Fiumara, he lived in retirement, unmolested by
the French; who almost depopulated the
surrounding country by their tyranny, extortions,
and wanton outrage. On the side of a hill, at
the base of which ran a deep and rapid stream,
its banks covered with orange and citron trees,
stood the bishop's villa. It faced the straits of
Messina: high rocks and a thick wood of pines
hid it from the view of the foe at Fiumara;
otherwise their forage parties would assuredly
have paid it a visit.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>On the evening I last saw Oliver, a young
lady was visible at an open window of this
mansion. She was alone, and seated in a
reclining posture on an ottoman, upon which
lay her guitar: her hair, half-braided, half-disordered,
rolled in natural ringlets of the deepest
black over a neck of the purest white—so pure,
so transparent, that the blue veins beneath were
distinctly visible. She was not tall, but of a
full and beautifully rounded form; and though
her features were not regular, yet their
expression was very captivating and piquant.
Her eyes were dark and brilliant, her lips
full and pouting, her cheeks flushed and
dimpled.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Notwithstanding the season of the year, the
air was close and still; the sun had set, and the
sky wore a warm and fiery tinge; but the hills
and wood were of a dark bronze hue.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Dianora Montecino listened impatiently. She
awaited the coming of Oliver: but he came
not. She often surveyed her figure in a mirror
which hung opposite, and a calm smile lighted
up her pretty face: it was one of complacent
but innocent admiration of her own attractions.
Her hair being in partial disorder, languidly,
with her delicate fingers, she endeavoured to
adjust it; then pausing, she sighed, and after
again consulting the friendly mirror, with a
pardonable coquetry, she allowed the flowing
tresses to remain free.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"He always prefers me in dishabille. That
seems strange: and yet I think I really look
better so. But truly, Signor Oliver, you tarry
long to-night."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The last flush of sunlight vanished from the
hills of Milia (or Mylæ), and now rose the
bright moon, shedding its softer light over land
and sea; tinging the straits with silver lustre,
and revealing the Sicilian feluccas, with their
striped latteen sails, and other picturesque
vessels, which the sombre shadows of evening
had for a time obscured. At the base of the
hills the river wound between rocks and
thickets, its surface reflecting the innumerable
stars that studded the serene blue sky. A
beautiful fountain beneath the terrace threw
up its jet of water like a ceaseless shower of
diamonds; the air was laden with the perfume
of the earliest flowers of an Italian spring,
and not a breath of wind was abroad to stir
their closed petals, then filled with fragrant dew.
Intently the young girl hearkened for the
tramp of her lover's horse; but he came not:
she heard only the tumultuous beating of her
own heart, and the monotonous plash of the
water falling from the bronze Triton's mouth
into the marble basin below.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A step was heard softly on the gravel walk:</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"At last he comes!" she said, pouting;
while joy and hope sparkled in her dark
and liquid eyes: a man leaped over the
balustrade of the terrace. "Dear Oliver,
you have come at last: but stay! I owe you
a scolding, signor mio!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'T is not Oliver," replied the stranger,
with a husky, but somewhat sad tone of
voice; and he stood before her. Dianora's
first impulse was to call for assistance; but
the voice of the stranger again arrested her.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"For God's sake, signora, do not summon
any one! You have nothing to fear from
me—indeed you have not."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Giosué, is it only you?" said the young
lady, with a tone of undisguised reproach and
vexation. There was a pause.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The unwelcome visitor was a young man
about six-and-twenty, whose dress announced
his occupation and rank in life to be somewhat
dubious; but his air, though constrained
in the presence of Dianora, had a dash of
gallant and graceful recklessness in it. He
wore the brigand garb, which had then
become a kind of uniform adopted by all
desperadoes; he had a carbine in his hand,
and a knife and four long iron pistols were
stuck in a yellow silk sash. A loose velvet
jacket, knee breeches, and gaiters crossed
with red leather straps, displayed to advantage
his fine athletic figure; and round his
open neck hung a little bag containing a
charm, which he supposed rendered him
bullet-proof. A large, shapeless, and battered
Calabrian hat, with a royalist red riband
flaunting from it, shaded his face; which was
fringed with a black and untrimmed beard,
and presented a kind of savage beauty: though
squalid through want, and fierce in its expression;
being marked with the lines of the worst
passions. The young girl regarded him with
a glance expressive equally of timidity and
pity.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dianora—Dianora!" said he, reproachfully,
but mildly; "there was a time when
you were not wont to pronounce my name
in such a tone. Alas! sweet cousin—like
myself, its very sound seems changed."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor Giosué!" she began.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Was not expected here to-night," said he,
bitterly. "No; you await another. Cattivo!
I know it."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>He regarded her gloomily; his fierce dark
eyes sparkling in the twilight like those of
a basilisk; and she, who but a moment before
had been all eagerness for the arrival of Oliver
Lascelles, now mentally implored Heaven that
he might not come that night, for something
dreadful would certainly ensue.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dianora," said the young man, "is it
true what they tell me—that you love this
stranger?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"As I never can love thee, Giosué,"
replied the girl, with timid energy.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Malediction! Have you forgotten how
you once swore your hand should be mine?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"True, Giosué; but you were not then
what you have since become."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Hear me, false one! I swear by God and
his blessed saints, that the hand you promised
me shall never be the prize of another. No!
Maladetto! I will slay you rather!" He
laughed bitterly, and spoke in a hoarse tone.
"You despise me, Dianora. I am now a
penniless outlaw. May our uncle, the
hard-hearted bishop, whose miserly cruelty has
driven me to despair——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O most ungrateful and unkind, Giosué! say
rather your own wild and intractable spirit
has occasioned your destruction——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"And the loss of your love, Dianora?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Indeed, Giosué, I never could have loved
you as—you would wish to be loved: but I
have pitied you, wept for you, prayed for
you——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Bless you, dear girl," replied the young
man, with intense sadness; "you are very
good and amiable; but I feel that love for
you is making me mad!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, leave me, Giosué. Should the
bishop find you here——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Say rather he whom you expect!" he
exclaimed, bitterly and jealously. "Ha! false
and fickle one! within sound of my whistle
are those who in a moment would bear you
off to yonder mountains in spite of all
opposition, and leave in flames this villa of our
dog of an uncle. But no, signora; I must
have your love freely, or not at all."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A moment ago you threatened——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Peace! Attempt not to stir until you have
heard me. This cursed English lieutenant
(ha! malediction! you see I know him), if
he comes hither to-night may get a reception
such as he little expects." He uttered a
ferocious laugh, and struck with his hand the
weapons which garnished his girdle. They
clattered, and the heart of Dianora trembled
between fear and indignation; for nothing
rouses a young girl's spirit so much as
hearing her lover spoken of lightly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Cospetto! let this baby-faced teniente
beware," continued Giosué; "or, by the blessed
Trinity! I will put a brace of bullets through
his brain."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Wretch!" exclaimed the trembling Dianora,
"begone, lest I spit upon you! O
Giosué! are you indeed become so ruffianly?
Have brigandism and outrage hardened you thus?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed sternly, and said, "You do
expect him to-night, then?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"What is that to you?" she replied,
pettishly. "Cousin, I will love whom I
please."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You shall not love him."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Dianora, who was now angry in downright
earnest, began to sing, and thrum the strings
of her mandolin.</span></p>
<blockquote>
<div>
<div class="line-block outermost">
<div class="line"><span>"Me non segni il biondo Dio,</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>Me con Fille unisca amore—"</span></div>
<div class="line"> </div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class="pfirst"><span>"Dianora!" exclaimed the young man, in
a voice half mournful and half ferocious.
"By the memory of other days, I conjure you
to hear me! Think how, as children—as
orphans—we lived, and played, and grew
together—hear me!" His voice grew thick;
but the irritated girl continued her song.</span></p>
<blockquote>
<div>
<div class="line-block outermost">
<div class="line"><span>"E poi sfoghi il suo rigore</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>Fato rio, nemico ciel."</span></div>
<div class="line"> </div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class="pfirst"><span>"Cruel that thou art: thy wish will never
be realized!" he exclaimed, fiercely. Still
she continued:—</span></p>
<blockquote>
<div>
<div class="line-block outermost">
<div class="line"><span>"Che il desio non mi tormenta,</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>O——"</span></div>
<div class="line"> </div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class="pfirst"><span>"Maledictions on you! Is it thus you treat me?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Dianora laughed: he gazed intently upon her
with fierce glistening eyes; his white lips were
compressed with stern resolution, though
agitation made them quiver—and that quivering
was visible even in the moonlight.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dianora," said he, "for this time I will
leave you; but when again we meet—</span><em class="italics">tremble</em><span>!
Fury! I am not to be treated like a child!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Do not be so passionate, signor cousin.
Madonna mia! You are quite the Horazio of
Matteo Aliman's novel!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Beware," he responded, with a dark and
inexplicable scowl, "that your hand—the
hand pledged as mine—is not bestowed upon
your lover as Clarinia's was. Farewell, fickle
and cruel Dianora! Misfortune and love are
turning my brain."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Say rather wine, dice, and debauchery."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Diavolessa!" he exclaimed, in accents of
rage; and springing over the terrace, disappeared.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Dianora resumed her guitar; but she could
sing no more: her assumed nonchalance quite
deserted her. The instrument fell on the
floor, and covering her face with her white
hands she wept bitterly: for Giosué's threats
and Oliver's absence terrified her.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The calm moon looked down on the dark
forests and the snaky windings of the river,
on whose glassy bosom here and there a red
glow marked the watch-fires of the distant
French picquets. No one was ascending the
mountain side. In the villa, in the valley
below, and on the hills around it, the most
intense silence prevailed. Eagerly Dianora
listened. Anon there rang through the welkin
a shrill whistle—the whistle of Giosué; a faint
cry succeeded: it rose from the river side, and
floated tremulously upward through the still
air. Another, and another followed: they
were cries for succour! Her brain reeled—she
sank upon her knees, and raised her
hands to Heaven—her heart beat wildly—she
panted rather than breathed. "O, God!"
thought she; "if Oliver encounter the wild
comrades of Giosué, what have I not to dread?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Appalled by her own vivid and fearful
thoughts, she sat as if spell-bound, listening for
other sounds, in an agony of suspense; but
none other arose from the dark wooded dell
than the murmur of the river, as its waters
rolled on their way to the ocean.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Joy—joy—he comes at last!" she exclaimed,
as the hoofs of a galloping horse rang
on the narrow and rocky pathway, which wound
between thickets of orange and citron trees up
the mountain side. "Dear and blessed Lady
of Burello, how I thank thee that he came not
sooner! Three paters and three aves will I
say.—I see him now: 'tis he! How bravely
he reins up his roan English horse, with its
high head and flowing mane! There is the
dark cloak, and the little cap, beneath which
his brown hair curls so crisply. Oh, well
should I know him among a thousand!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>With all the frankness and ardour of an
Italian girl she rushed upon the terrace, and,
waving her hand over the balustrade, said
playfully, "You have come at last, Signor
mio. Fi! I owe you a severe lecture: approach,
and receive it penitently."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment, the horseman rode close
to the wall of the terrace, and threw an arm
around her. Overcome by her recent agitation,
Dianora sank upon his breast, murmuring, in
tender accents, "Oliver—dear Oliver."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The curses of the whole calendar upon
thee and Oliver too! Ha! you greet not him
contemptuously with an old scrap of Metastasio.
Burning hell! traitress, I recall your
biting taunts, and will revenge me even as
Horazio did. Lo! the hand you pledged unto
me shall yet be mine."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A smothered cry burst from Dianora.—Instead
of the handsome and flushed face of
Oliver Lascelles, a livid and unearthly visage,
distorted by the most vindictive passions, was
close to her cheek; two ferocious eyes glared
upon her, and the strong arm of Giosué was around her.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Never again wilt thou scorn a lover, Dianora
Montecino; and dear will </span><em class="italics">that</em><span> taunt cost
thee which dictates my revenge."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>His long keen acciaro gleamed in the moonlight,
as he grasped her beautiful hand with
the grasp of a tiger—instantly the sharp knife
descended upon the slender wrist!</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Let me throw a veil over the horrors that
ensued.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The French sentinels on the windings of the
lonely river, the wolf in the distant woods and
the eagle on the rocks of Battaglia, must have
been alike startled by the agonizing shrieks of
Dianora. Fearful they were; but of short
duration. A moan succeeded—a moan of
terrible import. Then rang the hoofs of a
horse as if spurred madly down the steep
roadway. A turn of the dell hid the wild
horseman, and then all became still.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Her right hand severed at the wrist, her
nose cut off, and her face seamed with the
most frightful gashes, Dianora was found by
the alarmed household of the bishop, stretched
on the marble terrace, bleeding and
senseless—mutilated—dying. She was borne away:
convulsions succeeded, and that night the unhappy
Dianora died.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>She expired in the arms of the venerable
bishop, whose grief and horror rendered him
almost distracted.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-monastery"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XV.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE MONASTERY.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>To return to Scylla.—The hour of parade
passed: Lascelles had not yet returned, and I
could no longer withstand my anxiety for his
safety. Accompanied by my intelligent
countryman, Gask, a bugler, and twenty soldiers in
light marching order, each with sixty rounds of
ammunition, I departed in the direction of
Fiumara, on the almost hopeless errand of
endeavouring to discover him. I now reproached
myself bitterly, and really thought I had been
much to blame in not restricting my rash
friend, even at the chance of a quarrel: it
could not have been of long duration.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Leaving Scylla as quietly as possible, we
marched towards Fiumara by the most lonely
and unfrequented route, through gorges and
thickets, expecting every instant to hear the
musket of our advanced file discharged, as a
signal that a patrol of French cavalry, or some
such interruption, was in sight.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>It was a beautiful morning: the rays of the
bright sun streamed aslant between the peaks
of Mylæ, and the white dewy vapour curled
from the dells like a gauze screen, mellowing
the dark green of the pine thickets and the
blue of the gleaming ocean, which shone at
times between the openings of the high and
broken shore. The morning hymn to the
Virgin, and the tolling of the matin bell,
floated through the still air from the dark old
walls of St. Battaglia; a monastery perched on
a rock, by the base of which the pathway
wound. On we hurried; and soon Fiumara,
its houses shining in the sun, the red smoky
fires of the French camp, and their chain of
out-picquets near the river, appeared before us.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At the bottom of the hill on which the Villa
of Montecino was situated, just as we were
striking into the narrow path that wound up
its wooded side, our advanced file, (who was
about fifty paces in front), halted, and waved
his hand.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Keep together, men! fix bayonets!—look
to your priming—forward!" I exclaimed, and
we rushed towards him. There was no
immediate cause for alarm; but on a level spot of
green sward we discovered sufficient evidence
that some deed of violence and atrocity had
been perpetrated, and I trembled for my poor
friend Oliver! On the grass lay his gilded
gorget, with its white silk ribbon rent in two;
near it lay a buff military glove, covered with
blood; a little further on we found his riding
switch, with his crest graven on its gold
embossed head. All around, the trampled state
of the grass, the marks of feet (some of which
had evidently been shoeless), the deep indents
of horse-hoofs, and, worst of all, a pool of
coagulated blood on the pathway, led us to
anticipate some terrible catastrophe. Loud
and deep were the threats and execrations of
the soldiers.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At an accelerated pace we pushed up the hill
towards the house of Montecino, passing on
our left the mouldering ruins of a castelletto,
or little fortalice; the broken ramparts of which
were almost hidden under heavy masses of dark
green ivy and luxuriant weeds.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Entering the bishop's disordered mansion
without ceremony, I halted the soldiers in the
vestibule, and desired a servant, who appeared,
to conduct me to her master. The woman
vouchsafed me no other reply than a motion to
follow her: she was very pale, and her eyes
were red from recent weeping. Opening a
door, she ushered me into a little darkened
oratory; where, on a bier before the altar
surrounded by tapers, shedding "a dim, religious
light," lay the sad remains of the hapless
Dianora. They were covered with a white
shroud; and so completely, that I beheld not
the frightful ravages committed by the knife of
the assassin. Beside the body—his white
vestments soiled with blood, his thin grey hairs
dishevelled, his aspect wild and haggard—knelt
Piero Montecino, the aged Bishop of
Nicastro; his attenuated hands clasped and
holding a crucifix, on which, at times, he
bowed down his reverend head. His wonted
spiritual resignation, priestly dignity, and
stateliness of aspect were gone: his spirit was
crushed and broken. How changed was his
whole appearance since the day when, with
Bianca, I stood before the altar in the church
of his bishoprick!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, Dianora! my daughter—my child!"
he exclaimed, in accents of the deepest grief:
"O, madonna, have mercy upon me! Holy
Trinity, have mercy upon me! Dianora, my
blessed one! Saint Euphemio, pray for her!
Saint Magdalene, pray for her! Sweet lady of
Burello!—beatified Rosalia!—thrice blessed
lady of Loretto, mother of mercy! hear me,
and pray for her!" Heavy sobs succeeded.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The touching tones of his voice, and the
passionate fervour of his devout appeals, deeply
moved me. So intense was his sorrow, that it
almost warranted the suspicion of a nearer
relationship to Dianora than his vows and
character as a Catholic churchman permitted; but
no such ungenerous thought occurred to me
then: my heart felt only the deepest and most
sincere compassion for the bereaved old man.
