CHAPTER XI.

THE ORPHAN'S TALE.

A strange Sabbath was that to Horace which commenced with the dawning day. He closed his eyes on the rude and gloomy cave around him, and tried to make memory and fancy replace the hateful scene; he sought to shut his ears to the noise of oaths, profane talking, and wrangling. Sadly he recalled privileges unprized and too often neglected when he had had the power to enjoy them. He had frequently been weary of the quiet monotony of the holy day, desiring more active amusements, more exciting pursuits, and now remembered the peaceful Sabbaths in his home almost as though they had been spent in paradise, and sighed when the doubt presented itself whether he would ever be permitted to know such Sundays again.

It need scarcely be said that the Sabbath was no holy season to the robbers. It was passed with rather more of noisy riot than the preceding day had been. There was more of the wild mirth so forcibly described as "the crackling of thorns under the pot," the laughter which makes the thoughtful listener more sad than sounds of woe. The robbers gambled, danced, reveled, swore.

Raphael was the especial target for their coarse jests, which he bore as one who was accustomed to endurance, a veteran in suffering, though young in years. Horace marveled how long the improvisatore had been subjected to the daily martyrdom of such an existence, a constant chafing and fretting like that of the waves against some solitary headland.

Raphael, during the first part of the day, appeared to avoid the society of the prisoner; he neither addressed nor even looked towards him. It seemed to Horace that the young Italian did not wish his comrades to see that there was any community of thought or sympathy between them; and Horace felt that to have been recognized as the friend of the Rossignol would have increased the difficulties of his own position. It would have been like leaning on a lightning conductor while thunder was growling above.

When gambling had succeeded to more noisy revels, the improvisatore approached Enrico, who was seated amid a group of his rude companions outside the cave. Horace, from his favorite seat under the oak, where he enjoyed comparative seclusion, watched with interest the movements of the brothers, though he could not overhear their conversation. Raphael laid his hand on Enrico's shoulder, stooped down, and whispered something in his ear. Enrico, who had a dice-box in his hand, frowned and shook his head with a gesture of impatience. Again there was a low whisper, and the robbers around burst into mocking laughter. Distress, indecision were stamped upon the face of Enrico, and as Horace viewed on the one side the anxious, pleading look of the brother, on the other the dark glances of his reckless companions, he seemed to behold, in human embodiment, spirits of good and of evil contending for the possession of a soul. This time the good appeared to gain the mastery, for Enrico, suddenly flinging dice and dice-box on the ground, sprang to his feet, and followed his brother down the rocks into the forest, in whose recesses they were soon lost to view.

They were absent for more than an hour, and on their return Enrico looked sadder and more subdued, with folded arms and downcast eyes, he emerged from the shadow of the trees. Horace suspected that the interview had had some relation to himself, for Enrico, after mounting to the rocky platform, stood for some moments before his prisoner, surveying him with a fixed and inquiring gaze, then, as if answering some question to himself, he shook his head and turned sadly away.

When, in the hottest and most oppressive part of the day, the banditti retired for their accustomed siesta, the improvisatore joined Horace under the oak. Again was the Testament produced, and again the prisoner and his companion drank deeply of its life-giving truths. He who has never known severer thirst than that which makes a draught of cold water refreshing on a summer's day, can scarcely conceive the feverish eagerness of the traveler in the desert, when, exhausted and parched with thirst, he bends over the lonely well. Raphael was treading the wilderness of life, the scorching sun of temptation above him, the burning sands of tribulation beneath his feet, and the Scriptures were to him as the cooling waters to the pilgrim ready to perish.

"I wish," said Horace, when at length there was a pause in the reading, "that you would tell me how you ever came to lead this strange life amongst robbers, and what induces you, unfettered as you are, to remain in this horrible place. Enrico has told me that your father was an officer of gentle birth. How came the sons of such a man to dwell in the haunts of banditti?"

Raphael sighed as he made answer. "My father was of an honorable family; but his own heroic virtues would have ennobled any descent. He was 'without fear and without reproach'; his name had never been coupled with disgrace. I was but a child when I last saw my father, but well do I remember—never can I forget—how I used to clamber on his knee and play with his sword-knot; and how he would lay his hand on my head and tell me that I should one day serve the king, and that the duty of a brave soldier is simply prompt, unswerving obedience—obedience even unto death.

"And the lesson which my father gave to his child, he sealed with his blood. He received orders to defend a mountain pass from the enemy with a small body of troops that were placed under his command. I know not—it was never clearly ascertained—whether in the confusion of a general retreat that small band was actually forgotten, or whether the commander had found it impossible to send reinforcements to its aid; but it was isolated, unsupported, and attacked by a greatly superior force.

"Some of those under my father's command urged the necessity of retreat; resistance, they said, was hopeless; to attempt to defend the pass was but to throw away the lives of his men.

"'I was placed here to hold this post,' was the gallant reply; 'and till I receive orders from my leader to quit it, here I am bound to remain. It is his office to command, and mine to obey.'

"The men," continued Raphael with emotion, "were not inspired by their captain's heroism. False to their trust, one by one they deserted their banners. A single brave man remained firm as a rock at the post of duty; where my father had planted his colors, there he fought, and there—he fell!"

"And did not your king reward such generous devotion by caring for the fatherless children of such a man?" exclaimed Horace, as Raphael with a deep sigh closed his brief account.

"Earthly princes do not resemble Him who keeps a record of every act of obedience," replied Raphael. "There were a few words of praise, a ribbon, and a cross, and then all appeared to be forgotten. My brother and I might have starved in the streets of Naples but for the kindness of our mother's father, a physician, who supported and educated us for the sake of a daughter whose loss he yet mourned.

"Enrico became weary of the monotony and restraint of the life which he led in the good old man's home. He spent much of his time away from it, and became acquainted with some who made no good use of the influence which they acquired over his generous and confiding nature.

"When I had reached the age of fifteen, my grandfather died; I was with him at the last, received his parting blessing, and closed his eyes. All my earthly comfort was buried in his grave. I will not dwell on the events of the following year."

Raphael chose not to unveil to the eye of a stranger scenes of riot and selfish profusion in the house which the memory of a venerable relative had to him rendered sacred. He would not relate how Enrico had recklessly squandered his young brother's inheritance as well as his own, exposing the orphan left to his guidance to the contamination of such society as might have ruined his soul as well as his fortunes. Raphael was tender of the reputation of a brother whom he yet loved with the strength of that affection which can bear all, hope all, endure all. But though the Rossignol purposely left out all the darker shades of the picture, Horace had already seen enough of Enrico to fill up the outlines for himself. After a brief pause, Raphael continued his narration:

"I was sleeping one night in my chamber, when I was startled from slumber by the sudden entrance of my brother. It was the hour before dawn, when darkness is deepest; I could not see his face, but I was alarmed by the grasp of his icy hand, and the strange, altered tone of his voice.

"'Raphael,' he exclaimed, 'we must fly! I am a ruined man! The bloodhounds are already on my track!'

"I found afterwards that my unfortunate brother had been mixed up in a night brawl, in which a man of high rank had been killed, and that Enrico was suspected—falsely suspected—" Raphael laid strong emphasis on the word—"of having dealt the fatal blow. Enrico had no means of proving his innocence; he had little money left, and no friends. He had been the victim of men more unscrupulous and reckless than himself, who were willing to screen their own guilt by sacrificing their dupe.

"Why should I dwell on a painful theme? Before morning we fled from Naples. Pursued by the ministers of the law, Enrico took refuge in these mountains of Calabria, and, driven to desperation, in an evil hour joined himself to a band of outlaws. I accompanied his steps and shared his fortunes."

"Then it was through no error of your own that you became associated with these men of blood?"

"I say not so," replied Raphael, quickly, "nor can attempt to justify my weak compliance. I was young and inexperienced, indeed, but not so young nor so ignorant as not to see the snares into which I was running. I was carried on by an impetus which I had not sufficient strength of principle to resist. My own views of religion and duty were dark. My conscience, indeed, was not dead; but while I could stifle its reproaches by supposed good deeds, while Latin prayers and long fastings could, as I thought, atone for sharing the booty of the robber (in his worst crimes, thank God, I never shared!), I pursued my course with but little remorse. I will not weary you with accounts of pilgrimages to holy shrines made with bare and bleeding feet, nor tell you how many hours at night were often spent in reciting prayers that I understood not. Vain superstition! Miserable opiates to put to sleep the restless monitor within! I was a favorite with Matteo and his followers. My youth, and perhaps my love of music, and my slight knowledge of the healing art, won for me more kindness and indulgence than it might have been supposed that such men could have shown. I ministered to their pleasure and to their comfort; they loved my jests and my songs. I might say whatever I liked—almost do whatever I liked; I was as the spoiled child of the band."

Horace felt no surprise that the gifted boy, attractive in person and winning in manner, should have exercised powers of fascination over the rough spirits around him. The prisoner had himself begun to feel in the society of Raphael a kind of magnetic influence, which made him watch every look, and listen for each word, with a strange interest for which he could scarcely have accounted. Circumstances, however, had evidently altered as regarded the connection of Raphael with the banditti, and Horace remarked to the Rossignol that he seemed to be now rather tolerated than liked.

"How is it," asked young Cleveland, "that the once 'spoiled child of the band' is now treated with such harshness, and even brutality, that it seemed to me to-day as though your very life were scarcely worth a day's purchase? How is it also that you have learned to put away superstition, to see the folly of dead forms, and have become so earnest in the service of God, that you are ready to hazard all for his sake?"

"It is a long story," replied Raphael, "and I hear by the sound of voices in the cave that the bandits' siesta is over. We must not be seen together," he continued, rising hastily from his seat; "you have perils enough to encounter as an Englishman, a Protestant, and a prisoner, without its being added to your list of offenses that you can call Raphael a friend."

Horace was disappointed at the interruption to the tale of the improvisatore, and awaited with curiosity and interest a fitting opportunity to hear its conclusion.