He was so besotted with woe, that I saw it was
next to impossible to obtain from him the least
intelligence or advice; and, withdrawing softly,
I left the villa immediately.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>When descending the hill towards the spot
where we had found the relics of our missing
comrade, we met a peasant, who, with a long
ox-goad, was urging a pair of lazy buffaloes
towards Scylla. I desired my soldiers to bring
him before me, in the desperate hope of
obtaining some information concerning poor
Lascelles; and, strange to say, we could not have
had a luckier rencontre, or better intelligencer.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Hollo, Signor Campagnuolo!" said I to
the cattle driver; "from whence have you
come this morning—Fiumara, eh?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"No, Signor."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Where, then?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"From the monastery of Battaglia, down
the mountains yonder," he answered somewhat
reservedly; and, endeavouring to pass, he
added, "a holy day to you, Signor."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Any movement taking place among the
French lately?—are any of their patrols out?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I have not heard, excellency; but a fugitive,
chased by a party of them, took refuge at
the monastery this morning, and is said to have
confessed to the Padre Abate a horrible crime."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ha! and is he now in the sanctuary?"
I demanded, eagerly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Prostrate on the steps of the altar: his
penitence is great. Madonna intercede for him!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Thanks," said I, permitting the uneasy
rustic to pass on his way. "Advance, soldiers—trail
arms—forward, double quick! We have
got on the right scent at last, perhaps; and
there is not a moment to be lost."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>With right good will the soldiers moved
forward towards the monastery; their arms
glancing and pouches clanking as they rushed
down the steep hill side. The place of our
destination, a confused mass of irregular
buildings, stood near the river before-mentioned,
about a mile distant. It was a monastery of
great antiquity; a high wall of grey stone
girdled it round, and above that rose its
campanile, a square tower, surmounted by a flat
tiled roof. From the outer wall, the rocks on
which the edifice was perched sloped
precipitously down on all sides; especially towards the
south, where they descended in one unbroken
line to the deep dark waters of the still but rapid
stream, which wound through a chasm below.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>As we began to ascend the steep and devious
path cut in the hard volcanic rock, and leading
directly to the monastery, we saw the monks
appearing and disappearing like black crows on
their high outer wall; and the arched gateway
was hurriedly closed: the fathers were evidently
in a state of consternation, and making all fast;
fearing that we might disregard the immunities
of the holy sanctuary. All the friars had
vanished by the time we reached the
iron-studded door in the outer wall; over which the
evergreen, ivy, and long rank grass were waving in profusion.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>We knocked loudly. No answer was given.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Sound!" said I, to the bugle-boy; and a
loud blast from his instrument made the old
walls, the echoing chapel, the bosky woods and
splintered rocks ring far and near. Still the
summons was unheeded, and the impatient
soldiers thundered at the gateway with the
butts of their muskets. The reverend fathers
no doubt suspected our purpose.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"What want ye?" said an old vinegar-visaged
friar, appearing on the top of the wall, which
he had surmounted by the assistance of a ladder.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you all asleep within there?" I
answered, angrily. "We want a fugitive, to
whom you have given refuge. Call you this
civility, padre? and to us whose swords are
drawn in the cause of your country."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Beware, Signori Inglesi! dare you violate
the rights of the blessed sanctuary?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You will soon learn whether we will not,
you old scarecrow!" I replied, with increased
impatience. "Aprite la porta, Signor Canonico,
or by Heaven! we will beat it down in a twinkling!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Patience, capitano—patience, until I confer
with the reverend Superior."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Be quick, then! We must see instantly this
rascal who has obtained sanctuary. The enemy
are so near, that we have not a moment to lose."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The monk disappeared. I directed Gask,
with six soldiers, to watch the walls, and
capture or wound any man attempting to
escape; but not to kill—if possible. I was
most anxious to learn with certainty the fate of
Lascelles: whether he had been assassinated;
or was lying perishing and mutilated in some
solitary place; or had been delivered up to the
French. Indeed, I should have been relieved
from a load of anxiety, and felt overjoyed to
learn that his fate was only the last. Gask was
as well aware as I how jealous the continental
monks were of the ancient right of sanctuary,
and he knew that they would rather favour the
escape of the vilest criminal than deliver him
up to offended justice. Of their obstinacy in
this respect, I know of several instances: one I
will mention in particular. It occurred at Malta.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A soldier of ours, when passing one day
through a street of Valetta, was run against
and thrown down by a provoking brute of a
pig. Exasperated at having his gay uniform
soiled by the dusty street, he gave the grunting
porker a hearty kick; upon which the villainous
macellajo, to whom it belonged, drew his
poniard and stabbed him to the heart. The
poor soldier fell dead on the pavement; the
murderer fled to the great church of St. John,
and obtained sanctuary. Respecting the popular
prejudices of the Maltese (who regard with
the greatest veneration that sacred edifice,
which contains the sepulchres of innumerable
brave knights of the Isle,) the general
commanding permitted the hot-blooded ruffian to
remain some time in sanctuary, before he
applied to the bishop for the exertion of his
authority to have him delivered up to the civil
magistrates. The prelate delayed, equivocated;
and the reverend fathers, foreseeing the violation
of their famous place of refuge, facilitated
the escape of the assassin, and so defeated the
ends of justice.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I was determined that the priests of St. Battaglia
should not cheat me so in this affair; and,
after desiring Gask with his party to keep on
the alert, I was about to have the door blown to
pieces by a volley of musketry, when the bars
were withdrawn, and it slowly revolved on its
creaking hinges. The soldiers were about to
rush in; but the sight they beheld arrested
them: all paused, mute, and turned inquiringly
to me for instructions.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-sanctuary-violated"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVI.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>The portal of the edifice slowly unfolded,
disclosing the whole array of priests, who,
clad in their floating vestments, advanced
chaunting from the oratory, with tapers
burning, censers smoking, and two emblazoned
banners waving: one of white silk, bearing a
large crimson cross, surmounted by the sacred
charge of St. Peter—the keys of heaven; the
other, the symbolical banner of St. Battaglia,
surrounded by all the imaginary odour and
glory of sanctity. The spectacle was very
imposing: the tapers of scented wax, and
the silver censers filled with lavender flowers,
diffused through the air a fragrant perfume;
while the pale curling smoke that encircled the
gilded crosses and elevated images rendered—</span></p>
<blockquote>
<div>
<div class="line-block outermost">
<div class="line"><span>"——Indistinct the pageant proud,</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>As fancy forms of midnight cloud,</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>When flings the moon upon her shroud</span></div>
<div class="inner line-block">
<div class="line"><span>A wavering tinge of flame."</span></div>
<div class="line"> </div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class="pfirst"><span>The misty vapour, the flickering lights, and
the flowing garments of the fathers; the dark
walls of the old cloisters which rang to the
solemn and sonorous chaunt of twenty male
voices; the distant organ swelling aloud, and
then dying away in the hollow recesses of the
arched oratory, together produced a striking
effect. The abbot, an aged priest of venerable
aspect, with a beard white as the new fallen
snow (then an unusual appendage to a canon's
chin), appeared at their head. They halted
beneath the ivy-crowned archway; the chaunt
ceased, the soldiers drew back, and all were
silent: save the magnificent strains of the
organ reverberating in the vaulted chapel
and the rustle of the consecrated standards,
all was still. The abbot, who no doubt
expected that this religious display would
impress us with a feeling of awe, then addressed me.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Your purpose, signor?" he asked, mildly,
but firmly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Reverend abate," I responded, lowering
my sword respectfully, "I demand the person,
of a vile assassin, whom I have learned, from
unquestionable authority, you have concealed
within these walls!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"He whom you seek is under the protection
of God. Know, signor, that he who
puts forth a hand in anger against one who
seeketh and findeth sanctuary in the church,
is guilty of the most atrocious sacrilege!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"On my own head be the guilt of the
sacrilege, Padre Abate. Excuse us: the
French are in your immediate vicinity, and
we run the imminent risk of being all taken
prisoners. One of our comrades, a young
officer of distinction, is missing; and a
frightful assassination has been committed at the
villa Montecino: we have every reason to
believe that your favoured fugitive is
implicated in both these mysterious occurrences.
I cannot parley with you, reverend signor: I
demand an interview with the criminal; and
if he is not instantly brought forth, I have to
acquaint you that I will search the monastery
by force; and, if need be, drag him from the
very altar at the point of the bayonet!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Ere the indignant abbot could reply—</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Darest thou! abominable heretic as thou
art, violate the house of God?" cried a tall,
fierce-looking and fanatical monk, rushing
forward, with flushed cheeks and kindling eyes,
and holding aloft a ponderous ebony crucifix.
"Pause! lest the thunders of offended Heaven
be hurled upon ye: pause! lest the vials of
wrath——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Pshaw!" I exclaimed, impatiently; "we
may parley here till sunset. Soldiers, forward
to the chapel: there you will doubtless discover
the rogue." My followers rushed past; a volley
of execrations burst from the padri, and I was
assailed with cries of—</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Paganico infame! malandrino! infidel! damnable
heretic!" and a thousand other injurious
and ridiculous epithets. I heeded them
not; but, at the head of my party, burst into
the chapel of the monastery. I had augured
rightly: there the fugitive was discovered.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Pale as death, ghastly and bloody from a
sword wound on the head, a savage-looking
fellow was dragged by force from the foot
of the great gilt crucifix on the altar; to
the rail of which he clung for a moment with
convulsive energy. The soldiers brought him
before me, and, by their fixed bayonets, kept
back the exasperated priests; who continued
to pour forth upon us a ceaseless torrent of
invectives and maledictions, which we regarded
no more than the wind.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you the unhappy man who is guilty
of murder?" said I. He replied only by a
wild and unmeaning stare.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Unhappy wretch! your name?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Giosué of Montecino," said he, suddenly
and fiercely. I trembled for poor Oliver, on
remembering the name of his rival.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Villain! what fiend tempted you to slay
your unhappy cousin?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>He started, as if stung by a serpent.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"She is dead, then!" he said in a hoarse
and almost inarticulate voice, while his head
drooped upon his heaving breast. Suddenly
uttering a howl like a wild beast, he broke
away from the soldiers, escaping their levelled
bayonets; and, finding the gate secured,
scrambled up the rugged outer wall like a
polecat; there balancing himself, he turned,
and regarding me with a scornful scowl, he
burst into a bitter and hysterical laugh. The
soldiers rushed towards him, and one fired;
but I threw up his firelock, and the ball
passed close to the head of the assassin, who
never winced. Escape was now impossible.
On one side of him bristled twenty bayonets;
en the other was a tremendous precipice, with
a deep river flowing at its base several
hundred feet below. The slightest dizziness
might have been fatal to him. But folding
his arms he uttered a laugh of defiance, and
called upon us to fire. I was strongly tempted
to put his talisman to the proof; but restrained
my exasperated soldiers.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Wretch," said I; "know you aught of a
British officer, who has been missing since last
night?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he replied, with a sardonic grin,
shaking his clenched right hand aloft with
savage exultation. "These are the fingers that
fastened on his throat with a tiger's clutch."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You slew him!" I cried, and drew a pistol from my sash.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I did not—ha! and yet I did."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"How, villain?" He laughed scornfully again.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Hear me, Giosué Montecino," said I:
"you see this pistol? I might in one moment
deprive you of existence——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ha! ha!" laughed the assassin.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Yet I will spare your life, if you will tell
me the fate of my comrade."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"My life? Bagatella! ho—ho! I want it not.
Fools—dolts that ye are! think ye that I am
afraid to die? Here is my breast—a thousand
bullets were welcome—straight to the heart—fire!"
and he smote his bosom as he spoke.
There was something almost noble in his
aspect at that moment, notwithstanding its
wildness and repulsiveness.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Hear me, fellow:—the Lieutenant Lascelles"——</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ha!" he ground his teeth madly. "Curses
hurl him to that perdition into which he has
hurried me! At this moment he feels in the
body some of those agonies I endure in the
spirit. O, Dianora!—thou whose very shadow
I worshipped,—I who loved the very ground
you trod upon!" The inexplicable ruffian
sobbed heavily; yet his blood-shot eyes were
never moistened by a tear. "O, Dianora!"
he continued, in a voice which, though husky,
yet expressed the most intense pathos. "Who
was the fiend that nerved me to destroy thee—and
so barbarously? Who, but this accursed
Englishman! Believe me, Signor, I had not
the least intention of slaying her last night:
O no! none—none!" He wrung his hands
wildly. "What could be further from my
thoughts? Disguised as her lover—as this
Oliver—I intended to have carried her off;
but her endearing accents, addressed as to
him, fell like scorching fire upon my heart.
I could restrain my demoniac feelings no
longer. O, horror! Yet I have done nothing
that I would not commit again, rather than
behold her in the arms of—of—Maladetto!—his
name is poison to my lips!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Madman, come down from the wall."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Would you learn the fate of your friend?"
he asked, exultingly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Had I a mountain of gold to give you—"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Gold?—fool!—what is gold to me?
Listen. Waylaid by my companions last
night, the dog you call your comrade was
dashed from his horse by their clubs. He
fought bravely, and with his sabre laid open
my head: my own blood blinded me. Ha! a
moment, and my hand was on his throat—my
acciaro at his breast—yet I spared him."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Heaven will reward you"——</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ha—ha! A sudden death suited not my
purpose or my hate. Slow, consuming,
diabolical mental tortures were what I wanted:
and what think you we did?" I was breathless;
I could not ask, but Giosué continued:</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Bound with cords, he was borne to a
ruined vault among the lonely mountains
yonder; there amid stinging adders, hissing
vipers, bloated toads, and voracious polecats,
we flung him down, tied hand and foot,
stunned and bleeding. Then closing the
aperture, we piled up earth and stones and
rocks against it. There let him perish! unseen,
unknown, unheard. May never an
ave be said over his bones, and may a curse
blight, haunt, and blast, to all futurity, the
spot where they lie." He paused for a
moment, and then continued more slowly and
energetically.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"To laugh to scorn the terror of death was
the glory of the Greek and the Roman; and
I will show thee, Signor Inglese, that Giosué
of Montecino can despise it, as nobly as his
classic fathers may have done in the days of
old." He raised aloft a long bright poniard,
which he suddenly drew forth from his sleeve.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Madman!—desperado!" I exclaimed;
"hold, for the sake of mercy! A word—a
word—I will give you a thousand ducats!
life! all! anything! but say where you have
imprisoned my friend?—for Heaven's sake say!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Never!" said he, with a triumphant
scowl—-"never: let him perish with myself.
Love for Dianora led me to destroy her; and
love for her still, teaches me that to survive
would be the foulest and basest cowardice!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>He struck the stiletto to his heart, and fell
dead at my feet.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I was horror-stricken: not by the suicide
of the assassin, but by the revelation he had
had just made. Of its truth I could not
entertain a doubt, The situation of the
unfortunate Lascelles, pinioned, wounded, and
entombed alive, to endure all the protracted
agonies of death by starvation, rushed vividly
upon my mind, and overwhelmed me with
rage and mortification. I explained to my
soldiers the terrible confession of the fierce
Giosué, and their emotions were not much
short of my own. We endured tantalization
in its bitterest sense. What would I not have
given that the convulsed corpse of the vindictive
Montecino were yet endued with life. But,
alas! the ruffian had perished in his villainy
with the important secret undisclosed, and the
horrible fate of my friend could not be averted.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>And Giosué, wretch as he was, I pitied him.
His had been the burning love, and his the
deadly hatred of his country:</span></p>
<blockquote>
<div>
<div class="line-block outermost">
<div class="line"><span>"The cold in clime, or cold in blood,</span></div>
<div class="inner line-block">
<div class="line"><span>Their love it scarce deserves a name;</span></div>
</div>
<div class="line"><span>But </span><em class="italics">his</em><span> was like the lava's flood,</span></div>
<div class="inner line-block">
<div class="line"><span>That boils in Etna's breast of flame."</span></div>
<div class="line"> </div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Slowly and dejectedly we quitted the
monastery, as the sun was setting behind the
hills of Sicily; and marching in silence
towards Scylla, we reached a third time the
place where Oliver's glove and gorget had
been found. There we made an involuntary
halt, and gazed around us with the keenest
scrutiny, in the hope of discovering some
clue to the place of his immurement. My
brave party seemed very unwilling to
return to Scylla without making another effort
to rescue the victim of Montecino. Innumerable
were the ideas suggested and plans
proposed; but none of them seemed worthy of
attention, save one of Sergeant Gask's.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The rascal mentioned a ruined vault
among the hills," said he: "now what think
you, Captain Dundas, of searching the ruins
on the mountain yonder? And, by my faith,
sir! the foot-marks and traces of blood lead
off in that direction. See! the lower branches
of the shrubs are broken, the withered leaves
of the last year are trodden down, and bloody
tracks are on the grass."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The sergeant is right, sir," muttered the
soldiers, pleased with his acuteness.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Move on, then—forward to the old castle;
any active occupation is preferable to this
horrid state of idle suspense."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A quarter of an hour's rapid marching
brought us to the castelletto, a little tower in
a state of great dilapidation, covered with
masses of bronze-like ivy, and the beautiful
wild flowers of fruitful Italy. A large owl
flew from one of the shattered openings, and
with a shrill scream soared on its heavy wings
through the evening sky. The woods and
hills around us were growing dark; the
place was still as the grave: the ivy leaves
rustling tremulously on the rugged masonry
of the ruin, and a rivulet tinkling through a
fissure of a neighbouring rock, were the only
sounds we heard. Solemn pines towered
around it on every hand, and the aspect of the
landscape was peculiarly desolate and gloomy.
A musket was fired as a signal, and with a
thousand reverberations the wooded hills gave
back the echo. With heads bent to the
ground, we listened intently; but there was no
response, and we looked blankly in each other's
faces.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"This cannot be the place," said I in a tone
of sadness, about to move unwillingly away.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Stay, sir—look here, Captain Dundas,"
cried Gask; "here is blood on the grass,
and, sure as I live, stones freshly heaped up
there!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Right—by Jove! Gask, you are an acute
fellow. Pile your firelocks, lads, and clear
away this heap of rubbish."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Flushed with hope, the soldiers attacked the
pile of stones indicated by the sergeant: there
were bushes, earth, and fragments of ruined
masonry, all evidently but recently piled up
against the base of the tower. Rapidly they
rolled down the heavy blocks, and toiled so
strenuously that in three minutes the whole
heap was cleared away, and a little arched
aperture disclosed. An exclamation of joy
and hope burst from the whole party: we had
found the place. Gask and the little bugler
descended into the vault—a dark, damp, and
hideous hole under the ruins. A faint moan
drew them cautiously to a corner, and there
they found the object of all our search and
anxiety—Oliver Lascelles, benumbed by cold,
and his limbs swollen almost to bursting by
the tight cordage which confined them. He
was speechless and half-stifled by the noxious
vapours of the dungeon: had we been half an
hour later he must have expired. When
we drew him forth, he was so pale, haggard,
and death-like, that his aspect shocked me;
but the pure fresh breeze of the balmy
evening revived him, and he recovered rapidly.
He could not address us at first; but his looks
of thankfulness, joy, and recognition were
most expressive. The soldiers were merry
and happy, every face beamed with gladness;
even Gask's usually grave and melancholy
visage was brightened by a smile.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>We had little time for explanation; we
were in a dangerous vicinity, from which it
was necessary to retire without a moment's
delay. Oliver was quite enfeebled; but,
supported on the sergeant's arm and mine, he
contrived to walk, though slowly, and we set
out immediately for the castle of Scylla.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Gask afterwards told me, that in the vault
"he had touched something that made his
flesh creep." It was a small and delicate
female hand. I never mentioned the circumstance
to Oliver; who was long in recovering
from the effects of his perilous love adventure.
But I had no doubt the dead hand was poor
Dianora's: the </span><em class="italics">forfeited hand</em><span>, which in cruel
mockery that incarnate demon Giosué had
thrown beside her lover.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>In the bustle of succeeding and more
important events the interest we took in
Lascelles' affair gradually subsided. But it was
long ere he forgot the fate of Dianora, and the
horrible death which, by a lucky combination
of incidents, he had so narrowly escaped;
and longer still ere he recovered his wonted
buoyancy of spirit and lightness of heart.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="unexpected-perils"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVII.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">UNEXPECTED PERILS.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>The near approach of the enemy made it
apparent that the town of Scylla would soon be
destroyed by the shot and shell their artillery
would pour upon it; and that the Free Corps,
who occupied its half-ruined streets, would be
sacrificed without being of service to the
garrison in the castle; I, therefore, telegraphed
to the </span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span>, to send off a boat, as I wished
to consult with her commander about the
transmission of those troops to Messina.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A strong breeze had been blowing from
the south-west all day, and the sea ran with
such fury through the Straits that no boat
could come off until after sunset, when there
was a lull. Immediately, on being informed
that a boat had arrived at the sea staircase,
I buckled on my sabre, threw my cloak
round me, and hurried off, intending to return
before the ever-anxious Bianca had discovered
my absence. How vain were my anticipations!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The long </span><em class="italics">fetch</em><span> of the sea running from
Syracuse rolled the breakers with great fury
on the castle rock, and the boat was tossed
about like a cork among the foaming surf
that seethed and hissed around us. As the
oars dipped in the water and she shot away,
I seated myself in the stern-sheets, beside the
little middy who held the tiller-ropes. The
frigate lay nearly a mile to the southward, and
there was such a tremendous current against
us that the six oarsmen, though straining
every nerve and sinew, found it impossible
to make head against it.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish we may make the frigate to-night,
sir," said the midshipman, looking anxiously
at the clouds: "there's a squall coming from
the south-south-east, and these Straits are
an awkward place to be caught by one. What
do you think, Tom Taut?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Think, sir? why that we'll have a dirty
night," replied the sailor whom he addressed:
a grim, brown, and brawny tar. "When I
sailed in the </span><em class="italics">Polly Femus</em><span>, 74, we had just
such a night as this off Scylla, and I won't be
in a hurry forgetting it!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>It was now past sunset, in the month of
February, and the darkness of the louring
sky increased rapidly. Through the thin
mist floating over the surface of the water,
the frigate loomed large; but when the rising
wind cleared it away, we found the distance
increasing between us: the strong current
was carrying us, at the rate of five knots an
hour, towards the terrible rock we had just
left; which rose from the water like a black
gigantic tower, and seemed ever to be close
by, frowning its terrors upon us. Dense
banks of vapour soon shrouded the land and
hid the frigate: it grew so dark that we knew
not which way to steer. The seamen still
continued to pull fruitlessly; for we made so
much sternway that I expected to find the
frail craft momently stranded on the rocky
beach.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall never reach the frigate to-night,
unless she fills and makes a stretch towards
us," said the middy. "This current will not
change till daylight, and the Lord knows
when the wind will chop about. It has
been blowing from Syracuse ever since the
poor little </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span> was driven on the rocks
yonder."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You cannot fetch Scylla, I suppose."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Lord, no, sir! we must give it a wide
berth: the breakers will be running against it
in mountains just now. We must put up the
helm and run with the wind and tide, to avoid
swamping; and if we escape being sucked
into Charybdis on the westward, or beached
under the cliffs of Palmi to the northward, we
may consider ourselves lucky dogs."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"But we may be thrown upon a part of the
coast occupied by the enemy."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Better that than go to old Davy, sir,"
said the grey-haired bow-oarsman, "as I
nearly did when the </span><em class="italics">Polly Femus</em><span>, 74, came
through these same Straits of Messina."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"When?" said I. "Lately?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Lord love you, no, sir—why 't was in the
year one."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"One?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"That is 1801. We were standing for
Malta with a stiff breeze from the nor'-east.
The </span><em class="italics">Polly Femus</em><span> was close hauled on the
starboard tack——"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"D—n the </span><em class="italics">Polyphemus</em><span>," cried the midshipman,
testily, as he put the helm up; "take in
your loose gaff, Tom: if we are not picked
up by the </span><em class="italics">Amphion</em><span>, your tune will be changed
before morning. Hoste keeps a good look out!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"He was made a sailor of in the </span><em class="italics">Polly</em><span>—whew! beg
pardon, sir," said the old fellow,
who could not resist making another allusion
to his old ship.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Faith! Captain Dundas," said the middy,
"it is so dark that I have not the slightest
notion of our whereabouts."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Yonder's a spark away to windward, sir,"
said old Tom. "The </span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span>, cannot be less
than somewhere about two miles off—a few
fathoms more or less."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment the frigate fired a gun;
the red flash gleamed through the gloom, and
after a lapse the report was borne past us on
the night wind. A blue light was next burned;
it shone like a distant star above the black and
tumbling sea, then expired: and so did all our
hopes of reaching the ship—the sound of her
gun having informed us that we had been
swept by the current far to the north of the
Lanterna of Messina, which was rapidly being
lost amid the murky vapour.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Keep a good look out there forward,"
cried the middy: "if we miss the </span><em class="italics">Amphion</em><span>,
we may all go to the bottom, or be under
weigh for a French prison by this time to-morrow."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ay, ay, sir," replied the sailor through
his hand, while, bending forward, he strove
to pierce the gloom a-head.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Give way, men—cheerily now."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The rowers stretched back over the thwarts
till their oars bent like willow wands, and as
the strong current was with us now, we flew
through the foaming water with the speed of a
race-horse.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The </span><em class="italics">Amphion</em><span> should be somewhere hereabouts,"
said the midshipman, as the oarsmen
suspended their labours after a quarter of an
hour's pulling: we anxiously scanned the
gloomy watery waste, but could discern no
trace of her. Vapour and obscurity involved
us on every side, and our minds became a
prey to apprehensions, while our blood chilled
with the cold atmosphere, and a three hours'
seat in an open boat at such a season. The
tower of the Lantern had vanished; a single
star only was visible, and the inky waves often
hid it, as the boat plunged down into the dark
trough of the midnight sea.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly the broad moon showed her
silvery disc above the level horizon; her size
seemed immense, and as the thin gauzy clouds
rolled away from her shining face, we saw the
black waves rising and falling in strong
outline between. Her aspect was gloomy and
louring.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"When the moon sets, the current will
begin to run northward," said the experienced
little mid; "and we shall have a capital
chance of being sucked into the Calofaro, or
stranded on Punta Secca. Would to God, we
saw the frigate!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>As he spoke, a large vessel passed across the
bright face of that magnificent moon, which
shed a long line of silver light across the
troubled water, brightening the summits of the
waves as they rose successively from the dark
bosom of the sea. The effect was beautiful,
as the vessel passed on the rolling surge,
and heaving gracefully, slid away into obscurity.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A large frigate on the starboard tack,"
said the midshipman, as she disappeared:
"she is five miles off."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"That's the </span><em class="italics">Amphion</em><span>, your honour," said
Tom Taut; "I know her as well as the old
</span><em class="italics">Polly Femus</em><span>."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you sure?" I asked with anxiety.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Sure?" replied Tom, energetically spitting
his quid to leeward; "I know her in a
moment, by the rake of her spars. Her mizen
top-sail aback—her courses shivering: I
know her better than any ship on the station,
except the darling old </span><em class="italics">Polly</em><span>. Bill Hoste is
creeping along shore, after some of these
gun-boats the </span><em class="italics">Delight</em><span> let slip so easily."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"If I judge rightly, we must be somewhere
off Palmi."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Hark!" said the midshipman, and the roar
of billows rolling on the shore confirmed my
supposition.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Breakers ahead!" cried the man at the
bow, and we beheld a long white frothy line,
glimmering through the gloom; and above it
towered the dark outline of a lofty coast. The
current shot us among the surf; which boiled
around us as white as if we were amid the
terrors of Charybdis. A little cove, where the
waves rolled gently up the sandy slope,
invited us to enter; the boat ran in, and we
were immediately in the smooth water of a
little harbour, where the dark wild woods
overhung the rocks at its entrance, and all around
it on every side. Here we hoped to remain
unseen, till daylight revealed our
"whereabouts," as the middy had it.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>For a time we kept the oars in the rowlocks,
ready to retire on a moment's notice; but
finding that not a sound, save the dashing sea,
woke the echoes of that lonely place, I
volunteered to land and make a reconnoissance;
desiring the midshipman to pull southward, along
the shore, in case of any alarm, that I might
be picked up at some other point. Belting
my sabre tighter, I threw aside my cloak, and
sprang ashore. On walking a little way
forward, through the wood, I found the country
open, and saw lights at a distance; which I
conjectured to be those of Palmi or Seminara,
where Regnier had concentrated a strong body
of troops.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Struggling forward among a wilderness of
prostrate columns and shattered walls
overgrown with creeping plants and foliage
(probably the ruins of ancient </span><em class="italics">Taurianum</em><span>), I often
stopped and bent to the ground to listen; but
heard only the creaking trees, the gurgle of
a lonely rill seeking its devious path to the
sea, or the rustle of withered leaves, swept over
the waste by the rising wind. But the roll
of a distant drum and the flash of a cannon
about two miles off, arrested my steps and
made me think of returning: I conjectured it
to be the morning gun from the French fort at
Palmi. Daylight soon began to brighten the
summits of the Apennines, and the waves, as
they rolled on each far off promontory and
cape. Having nearly a mile to walk, I began
hurriedly to retrace my steps; for the dawn stole
rapidly on. As I walked on, the deep boom of a
cannonade and the sharp patter of small arms
made my heart leap with excitement and
anxiety, and spurred me in my flight. Breaking
through the wood, I rushed breathlessly to
the shore; but alas! the boat was gone: I
saw it pulled seaward, with a speed which
the strong flow of the morning current accelerated.
In close chase, giving stroke for stroke,
while the crew plied their muskets and twenty-four
pounder, followed one of those unlucky
gun-boats captured by the French: it had
been anchored in the same cove, and had
discovered our little shallop the moment day
broke.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The pursued and the pursuers soon disappeared
behind a promontory, and I found
myself alone, far behind the enemy's lines, and
almost without a chance of escape. Cursing
the zeal which had led me on such a fruitless
reconnoissance, I retired into a beech wood, as
the safest place; and lay down in a thicket to
reflect on my position, and form a plan for
extrication from it.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="captured-by-the-enemy-the-two-generals"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVIII.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY—THE TWO GENERALS.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>I was only twelve miles distant from Scylla;
but as every approach to it was closely blocked
up by Regnier, whose troops covered the whole
province from sea to sea, every attempt to reach
it would be attended by innumerable dangers
and difficulties: yet, confiding in the loyalty of
the Calabrese, and the influence my name had
among them, I did not despair of regaining the
fortress, by seeking its vicinity through the most
retired paths.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Except my sword, spurs, and Hessian boots,
I had nothing military about me; as I wore a
Calabrian doublet of grey cloth, and a
nondescript forage-cap. As I walked forward, the
trees became more scattered, and the openness
of the ground made the utmost circumspection
necessary. A sudden cry of "Halte! arrêtez!"
made me pause; and, within a few paces,
I beheld a French vidette—a lancer in his long;
scarlet cloak, which flowed from his shoulders
over the crupper of his horse, and, like his
heavy plume and tricoloured banderole, was
dank with dew.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, sacre coquin!" he cried, lowering his
lance, and charging me at full speed. "I see
you are an Englishman." I sprang behind a
tree, and as he passed me in full career, by a
blow of my sabre I hewed the steel head
from his lance. At that moment an officer
rode up, and, placing a pistol at my head,
commanded me to yield. Resistance was vain,
and I surrendered my sabre in the most
indescribable sorrow and chagrin; for thoughts of
Bianca, of a long separation and imprisonment,
of all my blighted hopes of happiness, honour,
and promotion, and of the important trust
reposed in me, rushed in a flood upon my
mind: almost stupified, I was led away by
my captor.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A few minutes' walk brought us to the
bivouac of a cavalry brigade, which was in all
the bustle of preparation for the march; while
six trumpeters, blowing "boot and saddle,"
made the furthest dingles of the forest ring.
The horses were all picqueted under trees, or
within breast-ropes; and the officer informed
me that the brigade was that of General
Compere, before whom he led me.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Rolled up in a cloak, the general was
seated at the foot of a tree; behind him stood
his mounted orderly, holding his charger by
the bridle. His aide-de-camp and a number
of officers lounged round him, smoking cigars,
drinking wine from a little barrel, and joking
with great hilarity ere they marched. The
ashes of the watch-fires smouldered near; the
mist was curling between the branches of the
leafless trees, and the rising sun glittered on
the bright lance-heads, the gay caps, and
accoutrements of the dashing lancers; who were
rapidly unpicqueting their chargers, and
forming close column of squadrons on the skirts of
the wood.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Monsieur le vicomte is welcome as flowers
in spring," said the general; "but who is
this?—Ah!" he exclaimed, suddenly recognising
me, and raising politely his cocked-hat.
"I did not expect to have this pleasure. You
are the brave officer I met at Maida?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I bowed.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"And again behind our lines at Cassano—disguised
as a monk?" he added, with a keen glance.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Thrown upon that coast by shipwreck, I
gladly adopted any disguise until I could
escape."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Our whole army heard of you, and
understood you had been employed as a spy by
the Count of Maida; consequently Massena
was enraged at your escape. Ah! the old
Tambour—he is a rough dog! However, monsieur,
</span><em class="italics">I</em><span> do not believe that one who could fight
so gallantly at Maida, would stoop to act a
dishonourable part."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Yet, will monsieur be so good as explain,"
said another officer, "how we find him here;
without the lines drawn round Scylla, to the
garrison of which he says he belongs—and
why in the garb of a Calabrian?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Indignant at the suspicious nature of these
queries, and unused to the humiliating situation
of a prisoner, I replied briefly and haughtily;
relating how I had missed the boat—a
story which none of them seemed to believe.
A whisper ran round, and the offensive term
"</span><em class="italics">espion</em><span>" brought the blood rushing to my
cheek.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Monsieur le general," said I, with a
sternness of manner which secured their respect,
"will, I trust—in memory of that day at Maida—be
so generous as to send me, on parole, to
Messina, where I may treat about an exchange;
by doing so, he will confer a lasting obligation,
which the fortune of war may soon put it in my
power to repay."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I deeply regret that to General Regnier I
must refer you—he alone can grant your
request. As we move instantly on Scylla, you
must be transmitted to head-quarters without
delay, and under escort. Appearances are
much against you; but I trust matters will
be cleared up. Chataillion," said he to his
aide, "help the gentleman to wine and a
cigar, while I write a rough outline of this
affair to monsieur le general."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Commanding my feelings and features, I
drank a glass or two of wine, while the general,
taking pen and ink from his sabretache, wrote
a hasty note to Regnier.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Chataillion," said he, while folding it,
"order a corporal and a file of lances."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The vicomte went up to the first regiment of
the brigade, and returned with the escort.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"In the charge of these soldiers, you must
be sent to Seminara, where I trust your parole
will be accepted in consequence of this note:
though monsieur le general and monseigneur
le marechal are far from being well disposed
towards you; especially for the last affair with
the voltigeurs of the 23rd. Ah! Regnier's son
Philip was shot at Bagnara—poor boy! Adieu!
May we meet under more agreeable circumstances;"
and giving the letter to the corporal,
Compere sprang into his saddle, and left me.
His aide-de-camp, the Vicomte de Chataillion,
seeing how deeply I was cast down, expressed
regret at having been my capturer. "But
monsieur will perceive," said he, with a most
insinuating smile, "that I was only doing my
duty. You cannot travel on foot with a
mounted escort—it would be dishonourable;
and as I have a spare horse, you are welcome
to it: on reaching Seminara, or even the
frontiers, you can return it with the
corporal.—Adieu!" And we parted.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The frontier! distraction! I could scarcely
thank the young Frenchman: but memory yet
recalls his gallant presence and commanding
features—one of the true old noblesse. How
different he was from Pepe, Regnier, Massena,
and many others; whom the madness and
crimes of the Revolution had raised to place and
power, from the dregs of the French people.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>With a little ostentation, the lancers loaded
their pistols before me, and in five minutes I
was </span><em class="italics">en route</em><span> for Seminara, with a file on each
side and the corporal riding behind. I often
looked back: Compere's brigade were riding in
sections towards the hills, with all their lance
heads and bright accoutrements glittering in
the sun; while the fanfare of the trumpets, the
clash of the cymbals, and the roll of the
kettle-drums, rang in the woods of Palmi. They were
moving towards Scylla, and my heart swelled
when I thought of my helplessness and of poor
Bianca; the hope of Regnier accepting my
parole alone sustained me: but that hope was
doomed to be cruelly disappointed.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>By the way we passed many ghastly objects,
which announced the commencement of that
savage war of extermination which General
Manhes afterwards prosecuted in the Calabrias.
Many armed peasantry had been shot like
beasts of prey, wherever the French fell in with
them; and their bodies hung on the trees we
passed under, while their grisly heads were
stuck on poles by the roadside. Some were in
iron cages, and, reduced to bare skulls, grinned
through the rusty ribs like spectres through
barred helmets; while the birds of prey, screaming
and flapping their wings over them, increased
the gloomy effect such objects must necessarily
have upon one's spirits.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The morning was balmy and beautiful, the
sun hot and bright, the sky cloudless and of
the palest azure; light fleecy vapour floated
along the distant horizon, where the sea lay
gleaming in green and azure: but never had I
a more unpleasant ride than that from Compere's
bivouac. I often looked round me, in the
desperate hope that a sudden attack of robbers or
loyal paesani would set me free; though warned
by the corporal that on the least appearance of
an attempt at rescue he would shoot me dead.
But Regnier had effectually cleared and scoured
the country, and we passed no living being, save
an old Basilian pilgrim, travelling barefooted,
perhaps on his way to the Eternal City; and
once, in the distance, a solitary bandit on the
look-out, perched on the summit of a rock like
a lonely heron. The bells of the mountain
goats, the hum of the bee or the flap of the
wild bird's wing, and the dull tramp of our
horses on the grassy way, alone broke the
silence. My escort were solemn and taciturn
Poles, who never addressed a word either to me
or to each other; so my gloomy cogitations were
uninterrupted till we entered Seminara, when
the scene changed.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The town was crowded with soldiers, and all
the populace had fled: cavalry, infantry, artillery,
sappeurs, voltigeurs, and military artizans,
thronged on every hand; shirts and belts were
drying at every window, and the air was
thickened by pipe clay and tobacco-smoke,
while the sound of drums, bugles, and trumpets
mingled with shouts and laughter, rang through
the whole place—noise and uproar reigning on
all sides. The great Greek abbey and cathedral
were littered with straw for cavalry
horses; the principal street was blocked up by
waggons, caissons, tumbrils, pontoons, mortars,
and the whole of that immense battering train
concentrated for the especial behoof of my brave
little band at Scylla: whither it would be
conveyed the moment the roads were completed.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A strong guard of grenadiers stationed before
the best house in the town, announced it to be
the quarters of the general. They belonged to
the 62nd of the French line. In front of the
mansion stood thirty pieces of beautiful brass
cannon: the same which the French threw into
the sea on abandoning Scylla, when, in the
year following, the British beleaguered it under
Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, 27th regiment. I
was ushered by the corporal into the general's
presence, and found him just finishing breakfast:
he had pushed away his last cup of
chocolate, placed his foot on the braciere, and was
composing himself to resume reading the </span><em class="italics">Moniteur</em><span>,
while his servant, a grenadier in blue uniform,
with rough iron-grey moustaches cleared
the table. On the wall hung a bombastic
bulletin of Napoleon, dated 27th December, 1806:—</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The Neapolitan dynasty has ceased to
reign! its existence is incompatible with the
repose of Europe and the honour of our crown.
Soldiers, march! and </span><em class="italics">if</em><span> they will await your
attack, drive into the sea those feeble battalions
</span><em class="italics">of the tyrants of the ocean</em><span>—lose no time in
making all Italy subject to my arms!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Probably the </span><em class="italics">Moniteur</em><span> contained some
unpleasant account of our brilliant success in
other parts of the world; for the temper of the
general was soured, and he regarded me with
a most vinegar-like aspect, when the corporal
ushered me in. I bowed coldly; he answered
only by a stern glance, spread his hands
behind his coat tails, and leaned against the mantel-piece.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ouf! a prisoner of war," said he, and
scanning me at intervals, while reading the
letter of Compere.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Your name and rank?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dundas, captain of the 62nd regiment of
the line, and commandant of the castle of
Scylla, for his Majesty Ferdinand IV."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ouf! the very man we wanted! You were
caught on the shore near Palmi?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, when left there by the boat of the
</span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span> frigate, and merely meaning to make a
reconnoissance, (until daybreak enabled us to
put to sea) I penetrated"—</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A deuced lame story! Bah! you were
merely making a reconnoissance at Canne too,
I suppose? Ha! ha! well, we will cure you of
that propensity for the future."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I request to be liberated on my parole."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A spy on parole! Ouf!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Scoundrel!" I exclaimed, losing all temper,
"I am a gentleman—a British officer."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Sacre coquin! men of honour do not prowl
in the rear of an enemy's chain de quartiers in
disguise: where is your uniform?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I gave him a scornful glance in reply.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ouf!" said he, "you came to see our
arrangements for capturing your crow's nest at
Scylla. Behold, then, our pontoons, our
battering train, our brigades of infantry and
sappers: I trust you will report to monseigneur
the Prince of Essling, that they are all ready
for instant service."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Monsieur, I demand my parole."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"If Massena grants a parole he may, but
not so Regnier: you must be sent to the marshal;
and I believe he is most likely to give you
a yard or two of stout cord, and a leap from the
nearest tree."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Such conduct would not surprise me in the
least!" I answered, bitterly; "the savage
military government, which dragged the Duc
d'Enghien from a neutral territory, and after a
mockery of judicial form shot him by torchlight
at midnight; and which so barbarously
tortured to death a British officer, in the
Temple, at Paris, must be capable of any
inhumanity. After the ten thousand nameless
atrocities by which France, since the days of
the Revolution, has disgraced herself among
the nations of Europe; no new violation of
military honour, of humanity, or the laws of
civilized nations, can be a subject of wonder."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, faquin! I could order you to be
hanged in ten minutes."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A day may yet come when this ruffianly
treatment shall be repaid."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ouf! monsieur mouchard, Massena will
look to that. At Castello di Bivona, you will
be embarked on board La Vigilante courier
gunboat, commanded by Antonio Balotte. He is a
rough Lucchese, that same Antonio, who will
string you to the yard-arm if you prove troublesome.
Ouf! if the emperor was of my opinion,
his soldiers would not take any prisoners." He
grinned savagely, and summoned his orderly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Order a corporal and file of soldiers. To
them," he continued, addressing the Lancer,
"you will hand over the prisoner with this brief
despatch for Marshal Massena at Cosenza;
it states who he is, and the suspicions against
him."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Massena! O, how little I had to hope for, if
once in the clutches of that savage and apostate
Italian: particularly when blackened by all that
Regnier's malicious nature might dictate. In half
an hour I was on the march for Castello di Bivona,
escorted by a corporal and file of the 101st,
with fixed bayonets. As a deeper degradation,
Regnier had ordered me to be hand-cuffed.
Heavens! my blood boils yet at the recollection
of that! I would have resisted; but a
musket levelled at my head silenced all
remonstrance, and I bottled up my wrath while
Corporal Crapaud locked the fetters on me.
We marched off, my exasperation increasing as
we proceeded; for the escort seemed determined
to consider me in the character of a spy,
and consequently treated me with insult and
neglect: in vain I told them I was a British
officer, and deserved other treatment.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"True, monsieur," replied the corporal, who
was a dapper little Gaul, four feet six inches
high, "but I am obeying only the orders of the
general; and a British officer, or any other
officer, who is caught among an enemy's
cantonments in disguise, must be considered as a
spy, and expect degradation as such.
Monsieur will excuse us—we have orders not to
converse with prisoners; and the general—ah! ventre
bleu!—he is a man of iron!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>This coolness, or affectation of contempt or
superiority, only increased my annoyance.
Although the soldiers conversed with all the
loquacity and sung with all the gaiety of
Frenchmen, they addressed me no more during
the march of more than twenty-five miles. This
lasted seven hours, exclusive of halts at Gioja,
Rossarno, and several half-deserted villages and
shepherds' huts; where they extorted whatever
they wanted, at point of the bayonet, and
made good their quarters whenever they chose;
browbeating the men and caressing the women
(if pretty). I often expected a brawl, and
perhaps a release; but all hope died away, when,
about sunset, we entered Castello di Bivona:
my spirit fell in proportion as the plains and
snow-capped Apennines grew dark, when the
red sun dipped into the Tyrhene sea.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>There were no French troops in the town;
but anchored close to the shore lay the French
gun-boat </span><em class="italics">La Vigilante</em><span>, mounting a six and a
fourteen pounder, and having thirty-six men—quite
sufficient to hold in terror the inhabitants
of the little town, who had not forgotten the
visit paid them by Regnier's rear-guard. My
heart sickened when, from an eminence, I
beheld </span><em class="italics">La Vigilante</em><span>, which was to bear me
further from liberty and hope; and the most
acute anguish took possession of me, when
confined for the night and left to my own
sad meditations. I understood that I was to
be transmitted to the Upper Province with some
other prisoners, who were to arrive from
Monteleone in the morning, and be conveyed across
the gulf of St. Eufemio by the gun-boat.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I found myself confined for the night in the
upper apartment of a gloomy tower, formed of
immense blocks of stone, squared and built by
the hands of the Locrians. The chamber was
vaulted, damp, and destitute of furniture; but a
bundle of straw was thrown in for my couch
by Corporal Crapaud: he, with the escort,
occupied a chamber below, where they caroused
and played with dominoes. A turf battery of
four 24-pounders, facing the seaward, showed
that the French had converted this remnant
of the ancient Hipponium into a temporary
fort: a trench and palisade surrounded it.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A single aperture a foot square, four feet
from the floor, and crossed by an iron bar,
admitted the night breeze and the rays of the
moon; showing the dark mountains, the blue
sky, and the sparkling stars.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Left to solitude, my own thoughts soon became
insupportable. "At this time yesternight
I was with Bianca!" To be separated from
her for an uncertain time—perhaps for ever, if
Regnier's threats were fulfilled by the relentless
Massena; to be taken from my important
command at a time so critical—when the last
stronghold of the British in Calabria was
threatened by a desperate siege, on the issue of
which the eyes of all Italy and Sicily were
turned; the imminent danger and degrading
suspicions under which I lay, manacled and
imprisoned like a common felon; threatened on
the one hand with captivity, on the other
with death; and, worst of all, the image of
Bianca, overwhelmed with sorrow and horror
by the obscurity which enveloped my fate: all
combined, tortured me to madness. I was in a
state bordering on distraction. Stone walls,
iron bars, and steel bayonets: alas! these are
formidable barriers to liberty.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Midnight tolled from a distant bell, then all
became still: so still that I heard my heart
beating. Deeming me secure, my escort were
probably sleeping over their cups and dominoes.
I was encouraged to attempt escaping, and
endeavoured to rally my thoughts. Though
half worn out by our long march over detestable
roads—a journey rendered more toilsome
by the constrained position of my fettered
hands—I became fresh and strong, and
gathered courage from the idea. Yonder lay the
</span><em class="italics">Vigilante</em><span>, with her latteen sail hanging; loose:
and the sight of her was an additional spur to
exertion: once on board of her, every hope was
cut off for ever.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The detested fetters, two oval iron rings
secured by a padlock and bar, were first to
be disposed of: but how? The manner in which
they secured the wrists crippled my strength:
the iron bar was a foot long, and though defying
my utmost strength to break or bend it, yet
ultimately it proved the means of setting me
free. The padlock was strong and new: but a
happy thought struck me; I forced it between
the wide and time-worn joints of the wall until
it was wedged fast as in a vice, then, clasping
my hands together, I wrenched round the bar,
using it as a lever on the lock which passed
through it; and in an instant the bolt, the
wards, the plates which confined them, and all
the iron-work of the once formidable little
engine, fell at my feet.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"God be thanked! oh, triumph!" burst in
a whisper from my lips: my heart expanded,
and I could have laughed aloud, while stretching
my stiffened hands. But there was no
time to be lost: the fall of the broken padlock
might have alarmed the escort, and I prepared
for instant flight. Thrusting some of the iron
pieces under the door bolts, to prevent it being
readily opened, I turned to the window, and
found, with joy, that there was space enough
between the cross-bar and the wall for egress:
but the ground was fifteen feet below. With
great pain and exertion I pressed through, and,
half suffocated, nearly stuck midway between
the rusty bar and stone rybate. At that
moment of misery and hope, the corporal thundered
at the door; I burst through, fell heavily
to the ground, and for a moment was stunned by
the fall: but the danger of delay, and the risk of
being instantly shot if retaken, compelled me to
be off double-quick. I rushed up the banquette
of the gun-battery, cleared the parapet at a
bound, and scrambled over the stockade like a
squirrel.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Villan, hola! halte!" cried Crapaud, firing
his musket: the ball whistled through my hair,
and next moment I was flying like a deer with
the hounds in full chase. I was closely
pursued: but, after three narrow escapes from the
bullets of my escort, I baffled them, and gained
in safety the cork wood of Bivona.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-albergo-the-bandit-s-revenge"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIX.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE ALBERGO.—THE BANDIT'S REVENGE.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Seeking a thick and gloomy dingle, I flung
myself under its shadow to rest; breathless with
my recent exertion, the long day's march, and
the excitement of the last hour. My plan was
soon decided: to approach Scylla, from which I
was then nearly thirty miles distant, was my
principal object; but many dangerous obstacles
were to be encountered and overcome, before I
stood in the hall of Ruffo Sciglio. The snow
melting among the Apennines had swollen the
Metramo and other rivers which I had to pass;
the towns, villages, and all the level country
swarmed with French troops and Buonapartist
sbirri or gendarmes, all closing up towards the
point of attack; while the woods and mountains
were infested by banditti, the most ferocious and
lawless in Europe. To lie concealed in thickets
by day and to travel by night, was the plan I
proposed adopting; and anxious to find myself
as far as possible from the place of my imprisonment,
after a brief rest I set forward on my
dubious and difficult journey; thinking more of
the joy of embracing Bianca, than the triumph
of meeting Regnier in the breach.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Many of the mountains being yet capped with
snow rendered the air cold and chilly; my head
was without covering, and I was destitute of
every means of defence against either robbers
or wolves: the last were numerous in these
wilds, and I often heard their cries rising up
from the depths of the moonlit forest, through
which I toiled southward. So wearying, difficult
and uncertain was the path, that I had only
proceeded seven or eight miles when day broke,
and found me in an open and desert place near
Nicotera. The appearance of a body of the
enemy marching down the hills was sufficient
to scare me, and seeking shelter in an orange
wood, I lay concealed in it for hours; not daring
to venture forth, although I felt the effects of an
appetite sharpened by the keen mountain air.
I had heard much of the manna said to be found
in the morning on the leaves of the mulberry
and other trees in Calabria; but not a drop was
to be seen, although I searched anxiously
enough. The day seemed interminably long,
and joyfully I hailed eve closing as the sun
sank once more behind Sicily, and the long
shadows of Nicotera fell across the plain.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Armed with a stout club, torn from a tree, I
once more set forward, favoured by the dusk
and refreshed by my long halt, though hungry
as a hawk.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At the hut of a poor charcoal-burner I
received some refreshments and ascertained the
right (or rather safest) path; the honest peasant,
on partly learning the circumstances of my
escape, shouldered his rifle, stuck a poniard
in his girdle, and accompanied me as far as
Gioja; where, after shewing me from the heights
the French watch-fires at Seminara, he left me.
I was pleased when he did so, for then only I
became convinced that his intentions were
honest. While travelling with him unarmed I
was somewhat suspicious of his kindness: but I
did him wrong; he was a hardy and loyal
Calabrian, and my fears were groundless. Regretting
having brought him so far from his hut, I gave
him three crowns, nearly all the money in my
possession: at first he refused it; but the
temptation was too great for the poor peasant,
whose only attire was a jacket of rough skin, a
pair of tattered breeches, the net which
confined his ample masses of hair, and the buff belt
sustaining his dagger and powder-horn.
Muttering something about his little ones at home,
he took the reward, with many bows and
protestations, and we parted.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Rejoicing in my progress, I struck into a
path up the hills towards Oppido. The utmost
circumspection was now necessary: every avenue
to Scylla being closely guarded by Regnier's
picquets and chain of advanced sentries. About
midnight I lost my way among the woods and
defiles. I was drenched by falling into a
swampy rice plantation, and severely cut and
bruised by the rocks and roots of trees: the
night being so dark that I could scarcely see my
hand outstretched before me. A sudden storm
of rain and wind, which swept down from the
hills, completed my discomfiture; and I hailed
with joy a light which twinkled at the bottom
of a deep and savage dell: seeming, from the
eminence on which I stood, like a lantern at the
bottom of a pit.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>It proved to be an albergo, or lonely mountain
inn; but of the most wretched description.
Exhausted and weather-beaten as I was, the
many unpleasant stories I had heard of those
suspicious places, and the close connection of
their owners with the banditti occurred to me;
but this did not discourage me from knocking
at the door. Close to it stood a lumbering
old-fashioned Sicilian carriage; which announced
a visitor of some importance; and the moment
I knocked, a violent altercation ensued as to
whether or not the door should be opened.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor Albergatore," cried a squeaking
voice, "open the door at your peril! Open it—and
I shall lay the whole affair before his excellency,
the president of the Grand Civil Court."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The innkeeper uttered a tremendous oath and
opened the door. A blazing fire of billets and
sticks roared up the opening which served for a
chimney, and filled the whole albergo with a
ruddy light. The host, a most forbidding-looking
dog, with only one eye, a lip and nose
slashed by what appeared to have been a
sword-cut, and which revealed all his upper teeth,
growled a sullen welcome: evidently nowise
pleased with my splashed and miserable
appearance. But I was resolved to make good my
billet, and drawing close to the fire took a
survey of the company: it consisted of an
important little personage, whose face seemed
the production of a cross between the rat and
weasel; a jovial young fellow, whose jaunty
hat and feather, green velvet jacket and breeches
of striped cotton, rosy and impudent face,
together with his little mandolin, declared him
to be a wandering improvisatore; and an old
monk of St. Christiana (the neighbouring town)
who lay fast asleep in a corner, with his hands
crossed on his ample paunch: his shaven scalp
shining like a polished ball in the light of
the fire, which made his white hair and beard
glisten like silver as they flowed over his coarse
brown cassock.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The little personage before mentioned was
Ser Villani, the great notary of St. Eufemio;
a more apt plunderer of King Ferdinand's
subjects than any robber in Calabria: he was a
thorough-paced lawyer, and consequently a
knave. Armed with a pass, which for a
certain consideration he had obtained from
General Regnier, he was on his way from Gierazzo,
where he had been collecting information
relative to an interminable process. The
Grand Civil Court of Palermo was putting
every judicial instrument in operation to
plunder the rich Prince of St. Agata, at the suit
of a neighbouring abbey of monks, whose
relicario he was bound to keep in repair: he
having neglected to enclose the parings of
the nails of San Gennaro in a gilt box, these
inestimable reliques were lost, and his altezza
was deprived of his cross of the saint's order,
and became liable to swinging damages. All his
notes on this most interesting case, Ser Villani
carried in a legal green bag, which he grasped
with legal tenacity; and he looked at me from
time to time with glances of such distrust and
dislike, that I concluded it contained more
than mere paper.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Three well-armed and wild-looking peasants
were sleeping in a corner, and the host wore a
long knife in his girdle. Forbidding as he
was in aspect, his wife and daughter were
still more so: their clothes exhibited a strange
mixture of finery and misery—massive silver
pendants and gold rings, chains, rags, and
faded brocades; while their feet were shoeless.
My suspicions increased, and I found I had
got into a lion's den.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor Albergatore," said I, "do you fear
banditti, that you were so long in undoing the
door?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'T was the Signor Scrivano who raised so
many objections," he replied, sulkily.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Had Master Villani known I was a cavalier
of Malta escaping from the French, he
might have been a little more hospitable," I
replied; to deceive them as to my real character:
for I dreaded being given up to Regnier,
perhaps for the sake of a reward. "Who
occupy the mountains hereabout?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Scarolla and Baptistello Varro," replied
the host. "But they never visit so poor an
albergo as this."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope not," faltered the notary, who
turned ghastly pale at the name of Varro; and
muttering to himself, he glanced uneasily at us
all, with eyes that glittered like those of a
monkey. "Ah, when will that loitering
scoundrel of a postilion return with a smith
to repair the calesso? Hound! he contrived
very opportunely that the wheel should come
off close by the albergo: but let him beware;
his neck shall pay the forfeit, if worse comes
of this."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A quiet laugh spread over the host's face,
like sunshine over a field.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ser," said the improvisatore, "your postilion
is probably only away to the next hill;
and when he returns, a score of riflemen will
be at his back."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The little notary quaked; and although the
cunning minstrel merely spoke in jest, his
suppositions were indeed too correct. The
secret understanding which existed between
the brigands, postilions, and innkeepers of
south Italy, was notorious: it has formed the
machinery of innumerable tales of fiction. But
since the campaign of Manhes and the close of
the war, Italy has been quite regenerated.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The improvisatore received a furious glance
from the host, that confirmed my suspicions:
but to retire now was almost impossible.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>After a miserable supper had been washed
down by a caraffa of tart country wine, we
drew closer to the smoky fire, and composed
ourselves round it for the night. The wife
and daughter of the host retired to a kind
of loft above; resigning the only bed in the
house,—viz., a bag of leaves and a blanket or
two, to the priest. The notary nodded over
his green bag, and, though he started at every
sound, pretended to be fast asleep.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Notwithstanding my fatigue, thoughts stole
over me and kept me awake; and more than
once I saw the dark glassy eye of the host
observing me intently, from the gloomy corner
where he lay on the tiled floor. In short, not
to keep the reader any longer behind the
curtain, we were in one of those infamous dens
which were the resort of the brigands: to whom
the keepers conveyed information of all
travellers who passed the night with them;
stating whether they were armed or escorted by
soldiers or sbirri. The suspicious improvisatore
again whispered to me that he had no
doubt the notary's postilion was only away to
summon his comrades, the banditti. Reflecting
that I was unarmed, I felt the utmost anxiety;
but retiring might only anticipate matters: the
fellows asleep in the corner were well armed,
and I saw the hilts of their knives and pistol
butts shining in the light of the fire.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I am glad we have a cavalier of Malta
here to-night," whispered the lad with the
guitar. "You may save us all from Baptistello
if he pays us a visit—all, one excepted: but,
signor, you have very much the air of an Englishman."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I served with the English fleet when it
assisted the knights at the siege of Valetta.
But I hope the rogues will not carry me off in
expectation of a ransom."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Madonna forbid! But Heaven help poor
Villani, if he fall into the clutches of Baptistello!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Why so?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor, it is quite a story!" said he,
drawing closer and lowering his voice. "Baptistello
was a soldier of the Cardinal Ruffo, and
served in his army when it defeated the French
in the battle of Naples, on the happy 5th of
June. His father, Baptiste, was a famous
bravo and capo-bandito, who infested the
mountains above St. Agata, and was the terror
of the province from Scylla to La Bianca.
He boasted that he had slain a hundred men;
and it is said that in order to rival the
frightful Mammone, he once quaffed human
blood. He was deemed bullet-proof: a charm
worn round his left wrist made him
invulnerable; and he escaped so often and so
narrowly that he soon thought so himself.
His presence inspired terror, and no man dared
to travel within twenty miles of his district
without a numerous escort. The Prince of
St. Agata, lord of that territory, alone treated
his name with contempt, and daily drove his
carriage through the wildest haunt of Baptiste,
without attendants.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"One day they met: it was in a lonely
valley near the Alece.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Stand!' cried the gigantic robber, kneeling
behind a rock, over which he levelled his
rifle. The reins fell from the hands of the
driver.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Villain! fire, if you dare!' cried the
prince.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The robber fired, and his bullet passed
through the hat of the prince; who, levelling
a double-barrelled pistol, shot four balls through
the heart of his assailant. Before the arrival
of the banditti, who with shouts were rushing
down from the mountains, the Prince was
driving at full gallop through the valley, with
the body of Varro lashed to the hind axle-bar
and trailing along the dusty road. Thus he
entered Reggio in triumph, like Achilles
dragging Hector round the walls of Troy. The
body was gibbeted, and the head placed in an
iron cage and sent over to Messina; when it
was stuck on the summit of the Zizi palace,
where it yet remains, bleached by the dew by
night and the sun by day: I saw it three days ago.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"One night soon after this, a ragged little
urchin presented himself in an apartment of
the palace, just before the prince retired to
rest.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Who are you, Messerino?' he asked.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Baptistello, the son of old Baptiste Varro.'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ah! and what do you want?' said the
prince, looking round him for a whip or cane.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'My father's head.'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Away, you little villain, ere you are tossed
over the window! I would not give it for a
thousand scudi.'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'For two thousand, serenissimo?'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Yes, rogue, for so many I might.'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'On your word of honour?'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'An impudent little dog! Yes. Away!—when
</span><em class="italics">you</em><span> fetch me such a sum, per Baccho! you
shall have your father's head: but not till
then.'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Enough, excellency: I will redeem it,
and keep my word. San Gennaro judge
between us, and curse the wretch who fails!'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'A bold little rogue, and deserves the old
villain's head for nothing,' muttered the prince.
'Two thousand scudi! Ah, poor boy! where
will he ever get such a sum?'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The prince soon forgot all about it; but
Baptistello, inspired by that intense filial
veneration for which our Calabrian youth are so
famous, worked incessantly to raise the two
thousand scudi—a mighty sum for him: but he
did not despair. He dug in the vineyards and
rice-fields by day, in the iron mines of Stilo by
night, and begged in cities when he had
nothing else to do; and slowly the required
sum began to accumulate. When old enough
to level the rifle, by his mother's advice he
took to his father's haunts, and turned bandit.
Then the gold increased rapidly; and, regularly
as he acquired it, he transmitted the ill-gotten
ransom to Ser Villani, of St. Eufemio: leaving
the gold in the hollow of a certain tree, where
the notary found it and left a full receipt for
each amount.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"When the two thousand pieces were numbered,
Baptistello presented himself before Villani
in the disguise of a Basilian, requesting him
to pay Prince St. Agata the money and redeem
the bare-bleached skull, which grins so horribly
from the battlements of the Palazzo Zizi.
They met at the porch of the great church,
where the notary had just been hearing mass.
He denied ever having received a quattrino of
the money: not a single piece had he ever
seen—'No, by the miraculous blood of Gennaro!'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Behold your signed receipts, Master Scrivano.'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Via! they are forgeries. Away, or I will
summon the officers of justice.'</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'My two thousand scudi!—my hard-won
money, earned at peril of my soul! Return it,
thou most infamous of robbers!' cried the
infuriated Varro, grasping the notary's throat
and unsheathing his poniard.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"'Help, in the name of the Grand Court!'
shrieked Villani. Baptistello was arrested,
imprisoned in the fearful </span><em class="italics">Damusi</em><span>, and kept
there for months; he was then scourged with
rods, and thrust forth, naked and bleeding, to
perish in the streets; while the money, earned
with so much toil and danger, went to enrich
the dishonest notary. Baptistello is on the
mountains above us; and if Villani falls into
his hands this night, Signor Cavaliere, thou
mayest imagine the sequel."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The improvisatore ceased, and I saw the
keen twinkling eyes of the notary watching me:
he must have heard the whole story, while
affecting to sleep; and, trembling violently, he
clutched his legal green bag. Suddenly some
one tapped at the casement; and I saw a large,
fierce and grim face peering in.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ha!" cried the notary, springing up; "'t is
the calessiero returned at last. Thou loitering
villain! I will teach you how to respect a
member of the Grand Civil court of Sicily."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>He opened the door, and—horror!—instead
of the humble and apologizing postilion, there
stood the tall athletic form of Baptistello Varro,
clad in his glittering bandit costume. Had the
notary encountered thus the great head of his
profession, face to face, he could not have been
more overwhelmed with dismay: he seemed
absolutely to shrink in size before the stern
gaze of the formidable robber; whose entrance
scarcely less alarmed the old priest, the poor
improvisatore, and myself. But, remembering
my former adventures with Varro, I was not
without hope of escape. The albergo was
crowded with his savage followers, and we
were all dragged roughly forth as prisoners.
The notary's hired calesso was undergoing a
thorough search: the lining was all torn out,
and every pannel and cushion were pierced
and slashed; while the contents of his trunks
and mails were scattered in every direction,
and flying on the breeze. In his green bag
were found a thousand ducats.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Villain!" exclaimed Baptistello, as he
threw the gold pieces on the sward, "there is
more than we would deem sufficient to ransom
ten such earth-worms as thee: yet this is but
a half of the sum I deposited in the hollow
tree at St. Eufemio. I am a robber—true:
but I gain my desperate living bravely in
the wilderness, by perilling my life hourly;
while </span><em class="italics">thou</em><span>, too, art a thief, but of the most
despicable and cowardly description—a legalized
plunderer of widows and orphans—a vampire
who preys on the very vitals of the community—a
smooth-faced masterpiece of villany: in
short, wretch, thou art a notary. Remember
the ransom of my father's head—the dungeons—the
chains and the scourge. Ha! remember,
too, that thou art alone with me on the wild
mountains of Calabria: so, kneel to the God
above us; for the last sands of thy life are
ebbing fast." And he dashed him to the earth.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, signor—O, excellency—mercy!" craved
the notary, grovelling in the dust; but the fierce
robber only grinned, showing his pearl-white
teeth; as leaning on his rifle he surveyed him
with an air of triumphant malice and supreme
contempt. "Mercy! I implore you, by the
blood of Gennaro the blessed! Mercy, as you
hope for it at your dying day! I will repay the
money. I will no longer be a notary, but an
honest man."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Wretch! such mercy will be given as tigers
give," cried the ferocious Baptistello, spurning
the poor man with his foot, and holding aloft
his crucifix. "By this holy symbol of our
salvation, I have sworn that thy head shall pay the
forfeit for my father's!" The brigand kissed it.
Though all hope died away in the heart of
the notary, he still poured forth a jargon of
alternate prayers, threats, and entreaties: his
agony was terrible; for at that moment forty
of the "sharpest practice" were about to be
accounted for.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"God! I dare not address myself to thee. O,
holy father pray for me in this great peril!" he
cried to the old monk of St. Christiana.
"Supplicate him for a sinner that has forgotten how
to pray for himself."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Buono!" said Baptistello; "let the priest
pray while the notary swings."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Lancelotti approached and surveyed me with
an insolent leer: he held a rope—the reins of
the lawyer's mules; in a moment it was looped
round the notary's neck, and the other end
thrown over the arm of a beech-tree. The
monk, kneeling on the sod, prayed with fervour:
increased probably by anxiety for himself.
The struggles of the poor wretch were horrible
to behold: overcome with the terror of death, he
fought like a wild beast; scratching, biting, and
howling: but in the strong grasp of his powerful
destroyers his efforts were like those of an
infant. In a minute he swung from the branch
of the beech, while, with a stern smile of grim
satisfaction, the robber watched the plunges of his
victim writhing in the death agony: the sharp
withered features growing ghastly, as the pale
light of the dawning day fell on their distorted
lines. But enough.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor Canonico," said Varro, "you may
go; the mountains are before you—we meddle
not with monks." The priest retired instantly,
without bestowing a thought on his companions
in trouble. "And who are you, signor, with
the mandolin?" continued Baptistello.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"An improvisatore, from Sicily last, excellency,"
replied the lad, doffing his hat with all
humility; "I have come to rouse my countrymen,
by the song and guitar, to battle against
the legions of Massena, as they did of old
against the Saracen and Goth. I am but a poor
lad, and have no ransom to offer save a song of
the glorious Marco Sciarra; not a paola can I
give your excellencies: my sole inheritance is this
guitar, which my father gave me with his dying
hand (for he, too, was an improvisatore), when
he fell in battle under the banner of Cardinal
Ruffo."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Where, boy?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"On the plains of Apulia—I was a little
child then," said the lad, shedding tears. "See,
the mandolin is stained with his blood."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Benissimo!" exclaimed the band, who
crowded round us.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Thou, too, art free; for we war not with the
poor. Away! follow the monk, and the virgin
speed thee." But the minstrel bestowed an
anxious glance on me, and drew near; scorning
to imitate the selfish priest, who had now
disappeared from the path which wound over the
brightening mountains.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Your name, signor?" asked Varro, surveying
me with a glance of surprise, and seeming
puzzled what to think of me.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dundas, captain in the British service, and
commandant of Scylla," I replied, with haughty
brevity.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The friend of Castelermo, and who so
bravely avenged his death on the renegade
Navarro—is it not so?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The same, Signor Capo: for two days past
I have undergone great misery, and last night
made a most miraculous escape from the troops
of General Regnier."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Who has offered a hundred gold Napoleons
for you dead or alive: a sum quite sufficient to
excite the avarice and cupidity of a Calabrian
outlaw."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>My spirit sank—I made no reply, but cursed
the French general in my heart.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Courage, signor," said Baptistello, laying
his hand familiarly on my shoulder; "think
not so hardly of us: we all love the British
soldiers, and would not yield you to Regnier for
all the gold in France. We have not forgotten
Maida—eh, comrades?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Viva il Re d'Inghilterra!" answered the
band with one voice. (It was the cry of
the loyalists as often as "Viva Ferdinando IV.")</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You hear the sentiments of my followers,"
said Varro; "truly, signor, as the Husband of
the Signora d'Alfieri, your name is dear to the
whole Calabrians; and I believe the wildest
rogue in these provinces would not touch a hair
of your head. Corpo di Baccho! you must
breakfast with us among the mountains: we
trust to your honour for not revealing our
fastness to our disadvantage—to our own hands
for avenging it, if you do. Enough, signor:
we know each other."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I was in the hands of men with whom it
would have been rash to trifle; and, accepting
the rough invitation, I accompanied them across
the hills. The sun rose above the highest
peak of Bova, and poured its fiery lustre into
the dark green valleys; gilding the convent
vanes and little spires of St. Christiana and
Oppido, and exhaling the mist from the black
glittering rocks, the sable pines, and verdant
slopes of the Apennines.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-bandit-s-cavern-recapture"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XX.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE BANDIT'S CAVERN.—RECAPTURE AND DELIVERANCE.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Through a long deep gorge, winding between
basaltic cliffs, the production of volcanic fire, or
formed by some great convulsion which had rent
the massive hills, we scrambled along for nearly
half a mile; at the end rose a wall of rock, on
ascending which, by means of a ladder, I found
myself in the den of the banditti. The ladder
being drawn up when the last man ascended,
all communication with the chasm below was
thus cut off.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A fire burned brightly in a recess of the
cavern, revealing its ghastly rocks and hollow
depths, the long stalactites, the crystals, and
various sparkling stones which glimmered in
the flames as they shot upward through the
cranny that served for a chimney. Several
females, grouped round it, were engaged in
chatting, quarrelling, and cooking; and their
picturesque costumes, olive complexions, and
graceful figures, were brought forward in strong
warm light by the flickering flames: some had
still the sad remains of beauty, and their
Greco-Italian features still wore the soft
Madonna-like expression of the southern provinces:
though, alas! their innocence had fled; others
were sullen, forbidding, or melancholy, and all
were laden with tawdry finery and massive
jewels.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The aspect of the cavern; one part glaring
with lurid light, the other half involved in
gloom, where its mysterious recesses pierced
into the bowels of the mountain; the women,
with their full bosoms, large black eyes,
and sandalled feet, their glossy hair braided
into tails, or flowing in dishevelled ringlets;
the bearded banditti, some in their well-known
costume, others in a garb of rough skins,
showing their bare legs and arms—their rifles,
knives, pistols, and horns, sparkling when
they moved; formed a striking scene. Looking
outward, also, a view of the distant sea,
the smoke of Stromboli piercing the infinity of
space above it, the spire of Fiumara, the
vine-clad ruins of a Grecian temple, and the long
bright river that wound between the hills
towards it, formed a subject for the pencil, such
as would have raised the enthusiasm of Salvator
Rosa; who, in pursuit of the savagely romantic,
sojourned for a time among the wilds, the
beauties, the terrors, and the banditti of Calabria.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Chocolate, kid's flesh stewed, eggs, milk,
dried grapes, and wine, composed the repast:
when it was finished, the poor improvisatore,
though not quite at ease, found himself
compelled to sing; and chose for his theme MARCO
SCIARRA, the glory of the Abruzzesi, whose
fame and memory the honest man and the
bandit alike extol. He sang in ottiva rima and
tinkled an accompaniment with his guitar, while
every ear listened intently.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The scene opened in the wilds of Abruzzi;
Marco was at the head of his thousand
followers, and in all the plenitude of his
power and terror—that chivalric brigandism
which gained him the title of Re della
Campagna; then we were told how, kneeling by
the wayside, he kissed the hand of Tasso, and
did homage to the muse; how successfully he
warred with Clement VII. and the Count of
Conversano, and then fought the battles of the
Venetians against their Tuscan enemies: of
his bravery, his loves, his compassion, and
countless escapes, we all heard in succession,
down to that hour when, in the marches of
Ancona, he met Battimello, his former friend;
who while embracing him, in the true spirit
of Italian treachery, struck a dagger in his
heart, and sold his head to a papal commissary.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Every eye flashed as the minstrel concluded;
a groan of rage, mingled with a burst of
applause, shook the vaulted cavern: for the
theme was one well calculated to interest his
hearers deeply; and one very pretty young
woman threw her arms around the improvisatore,
and kissed him on both cheeks. While
all were thus well pleased, we took our
departure; and were very glad when the cavern
and its inmates were some miles behind us.
On bidding adieu to Baptistello, I promised to
have his father's head sent from Messina, if
I lived to reach that city in safety. He kissed
my hand, and a dark smile lit up the features
of Lancelloti: I was too soon to learn the
ideas passing in the mind of that abominable
traitor.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>There is, generally, a romance about the
Italian outlaw, which raises his character far
above that of the mere pickpocket or
house-breaker. The danger encountered in the
course of his desperate profession, and the
wild scenery around him, were all calculated to
inspire him with a tinge of heroism: were, I
say; for the real Italian brigand may now,
happily, be classed with the things which are
past. Without being guilty of any premeditated
crime, many were forced upon that terrible
career by the French invasion, or by too
freely using their knives in those outbursts of
anger and revenge to which the hot blood of
the southern climes is so prone: but to some
good feelings lingering in those hearts which
danger and despair had not completely hardened,
I owed my safety in these various encounters
with the wild bravos of Calabria.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>But the most dangerous was yet to come.
The reward offered by Regnier for my recapture
had excited the avarice of Lancelloti;
who was then tracking me over the hills,
intent on my destruction. On parting with
the improvisatore, close by where the poor
notary yet hung with the wild birds screaming
round him, I continued my way, as warily as
possible, to avoid the enemy; for a continual
pop—pop—popping in the distance, and the
appearance of white smoke curling on the
mountain sides and from the leafless though
budding forests, announced that the French
advanced parties were skirmishing with the
brigands and armed paesani, and kept me
continually on the alert. Dread of the effect of
Regnier's reward, compelled me to avoid every
man I met; so my route soon became equally
toilsome and devious. Yet though exhausted
by travelling and loss of sleep, I was animated
by a view of Scylla's distant towers and
terraces, which rose above the woodlands
gleaming in the rays of the joyous sun, and
continued to press forward; until completely
overcome with fatigue, I threw myself on the
green sward, under the cool shade of a pine
thicket, and fell into a deep sleep.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>This happy slumber, (which after a long
march under the scorching heat of noon, the
cool shade rendered so refreshing) had lasted,
perhaps, an hour, when I was roughly roused
by the smart application of a rifle butt to the
side of my head. Starting up, I found myself
in the grasp of Lancelloti, and two others
of Varro's band: alas! weary and unarmed,
what resistance could I offer? They were
strong, fresh, and armed to the teeth: solitude
was around us, and no aid near; every hope of
escape vanished.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Via, Signor Inglese!" said one; "did you
mean to sleep there all day?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Beard of Mahomet!" said Lancelloti, with
a scowl; "you had better make use of your
legs."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Your purpose, scoundrels?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"To deliver you to the French commandant
at Fiumara," replied the ci-devant priest and
pirate. "Madonna! a hundred pieces of gold
are not to be despised. Look you, signor, I
swear by the light of Heaven, to blow your
brains out on the first attempt to escape!—so
fill the foreyard—maladetto! Remember I am
Osman Carora—ha, ha!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Wretch! would you murder me in cold
blood, and thus add to the guilt accumulated
on your unhappy head?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Cospetto! it is indeed mighty," said he,
gloomily; "yea, enough to darken the stone of
Caaba, which was once white as milk, but now,
blackened by the sins of men, is like a piece of
charcoal in those walls where Abraham built
it. When a devout Turk, I—via! on—or a
brace of balls will whistle through the head
you may wish should reach Fiumara on your
shoulders—ha, ha!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>To resist was to die; so, relying on the
humanity of the French officer commanding
the outposts, I accompanied them, in
indescribable agony of mind. The fading rays of
the setting sun, as it sank behind the hills, were
reddening the massive towers and crenelated
battlements, the terraced streets and shining
casements of Scylla. It vanished behind the
green ridges; the standard descended from the
keep, and my heart sank as we neared Fiumara.
My escort kept close by me, with their rifles
loaded. A river, the name of which I do not
remember, winds from these hills towards
Fiumara; and we moved along its northern
bank. Its deep, smooth current lay on the
left side of the narrow path, and precipitous
rocks, like a wall, rose up on the right; so that
I was without the slightest hope of effecting an
escape. I spoke of the greater reward they
would receive on conducting me to Scylla:
but they laughed my words to scorn. The
French out-picquets were now in sight; and
far down the valley we saw their chain of
advanced sentinels, motionless on their posts,
standing with ordered arms, watching the still
current of the glassy river, as it swept onwards
to the sea: its bright surface reflected the
steep rocks, the green woods, and a ruined
bridge, so vividly, that the eye could not
distinguish where land and water met. The last
flush of day, as it died away over the
Apennines, cast a yellow blaze on its windings;
which at intervals were dotted by the fitful
watch-fires of the out-lying piquets.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A party of armed men had been seen by
Lancelloti pursuing the turnings of the path we
trod: they came towards us: their conical hats
and long rifles announced them Calabrians, and
a consultation was held by my capturers whether
to advance or retire; as it was quite impossible
to leave the path on either hand.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Go to the front, Gaetano, and reconnoitre,"
said Lancelloti; "they may be some of the Free
Corps." My heart leaped at the idea.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Cospetto! and if they are?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"We shoot him through the head, plunge
into the river, and swim for it!" said the other ruffian.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Blockhead!" exclaimed Lancelloti; "they
are but four, and the first lucky fire may make
us more than equal. To </span><em class="italics">you</em><span>," addressing me
with cruel ferocity, "I swear, by all the devils,
you shall be shot the instant we are attacked—shot,
I say, and flung into the river, that no
one else may win those bright Napoleons which
I hoped should clink in my own pouch."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment, Gaetano came running back
to say, that, although armed like the Free
Calabri with white cross-belts and heavy muskets,
they wore no uniform or scarlet cockade.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"They must be free cavalieri of our own
order, then," exclaimed Lancelloti. "Some of
Scarolla's band, perhaps."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"They have been plundering of late, as far
as Capo Pillari."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Forward, then!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Life and liberty were hanging by a hair:
my heart beat tumultuously, and mechanically
I moved forward, cursing the unsoldier-like
malice of the French leader, who had placed
me in such a position, by exciting the avarice
of such wretches. After losing sight of the
advancing party for a time, we suddenly met
them, front to front, at an abrupt angle where
the road turned round a point of rock.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Advance first, Signor Inglese," said
Lancelloti; "and, should you attempt to escape,
remember!" and, tapping the butt of his rifle,
he grinned savagely as I stepped forward,
expecting every instant to be shot through the
head. My brain was whirling—I was giddy
with rage and despair. The path diminished
to a narrow shelf of rock, about a foot broad:
on one side it descended sheer to the dark
waters of the deep and placid river; on the
other frowned the wall of basalt; and I was
compelled to grasp the tufts of weeds and grass
on its surface, as I passed the perilous turn.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Scarcely had I cleared the angle, when I
was confronted by—whom!—Giacomo, Luca
</span><em class="italics">labbruta</em><span>, and two other soldiers of Santugo, in
disguise. Their shout of joy was answered by
a volley from three rifles behind me; and the
report rang like thunder among the cliffs.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I heard the balls whistle past; a shriek and a
plunge followed, as one of the Free Corps fell,
wounded, into the stream: his comrades rushed
on, to avenge him, and I drew aside behind an
angle of the rocks, to avoid the cross fire of both
parties. Enraged to behold the husband of their
famous "Signora Capitanessa" in such a plight,
Giacomo and his comrades pressed furiously
forward with fixed bayonets. To this formidable
weapon, the foe could only oppose the clubbed
rifle, and a desperate conflict ensued: but on
such ground it could not be of long duration.
Blubber-lipped Luca shot Lancelloti through the
breast: he rolled down the steep rocks into the
sluggish stream, above which his ferocious face
rose once or twice amid the crimson eddies of
his blood; then sank to rise no more.
Immediately after, his companions were bayoneted,
and flung over the precipice after him.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Full of triumph at his victory and discovery,
honest Giacomo skipped about on the very edge
of the cliff, dancing the tarantella like a madman.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Thrice blessed be our holy Lady of Oppido,
who led us this way to-night. O, happiness!
O, joy to the capitanessa!" he exclaimed.
"Ah, signor! you know not what she has
endured. The whole garrison has been turned
upside down: the Signora Bianca is distracted;
the visconte, the Conte di Palmi, and Signor
Olivero Lascelles have been incessantly beating
the woods in search of you, so far as they dared
venture. And Giacomo—O, triumph!—is the
finder! It is an era in my life: Annina
herself dare not be coy after this!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Giacomo's Italian enthusiasm displayed itself
in a thousand antics; and it was not until we
saw a party of the French tirailleurs (whom the
firing had alarmed) advancing up the opposite
bank to reconnoitre, that we prepared to retire.
It was now night: favoured by the moon, we
forded the river at a convenient place, and
taking our way through the woods between
Fiumara and Scylla, we eluded the vigilance
of the French picquets. In an hour I found
myself safe within the walls, gates, and
gun-batteries of my garrison; where my sudden
return caused a burst of universal joy.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Breaking away from Luigi, my brother-officers
and soldiers, who crowded clamorously
round me, I hurried to the apartments of
Bianca. All was silent when I entered, and
the flickering rays of a night-lamp revealed to
me the confusion my absence had created.
Bianca's music, her guitar, her daily work, the
embroidery, her books and drawings, lay all
forgotten, and huddled in a corner, poor
papagallo croaked desolately in his cage: for he,
too, had been deserted, and his seed-box was
empty. A row of vases, which Bianca used to
tend everyday, had been forgotten; and the
flowers had drooped and withered. The whole
sleeping-chamber wore an air of disorder and
neglect; her bed appeared not to have been
slept in since I had left; for my scarlet sash
lay on it, just where I had thrown it the night
I left Scylla.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Above all, I was shocked with the appearance
of the poor girl: reclining on a sofa, she
lay sleeping on the bosom of Annina; who also
was buried in a heavy slumber: both were
evidently wearied with watching and sorrow.
Bianca was pale as death: her beautiful hair
streamed in disorder over her white neck and
polished shoulder; and shining tears were
oozing from her long dark lashes. She was
weeping in her sleep, and the palor of her angelic
beauty was rendered yet stronger by comparison
with the olive brow and rosy cheeks of the
waiting-maid.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I was deeply moved on beholding her thus:
but I never felt so supremely happy as at the
moment, when, gently putting my arm round
her, I awoke her to joy, and dispelled those
visions of sorrow which floated through her
dreams.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="joys-of-a-military-honeymoon"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXI.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">JOYS OF A MILITARY HONEYMOON.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Early next morning I was roused by the
sharp blast of a French trumpet, stirring all the
echoes of Scylla. I was dressing hastily, when
Lascelles, who commanded the barrier-guard,
entered, saying that a flag of truce and a
trumpet, sent by General Regnier, required a
conference with the commandant.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Curse Regnier," said I, testily, while
dragging on my boots; "I will not hold any
communication with him, after the scandalous
manner in which he has treated me."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"But you may receive the officer, and hear
that which he is ordered to communicate: at
least answer this letter, of which he is the
bearer."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>By the grey twilight of a February morning
I opened the Frenchman's despatch and read:</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"SUMMONS</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Of unconditional capitulation, and the articles
thereof, agreed to between the commandant of
Scylla, and Monsieur le General de Division,
Regnier, Grand Officer of the Legion of
Honour, Knight-Commander of the Iron Crown
of Lombardy, Grand Cross of the Lion of
Bavaria, Knight of St. Louis of France, Chef
de Bataillon of the Grenadiers of the Imperial
Guard," &c. &c. &c.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Bah!" cried Oliver, with a laugh; "throw
it over the window."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Give Monsieur le General, Knight of St. Louis,
and all that, my compliments, and say,
I will return these articles with the first cannon
ball fired on his trenches."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"The enemy are close at hand this morning,
and appear to have made great progress during
the night."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Desire the officer commanding the artillery
to have all the heavy guns loaded with
tin-case-shot, in addition to iron balls; and to
have the primings well looked to."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"But the Frenchman—he is still waiting at
the barriers—shall I show him up?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"You may—I have a particular message to
his general."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"He is a punchy, ungentlemanly kind of
man, and appears to keep a sharp eye about
him, evidently observing all our defences."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Lodge the trumpeter in the main-guard,
and bind up the eyes of the officer: they
served me so once; I will meet him in the old
hall."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>That I might not be deficient in courtesy, I
directed wine, decanters, &c., to be conveyed
to the vaulted hall, where princely banners and
Italian trophies had given place to racks of
arms, iron-bound chests, and military stores.
Oliver led in the officer, with his eyes covered
by a handkerchief, which gave him rather a
droll aspect. He was a short thick-set man,
with wiry, grey moustachios, and wore the
uniform of the ill-fated voltigeurs of the 23rd
regiment.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Monsieur, you will no doubt pardon this
necessary muffling," said I, advancing; "but
as you wished to see me—ha!"—at that
moment Oliver withdrew the bandage, when
lo! imagine my astonishment on seeing the features
of General Regnier! I knew him in an
instant; although, instead of the blue coat and
gold oak-leaves, the stars and medals of the
general of the empire, he wore the plain light
green and silver braid of the 23rd. His
wonder was not less on recognising me.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ouf! you have outflanked me—quite!"
said he, bowing with a ludicrous air of
confusion and assurance.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Shame! shame, general!" I replied, with
an air of scorn: "who is now the spy and
deserves to be hanged or shot?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Not I," said he, with </span><em class="italics">sang froid</em><span>; "I am
the bearer of a flag of truce."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"In your </span><em class="italics">own</em><span> name? Good!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"No; in that of Joseph I., King of Naples,
and the Marshal Prince of Essling."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A paltry pretence, under which you came
hither to reconnoitre our works, our cannon,
and means of resistance. Away, sir! Back to
your position, and remember that one
consideration alone prevents me from
horse-whipping you as you deserve, for the manner
in which you treated me at Seminara."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Horsewhip—mille baionettes!" replied he,
with eyes flashing fire; "I must have reparation
for that: monsieur, be so good as to recall those
words?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Sir, remember your threats and the fetters."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Ouf!" he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.
"I am in the lion's den. You must meet me,
monsieur."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, in the breach—sword in hand—be
gone, sir!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"I go: but hear me. Remember the fate of
the Italian commandant of Crotona. I swear,
by God and the glory of France, that like him
you shall die, and hang from these ramparts
when the place surrenders. Our heavy gun-batteries
will open at noon; you have but two
hundred rank and file: for every one of these
I can bring one piece of cannon and a hundred
soldiers—ouf! we shall eat you up. Before the
sun sets to-night my triumph shall be complete,
and Calabria once more the emperor's."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>And thus we parted with the bitterest personal
animosity. He retired with the bewildered
Lascelles; who led him, blindfold, to the outer
barrier, and, with his trumpeter, there dismissed
him.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, when he hurried
back to me, "what a triumph it would have
been to have sent the old fox over to Messina!
Only think of Sherbrooke's flaming general
order and address of thanks on the occasion.
What on earth tempted you to let him go?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Flags of truce must be respected: but I had
a hard struggle between etiquette and
inclination. Desire the gunners of the guard to
telegraph to the </span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span> and gun-boats to keep
close in shore; and send my orderly to the
Visconte di Santugo, saying I will visit him
shortly."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The continual skirmishing of the peasantry
and banditti with the French had greatly
retarded the operations of the latter: but on the
10th of February—the infantry brigade of
Milette's corps having descended from the Milia
heights and come within range of our cannon—it
became imperative to order off to Sicily the
whole of the armed paesani who occupied the
town of Scylla; as the bombarding operations
of the besieging army would only subject them
to destruction. While our batteries kept in
check the soldiers of Milette, I superintended
the embarkation of these brave fellows and the
remnant of Santugo's Free Corps; who were all
received on board the Sicilian gun-boats at the
sea staircase. The visconte remained with me;
but his volunteers, who afterwards distinguished
themselves so much in our service, were
quartered in Messina. Poor Giacomo was afterwards
slain in the brilliant attack made by General
Macfarlane on the coast of Naples, in the July
following. The Cavaliere Paolo for his bravery
on the same day, at the capture of the Castello
d'Ischia, received the thanks of Ferdinand IV. and
Sir J. Stuart, at the head of the army. He
was afterwards created Conte Casteluccio, and
shared his coronet with the fair widow of
Castagno. He is now senior commandant of
the Yager Guards in the Neapolitan army.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I transmitted with the gun-boats the whole of
the sick and wounded, and everything of value.
I sent away my groom with my gallant grey;
which was indeed far too good a nag to be
captured and ridden by Frenchmen.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>It was in vain that I intreated Bianca to go in
safety with the boats, and described to her all
the horrors of a siege: the noise of our guns
playing on Milette's advancing column only
confirmed the fond girl's determination to
remain with us; and she seemed happy when
the last gun-boat, laden to the water's edge with
her countrymen, moved slowly away from the
shore, and the only chance by which she could
leave me was cut off for ever.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A safe place was fitted up for her by the
soldiers in a bomb-proof chamber, where the
thick walls and arches of solid masonry shut out
the storm of war, which was soon to shake the
towers of Scylla to their deepest foundations.
The barriers of palisade were secured, the
bridges drawn up, the standard hoisted, the
guns double shotted with balls, canister, and
grape, the breastworks and ramparts lined, the
locks and flints examined; and thus we awaited
the enemy on the forenoon of the 10th: the
roll of their brass drums rang among the
hills, as the successive columns descended from
the heights of Milia, taking the most circuitous
routes to avoid the fire of our cannon, which
played upon their line of march at every
opportunity afforded by the inequality of the ground.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-siege-of-scylla"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXII.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE SIEGE OF SCYLLA.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>My mind was a prey to the utmost anxiety,
when I beheld the overwhelming masses which
Regnier was pouring forward on the last
solitary hold of Ferdinand, cut off by the stormy
Strait of Messina from all Sicilian succour. A
strong brigade of cavalry, the 23rd Light
Infantry, the 1st, 62nd, and 101st Regiments of
the French line, together with a powerful
battering train, formed his force; but as each
corps consisted of three battalions, he mustered
more than 6,000 foot alone. The "handful"
of the British 62nd, amounting now to only
200 file, were to encounter them: but proud
of my corps, and feeling all the glorious ardour
of my profession glowing within me—relying on
the indomitable English spirit of my soldiers,
and the great natural strength of the position
we occupied—I did not despair of at least
protracting a siege; which, when the great disparity
of numbers is remembered, must be deemed as
glorious a deed of arms as our military annals
exhibit.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>On the morning of the 11th February, five
24-pounders, five 18-pounders, four mortars,
and innumerable field-pieces, opened a
tremendous cannonade on the keep and upper works
of Scylla, to demolish our cover and bury us
with our guns under the ruins. This battering
continued daily, without a moment's cessation,
until the 14th; when, covered by it, the French
sappeurs and artillerists formed two other
breaching batteries, at two hundred yards
distance from our bastions: notwithstanding the
appalling slaughter made among them by our
shells bursting, and grape-shot and musketry
showering around, with deadly effect. Though
the whole of Regnier's infantry remained under
cover during these operations, the execution
done on those who worked at the breaching
batteries must have been fearful: they were so
close and so numerous. My own brave little
band was becoming thin from the fire from the
heights: every cannon-shot which struck the
stone walls was rendered, in effect, as
dangerous as a shell, by the heavy splinters it cast
on every side; and I foresaw that the castle
of Ruffo—mouldering with the lapse of years,
and shaken by the storms and earthquakes of
centuries—would soon sink before the
overwhelming tempest of iron balls which Regnier
hurled against it from every point: his gunners
stopping only until their cannon became cool
enough to renew the attack. We had expected
great assistance from our flotilla of gun-boats;
which, by keeping close in shore, might have
cannonaded the enemy's position, and shelled
their approaches; but a storm of wind and
rain, which continued without cessation or lull
from the time the attack began until it was
ended, rendered an approach to Scylla
impossible: the sea was dashing against it in
mountains of misty foam, and on its walls of rock
would have cast a line-of-battle ship like a
cork.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The roar of the musketry and the perpetual
booming of the adverse battery guns, produced
a tremendous effect; awakening all the echoes
of the fathomless caves of Scylla in the
splintered cliffs and Mont Jaci; and after
being tossed from peak to peak of the
Milia Hills, with ten thousand reverberations
all varying, the reports died away in
the distant sky—only to be succeeded by
others. The dense volumes of smoke that rose
from the French batteries, were forced
upwards and downwards by the stormy wind,
and rolled away over land and sea, twisted
into a thousand fantastic shapes; mingling on
one side with the mist of the valleys, on the
other with the foam of the ocean. The
continual rolling of the French brass drums, the
clamour of their artillerymen, and the wild
hallooing of their infantry, added to the roar
of the conflict above and that of the surge
below, increased the effect of a scene which
had as many beauties as terrors.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The night of the 14th was unusually dark
and stormy; and on visiting Bianca in her
dreary vault (which, by being below the
basement of the keep, was the only safe place
in the castle) she told me, with a pale cheek
and faltering tongue, that often, of late, she
had been disturbed by sounds rising from the
earth below her. I endeavoured to laugh away
her fears: but, on listening, I heard distinctly
the peculiar noise of hammers and shovels;
which convinced me that the French sappers
were at work somewhere, and that the hollows
of the rock had enabled them to penetrate far
under the foundations of the castle. On
examination, we found that for three nights they
had been lodging a mine, during the noise and
gloom of the storm, and had excavated two
chambers; one under our principal bastion,
the other under the keep, connecting them by
a saucisson led through a gallery cut in the
solid rock: the effect of such an explosion
would have ended the siege at once, and blown
to atoms the vault appropriated to Bianca and
her servant. My mind shrank, with horror,
from contemplating the frightful death she had
so narrowly escaped. Next night the train
would, undoubtedly, have been fired; and the
inner chamber was pierced within three feet of
her bed! * * * * * *</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Desiring Lascelles to prepare a counter-mine
in case of our failure, I slipped out by the
barriers, accompanied by Santugo and twelve
volunteers. Favoured by the darkness of the
night, the howling of the stormy wind, and
dashing of the "angry surge," we stole safely
to the scene of operations, and with charged
bayonets fell upon a brigade of sappeurs—as
the French style a party of eight private-artificers,
under the command of a non-commissioned
officer. They were all as merry as crickets,
talking and laughing whilst working in their
shirt sleeves.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>They defended themselves bravely with their
swords; but, as we possessed the mouth of the
excavation, all retreat was cut off. The
corporal, a strong athletic fellow, beat down
Santugo's guard with a shovel, and striking him
to the earth with the same homely weapon,
broke through us, plunged down the rocks and
escaped; but the whole of his party were
bayoneted, and after utterly ruining and
destroying the mine, we retreated within our gates
without losing a man, or firing a shot. The
exasperation of the proud Santugo at the rough
knock down he received from the corporal is
quite indescribable.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Next day the enemy pushed forward still
closer to the walls: led by my old acquaintance
De Bourmont, the 101st regiment had the
temerity to advance round an angle of the rocks
to the water's edge, for the purpose of destroying
the sea staircase—our last, our only means of
retreat. A cry burst from my soldiers: we
brought every musket to bear upon that point,
and depressed our cannon by wedges and
hand-spikes: section after section of the enemy
were swept into the sea, and they were
therefore compelled to abandon the attempt; leaving
half their number piled up on the rocky shore,
killed or wounded, or drowned by falling from
the narrow path, where many of the dead and
dying were drenched and swept away every
instant by the sea.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>As the mist rolled up from the mountains, we
saw the shattered remains of the regiment—a
dark mass in grey great-coats, with the tops of
their glazed caps and bayonet-blades glancing
in the sun—retiring, double quick, beyond the
eminence, which, to a certain extent, sheltered
Regnier's infantry from our missiles: but their
retreat was galled by them, and a line of
prostrate bodies marked their route.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Dundas, you shall see how I will unhorse
that fellow," said the officer commanding our
artillery, as he coolly adjusted the quoin under
the breach of a long nine. He meant old
Bourmont, who, like a brave fellow as he was,
retreated in rear of his column, and was jogging
along on his charger, whose drooping head,
mulish ears, curved face, and shambling action,
shewed the thorough French horse. Before I
could speak, the match fell on the vent, the gun
was fired, and the aim was true—fatally so.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"A splendid shot, and a jewel of a gun,"
exclaimed my friend, exulting in his gunnery, as
both horse and rider tumbled prone to the
earth. "Will you try a shot, Dundas?"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you, no: you have killed the only
man, amid all those ranks, I would have
spared."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"By Jove! he is not settled yet," said
Lascelles, with an air of disappointment, as the
colonel disengaged himself from his fallen horse,
and, heavily encumbered by his jack-boots,
scrambled over the hill with as much expedition
as his short legs and rotund form would permit.
Both Oliver and the artillerist were chagrined
at his escape; and yet, in their quiet moods,
both were men who would not have killed a fly.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment, so critical to Bourmont, I
heard a splitting roar—the rock shook beneath
us, and we knew not which way to look.
Shaken and rent by the salvos of heavy shot
which for four successive days had showered
from the French batteries, an immense mass of
wall, the curtain of our strongest bastion, rolled
thundering to the earth; burying the poor
artillery officer, Gascoigne, Sergeant Gask, a
number of soldiers, and all our best cannon, under a
mighty mountain of crumbled masonry. I was
dismayed and grieved by this terrible
catastrophe, which the French hailed with shouts
of rapture and triumph: they redoubled their
battering, with such effect on the shattered
walls, that every time a ball struck, other masses
gave way, burying soldiers and cannon beneath
them. By sunset every gun was entombed
under the prostrate walls, and we had only
musketry to trust to, in case of an assault;
which I had no doubt would be attempted that
very night, as the breach was quite practicable,
and the continual cannonade prevented us from
repairing it by fascines or any other contrivance.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Some were now despairing, and all more or
less dispirited: many an anxious glance was
cast to Sicily, and to the sea which raged
between us, as the lowering yellow sun sank
behind the Neptunian hills, and the waves grew
black and frothy.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst" id="the-fall-of-scylla-conclusion"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXIII.</span></p>
<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE FALL OF SCYLLA—CONCLUSION.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em">
</div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Night descended upon Scylla, upon the dark
Apennines and the tempestuous sea; and my
mind became filled with anxiety: our means of
defence were greatly diminished, our shelter
ruined. The stormy state of the weather cut
off, equally, all hope of succour or escape, and
I anticipated with dread a surrender to General
Regnier, my personal enemy: by his orders
Santugo had little mercy to expect from
Napoleon: and I knew not to what indignities
Bianca, as an Italian lady, might be subjected,
if taken prisoner. Though crippled in means
of resistance and reduced in number, my few
brave fellows would have defended the ruined
breach till the last of them perished; but
I saw that, ultimately, Scylla must become the
prize of the enemy, and only trusted that, during
a lull of the storm, we might effect a retreat to
Messina by the flotilla of Sicilian gun-boats.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>How changed now was the aspect of the
venerable Scylla, since that morning when the
French batteries first opened on it! The
massive Norman battlements and its beautiful hall
had crumbled into rubbish, or sunk in ponderous
masses beneath the heavy salvos: every
window and loophole were beaten into hideous
gaps, and yawning rents split the strong towers
from rampart to foundation. The well was
choked up by the falling stones; and want of
water increased the miseries of sixty wounded
men: whom, ultimately, we had to abandon to
the care of the enemy. Every cannon was
buried under the mighty piles of ruin beyond
recovery—all, save one thirteen-inch mortar,
which I ordered to be dragged to the summit
of the breach; where it afterwards did good
service.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Many of the miserable wounded were destroyed
under the falling walls, or buried, more or
less, at a time when we could not spare a hand
to extricate them: their cries were piteous, and
their agonies frightful. The dead lay heaped
up behind breastwork and banquette, and from
the castle gutters the red blood was dropping
on the sea-beaten rocks below; where the sea
mews and cormorants flapped their wings and
screamed over the sweltering corpses of the
101st. The artillerymen were almost annihilated,
and their platforms were drenched in gore.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Though exhausted by the toil they had endured,
the brave little band of survivors manned
the breach, and remained under arms during
the whole of a most tempestuous night, with
that quiet cheerfulness, mingled with stern
determination, which are the principal
characteristics of our unmatched soldiery in times of
peril. Towards midnight, Santugo (whom,
with Lascelles, I had left in charge of the
breach) aroused me from a nap I was snatching,
rolled up in my cloak and ensconced under
the lee side of a parapet.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Signor, we have had an alert," said he; "a
movement is taking place amongst the enemy:
they will be in the breach in five minutes."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I hurried to the mighty rent in our fortifications,
and saw the long and perilous route
which an escalade had to ascend—a steep and
uncertain pathway, jagged with rocks and
covered with a thousand cart-loads of loose
stones, mortar, and rubbish: it looked like a
waterfall as it vanished down the rocks into the
gloom and obscurity below. The sky was
intensely dark, and though the wind howled and
the sea hissed and roared on the bluff headlands,
the night seemed calm and still after the
battle-din of the past day.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>A white mass, like a rolling cloud, was
moving softly towards the breach, and Santugo
was puzzled to account for the strange uniform;
but I knew in a moment that it was an attack
</span><em class="italics">en chemise</em><span>, and that the stormers were clad
each in a white shirt: a garb sometimes adopted
by the French when engaged in a night assault.
Here our vigilance got the better of them.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The chemise is a short shirt, either with or
without sleeves, worn over the accoutrements,
reaching only to the flap of the cartridge-box;
and is a very useful and necessary precaution,
to prevent the stormers from mistaking each
other in the darkness, horror, and confusion of
a night assault.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Our drum (we had only one now) beat, and a
volley of musketry was poured upon the breach
from every point that commanded it. The
flashes glared forth over the ruined parapets
above and the loopholes of the case-mates
below, while our artillerymen, now that they
had no longer cannon to work, stood by the
howitzer to sweep the breach, and showered
rockets, hand-grenades, and red and blue
lights on the advancing column. The bursting
of the former retarded and confused them,
while the lurid or ghastly glare of the latter
shewed us how to direct our fire: many fireballs
alighted on the rocks, and blazed furiously,
shedding over everything floods of alternate
crimson and blue light, which had a
magnificent yet horrible effect.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Vive la gloire! Avancez! avancez, mes
enfants!" cried the officer who led a wing of
the French 62nd, and a wild cheer burst from
his soldiers. It was the brave young Vicomte
de Chataillion who headed "the Lost Children,"
and I saw with regret that he must fail.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Forward the howitzer, to sweep the breach!"
cried I to the artillerymen, who were every second
falling down, killed or wounded, into the gap,
before the fire of the French. "Forward—depress
the muzzle, and stand clear of the
recoil!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Loaded with a bag containing a thousand
musket-balls, the howitzer was run forward to
the breach, over which its yawning muzzle was
depressed and pointed.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Fire!" cried the corporal. A little flame
shot upward from the vent, a broad and vivid
blaze flashed from the muzzle, and the report
shook the ground beneath our feet. The effect
of such an unusual and concentrated discharge
of musket-shot on the advancing mass was
awful and tremendous. By the light of the
blazing fire-balls, we saw the sudden carnage
in all its sanguinary horror: the dashing
Chataillion, and more than two hundred rank and
file, were swept away—literally </span><em class="italics">blown to pieces</em><span>—by
the storm of leaden balls; and the remainder
of his party retired on the main body in
undisguised confusion and dismay.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Well done, soldiers!" I exclaimed, with
stern triumph, and feeling a wild glow of
excitement only to be felt in such a place and
at such a time. "Ready the handspikes—back
with the mortar—load again, and cram
her to the muzzle with grape and tin-case shot,
to sweep their column again!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Again the brave French came headlong on,
led now by jovial old De Bourmont; who, with
the tricolor in one hand and his cocked hat in
the other, scrambled up the loose stony breach
in his clumsy jack-boots with an agility
astonishing in one of his years and size. The
gold cross of the Legion, the silver badges of
Lodi, Arcola, of Marengo, and other scenes of
honourable service—his bald head and silver
hair—shone amid the glaring fire-balls and
flashing musketry, as the desperate stormers
swept on.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Vive l'empereur! Avancez! Avancez!" cried he.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Tué! tué!" yelled the forlorn band; and
the whole of Regnier's division sent up the </span><em class="italics">cri
des armes</em><span> from the hills to heaven. On came
the infuriated assailants—on—on—rushing up
the frightful path; but the deadly fire we rained
upon them, and the fast falling corpses (every
bullet killing double) soon kept them thoroughly
in check.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Regardless of danger, I stood on the summit
of the breach, that my soldiers might not want
example: I felt the wind of the flying balls
as they whistled past me; one carried away
my right epaulette, a second broke the hilt of
my sabre, and I lost a spur by a third.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Soldiers, courage!" cried Santugo, who
kept close by my side, and brandished his
sabre with hot impatience; "courage, and
they must again fly before you! Viva Ferdi—O,
Madonna mia!" he suddenly ejaculated, in
a gasping voice, as a ball struck him, and he
sank at my feet. The soldiers at the howitzer
dragged him back from the enemy's fire; and
as they did so, a musket bullet dropped from
his left shoulder: he caught it, all dripping
as it was with his blood, and giving it to the
corporal, exclaimed, like the soldier of Julian
Estrado: "With </span><em class="italics">this</em><span> will I avenge myself!
Signor Bombardiere, be so good as to load me
a musket, and ram this bullet well home."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>It was done in a twinkling; and while from
sheer agony his frame quivered and his teeth
were clenched like a vice, he levelled the piece
over the wheel of the howitzer and shot poor
De Bourmont; who fell dead and rolled to
the bottom of the rocks. The concussion threw
Santugo backwards: but he was again dragged
out of the press by the gunners, and taken to
a sheltered place, where Macnesia attended to
his wound.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The instant Colonel Bourmont fell, another
officer snatched the tricolor from the hand of
the corpse as it rolled past, and supplied his
place; and once more the storming party rushed
up the steep ascent: regardless as before of
falling men and rolling stones, of the shot
showered on them from every point, and the
hedge of keen bayonets bristling at the summit
of the breach above them.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Long live Joseph, King of Naples! Tué!
Tué! Vive la France!" They were again
within a few yards of us, when the stern order,
"Forward with the howitzer!" rang above the
din. The artillery put their hands and
shoulders to the wheels, and urged it to the breach;
which was again swept by an irresistible storm
of bullets. Once more the carnage was beyond
conception horrible; and with a yell of rage
and dismay, the stormers retreated precipitately
beyond the eminence which sheltered their
infantry.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>On their flying, the incessant discharge of
fire-arms, which had rung for so many hours,
died away for a time; and the rising sun
revealed to us the carnage of the last night's
conflict. The breach, the rocks, and approaches
without the court, parapets and defences within,
were covered with blood, and strewed with
mangled bodies: but the ascent of the forlorn
hope was terrible—no pencil could depict—no
pen can describe it! The Frenchmen lay in
piles of twenty and thirty; while scattered in
every direction were seen the fragments of
those who had perished by the discharges of
the howitzer.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Taking advantage of the temporary cessation
of hostilities, I ordered the breach to be repaired
by piles of stones and rubbish, to form a
breastwork; while another fatigue party cleared away
some of the ruins which buried our cannon and
platforms. The soldiers raised a faint cheer—one
gun was extricated. Alas! a trunnion was
knocked off by the falling stones, and our
labour had been in vain—it was useless. On
seeing how we were employed, the French
drums once more beat the </span><em class="italics">pas de charge</em><span>, and
the attack was renewed with greater fury, and
on two distant points at once. The 1st, 62nd,
and 101st again advanced to the breach, while
a brigade of their second battalions, under
General Milette, with ten or twelve field-pieces,
assailed us on a point almost opposite;
and the breaching battery, the field-brigade
and mortars on the height, poured shot and
shell upon us with remorseless determination.
During the whole night and morning, the
elemental war had continued with such
unabated fury, that our gun-boats had been unable
to leave the Sicilian coast; and I became
convinced—but with sorrow and chagrin—that a
capitulation was </span><em class="italics">inevitable</em><span>. I was about to
order the gallant union to be hauled down,
and the white flag of mercy hoisted: but before
doing so, I conveyed a notice by telegraph to
General Sherbrooke, in Sicily, acquainting him
with my situation and intention.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Fight on—you will be rescued!</em><span>" was
the answer we received. Almost immediately
after the storm lulled a little, and we saw
the stately </span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span> standing, with her sails
crowded, towards Scylla; while the flotilla,
from the Faro, spread their broad latteens to
the stormy wind. Animated by the prospect,
and filled with desperate courage, once more
we manned the deadly breach. Before, we
fought for honour and in the fulfilment of our
duty; now, it was for life and liberty: and
most effectually we kept the foe in check,
until the gun-boats reached the sea staircase;
where Captain Trollope, of the </span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span>, with
the men-of-war launches, arrived to superintend
the embarkation.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Aware of our intended escape, the enraged
enemy did all in their power to frustrate
it: the batteries, the brigades of field-pieces,
and the battalions of infantry, poured their
utmost fire upon the steep and narrow
staircase (which was hewn out of the solid rock), on
the ruined breach, the blood-stained ramparts,
the corpse-heaped ditches, and the heaving
boats: their drums rolled and their shouts rent
the air, while their frantic gunners worked
their cannon like madmen.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Now, indeed, came the moment of my greatest
dread and anxiety; to which all the rest had
been child's play. Bianca—the poor drooping
girl, now half dead with terror and exhaustion—had
to be brought forth, with her attendant,
and conveyed to the boats: to the boats, good
God! And at that terrible time, when the
concentrated fire of such a number of cannon,
mortars, and musketry was poured upon Scylla;
and especially on that steep and slippery stair
which she had to descend. The 1st Legere,
nearly a thousand strong, swept it with their
fire. My heart became quite unmanned—I
trembled: but it was for her alone.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Oliver!" I cried to Lascelles; "see
Bianca—see Mrs. Dundas to the boats: it is a
duty with which I can hardly trust myself—I
have the breach to defend. Look sharp, man! yet
in God's name, I implore you to be wary!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>He wrung my hand, sheathed his sword and
withdrew. A minute afterwards, he emerged
from the ruined arch of a bomb-proof; Bianca
leaned on his arm, and a party of soldiers
threw themselves in a dense circle around her
for her protection.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Claude, Claude!" she cried, in a despairing
voice: but the faithful band hurried her
down to the boats.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Sound—close to the centre!" cried I to
the bugle-boy; "call off the men from every point!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>As he obeyed me, tears fell fast from his
eyes: his father, a soldier, lay dead in the
breach close by. The bugle-blast was caught,
in various cadence, by the wind; and could be
barely heard above the noise of the conflict:
the assembly, and the retreat, poured in rapid
succession on the ear; and the last shrill note
of the warning to retire </span><em class="italics">double-quick</em><span> had
scarcely been given, ere the bugle flew from his
grasp, and struck by a shot, the poor boy rolled
at my feet, bleeding and beating the earth.
Sixty men, the last remnant of my comrades,
assembled from every point. Lloyd spiked the
mortar, and the whole rushed helter-skelter
down the steep staircase and sprang into the
boats; which were pushed off as soon as they
were filled.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>I was the last to leave the fort, and as I
turned to go,</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"O, Captain Dundas, don't leave me, sir!"
cried an imploring voice: it was the little
bugler of the 62nd. A score of wounded men
were crying the same thing: it was impossible
to attend to them all: but snatching up the
boy, I bore him off, and leaped into the launch
of the </span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span>; in the stern sheets of which sat
Bianca, rolled up in my regimental cloak, to
protect her from the chill morning air and
damp sea atmosphere. She sobbed convulsively
with terror and joy. Santugo was in one
of the gun-boats; Macnesia sat beside him—Lloyd,
Lascelles, and the soldiers, were crowded
into other craft, and the whole gave a
reckless cheer of defiance.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Shove off!" cried the captain of the
</span><em class="italics">Electra</em><span>, through his speaking trumpet; "give way
lads—cheerily now!" and the oars dipped in
the water, as the sails were trimmed, and the
sterns were turned to Scylla.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The whole embarkation had been effected
with matchless rapidity and order; notwithstanding
that the cannon-shot, the bursting
shells, the grenades, and musketry, lashed and
tore the water into foam around us: the sea
all the while, roaring and rolling in mighty
mountains of froth against the cliffs; where
it boiled as if in impotent wrath—recoiling
from the slippery and frowning bluff, to run
its waves in quick succession into the vast and
gloomy Dragara: which has often been
compared to the mouth of some wondrous monster
essaying to engulf all ocean. One seaman
was killed, and ten dangerously wounded: but
these casualties were deemed trifling, under so
heavy a fire; and when the sea was heaving and
breaking beneath us, threatening every instant
to swamp the boats, to dash them against each
other, or on these inhospitable rocks, which
nearly proved so fatal to the "sacred argo" of
old.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>With three hearty cheers we moved off.
Scarcely had we done so, when the tricolor
waved over Scylla, and the tall red plumes and
glancing bayonets of the 101st appeared among
the ruined walls; while a party of the 23rd
rushed shouting down the staircase, with such
impetuosity that many fell headlong into the
seething sea.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>We had done our duty. Though by force of
numbers they had beaten us out of the last
stronghold of Ferdinand IV. and the British
in Calabria, they had gained only a pile of
shapeless ruin; and at the dear price of many
a gallant fellow. We were now on the open
ocean—three minutes before, we were manning
the frightful breach!</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The storm died away, and the bright Ausonian
sun arose in his glory: the shores of Sicily,
studded with towns and castles, the green
woods, the sparkling sandy beach, the bright
Neptunian hills, and the red tower of the
Lantern, were all radiant with light. The shore
we had left, and the blood-stained Scylla,
diminished in the distance, as our sailors bent to
their flashing oars, and the bellying canvass
swelled on the morning wind, which blew from
the pine-clad Apennines.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Courage, Bianca!" I exclaimed, and threw
my arm around her; "we are beyond range
even of cannon, now."</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>"Anima mia," she whispered, as she laid her
head on my shoulder, "you are safe and I am
happy!"</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>And thus ended MY CAMPAIGN IN THE
CALABRIAS.</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em">
</div>
<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey</span></p>
<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em">
</div>
<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- -->
<div class="backmatter">
</div>
<p class="pfirst" id="pg-end-line"><span>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>ADVENTURES OF AN AIDE-DE-CAMP, VOLUME III (OF 3)</span><span> ***</span></p>
<div class="cleardoublepage">
</div>
<div class="language-en level-2 pgfooter section" id="a-word-from-project-gutenberg" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<span id="pg-footer"></span><h2 class="level-2 pfirst section-title title"><span>A Word from Project Gutenberg</span></h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span>We will update this book if we find any errors.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>This book can be found under: </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54595"><span>http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54595</span></a></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright royalties.
Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this
license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg™ concept and
trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be
used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific
permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook,
complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for
nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports,
performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given
away – you may do practically </span><em class="italics">anything</em><span> in the United States with
eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject
to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.</span></p>
<div class="level-3 section" id="the-full-project-gutenberg-license">
<span id="project-gutenberg-license"></span><h3 class="level-3 pfirst section-title title"><span>The Full Project Gutenberg License</span></h3>
<p class="pfirst"><em class="italics">Please read this before you distribute or use this work.</em></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>.</span></p>
<div class="level-4 section" id="section-1-general-terms-of-use-redistributing-project-gutenberg-electronic-works">
<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 1. General Terms of Use & Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works</span></h4>
<p class="pfirst"><strong class="bold">1.A.</strong><span> By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by
the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.B.</strong><span> “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.C.</strong><span> The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free
access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works
in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project
Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with
the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format
with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it
without charge with others.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.D.</strong><span> The copyright laws of the place where you are located also
govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most
countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the
United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms
of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country outside the United States.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.</strong><span> Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.1.</strong><span> The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:</span></p>
<blockquote>
<div>
<p class="pfirst"><span>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
eBook or online at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org">http://www.gutenberg.org</a><span> . If you are not
located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the
country where you are located before using this ebook.</span></p>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class="pfirst"><strong class="bold">1.E.2.</strong><span> If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.3.</strong><span> If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and
distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and
any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted
with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of
this work.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.4.</strong><span> Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project
Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a
part of this work or any other work associated with Project
Gutenberg™.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.5.</strong><span> Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute
this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.6.</strong><span> You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other
than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ web site
(</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org">http://www.gutenberg.org</a><span>), you must, at no additional cost, fee or
expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a
means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original
“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include
the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.7.</strong><span> Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.8.</strong><span> You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided
that</span></p>
<ul class="open">
<li><p class="first pfirst"><span>You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to
the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to
donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60
days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally
required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments
should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4,
“Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation.”</span></p>
</li>
<li><p class="first pfirst"><span>You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.</span></p>
</li>
<li><p class="first pfirst"><span>You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.</span></p>
</li>
<li><p class="first pfirst"><span>You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.</span></p>
</li>
</ul>
<p class="pfirst"><strong class="bold">1.E.9.</strong><span> If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The
Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™
trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3. below.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.</strong></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.1.</strong><span> Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend
considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe
and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating
the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be
stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to,
incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a
copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or
damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that
damage or cannot be read by your equipment.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.2.</strong><span> LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES – Except for the
“Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the
Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.3.</strong><span> LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND – If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.4.</strong><span> Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set
forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS,’ WITH
NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.5.</strong><span> Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.6.</strong><span> INDEMNITY – You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation,
the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.</span></p>
</div>
<div class="level-4 section" id="section-2-information-about-the-mission-of-project-gutenberg">
<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™</span></h4>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™'s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain
freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To
learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and
how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the
Foundation web page at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.pglaf.org">http://www.pglaf.org</a><span> .</span></p>
</div>
<div class="level-4 section" id="section-3-information-about-the-project-gutenberg-literary-archive-foundation">
<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation</span></h4>
<p class="pfirst"><span>The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf">http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf</a><span> . Contributions to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to
the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the
mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its
volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous
locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt
Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email </span><a class="reference external" href="mailto:business@pglaf.org">business@pglaf.org</a><span>. Email
contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the
Foundation's web site and official page at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.pglaf.org">http://www.pglaf.org</a></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>For additional contact information:</span></p>
<blockquote>
<div>
<div class="line-block outermost">
<div class="line"><span>Dr. Gregory B. Newby</span></div>
<div class="line"><span>Chief Executive and Director</span></div>
<div class="line"><a class="reference external" href="mailto:gbnewby@pglaf.org">gbnewby@pglaf.org</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
</div>
<div class="level-4 section" id="section-4-information-about-donations-to-the-project-gutenberg-literary-archive-foundation">
<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation</span></h4>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without wide spread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing
the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely
distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest array of
equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to
$5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status
with the IRS.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
state visit </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate">http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate</a></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate">http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate</a></p>
</div>
<div class="level-4 section" id="section-5-general-information-about-project-gutenberg-electronic-works">
<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works.</span></h4>
<p class="pfirst"><span>Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg™
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Each eBook is in a subdirectory of the same number as the eBook's
eBook number, often in several formats including plain vanilla ASCII,
compressed (zipped), HTML and others.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Corrected </span><em class="italics">editions</em><span> of our eBooks replace the old file and take over
the old filename and etext number. The replaced older file is
renamed. </span><em class="italics">Versions</em><span> based on separate sources are treated as new
eBooks receiving new filenames and etext numbers.</span></p>
<p class="pnext"><span>Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search
facility:</span></p>
<blockquote>
<div>
<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org">http://www.gutenberg.org</a></p>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class="pfirst"><span>This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including
how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe
to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</body>
</html>
|
