CHAPTER XII.

HOW THE LIGHT WAS LIT.

Raphael spent several hours in visiting the sick, and the opportunity which Horace desired came not until the morrow. Tidings having been brought from Marco, who had gone out as a spy, that a traveling party was expected on the way to Staiti, the bandits departed at dawn in the hope of intercepting it. They went off in high spirits, except Matteo, whose fierce and gloomy visage was never lighted with a smile.

"Enrico lost his last carlino at play yesterday!" shouted Beppo. "But he will return with a heavy bag of ducats with which to line my purse. He puts one hand into a cavalier's pocket, and with the other makes the contents of it over to me. I call him the lion's provider."

"A lion more given to roaring than to fighting," laughed Enrico; but the laugh was suddenly cut short as he caught the eye of his brother.

Raphael approached Enrico, and though Horace could not distinguish what he said to him in his low, earnest tone, the robber's reply was more audible:

"I must go—I have no choice—I may prevent bloodshed."

Enrico had the same uneasy, vacillating manner which Horace had before remarked, and the nerve of his lip twitched violently.

"Enrico, keep at my side!" called out Matteo, turning upon the Rossignol a scowl of dark suspicion and dislike.

Horace and Raphael watched the departure of the banditti. The latter stood for some time with folded arms, his eyes fixed upon the spot where Enrico had disappeared from view, and with an expression of such anxious care on his face, that Horace did not venture to disturb him. Presently, however, the pale features resumed their usual calmness, and Raphael, turning towards the captive, proposed that they should renew their study of the Scriptures.

Some time was spent in this occupation. Horace was beginning to regard his seat under the oak much as regarded his place in the old village church. The presence of earnest piety had seemed to isolate that one little spot from all the rocks around, and the green boughs above were as the roof of a temple consecrated to God. There were portions of Scripture which Horace felt that he should always connect with that oak and with him who now sat by his side beneath it—verses that he could never hear again without recalling the musical tones of the Rossignol's voice.

When the reading was concluded, Horace asked Raphael to tell him something of the circumstances attending his capture and imprisonment. "For I have understood, both from yourself and from others," said the youth, "that you, like myself, know something of captivity. How did you fall into your enemy's hand?"

"Simply thus," replied Raphael; "I was wandering slowly through the woods one evening, when I heard a rapid step behind me, and on turning, beheld Matteo wounded, bleeding, gasping, like a stag whom the hunters have pursued till his strength is exhausted, and he can but turn, face them, and die. I saw by his staggering, uncertain step that he could not fly much further.

"'Boy!' he exclaimed. 'They are upon me! Plunge yonder through the thicket, and let them hear you; you may draw off pursuit from your captain.'

"I obeyed, was followed, and taken."

"Then your generous act saved the chief?"

"It was a mere act of impulse," replied Raphael; "it deserved no praise, and won no gratitude. I was now a prisoner, bound and guarded. I was taken from one place to another, and brought before a tribunal of justice. There was little against me but bare suspicion, for no actual crime could be laid to my charge. I had, indeed, been seen in the company of banditti. I was known to be acquainted with Matteo. I had baffled the soldiers when they had believed that the blood-money for his capture was within their grasp. The last offense might be atoned for; I was offered freedom and reward, if I would betray the secret haunts of Matteo. Of course such treachery was not to be thought of.

"After tedious imprisonment and examinations before various authorities, I was condemned to six months' labor in the galleys, rather for obstinate silence than for any offense which could be proved."

"What!" exclaimed Horace. "Was not the remembrance of the faithful services of your heroic father sufficient to save his son from so harsh a sentence."

"No one knew my parentage," replied Raphael quickly; "no, no! Sunk as I was, disgraced, condemned, I jealously guarded the honor of my father's name as the one precious possession left me, which would never be tarnished by shame. It should never be said that the son of Raphael Goldoni had appeared as a criminal at the bar of justice!"

"Were you not in a state of misery on hearing your doom?" asked Horace.

"I was in a state of sullen despair. It seemed to me as if there were no help for me on earth or in heaven. I was an outcast, a wretch abandoned by my fellow-creatures. I accused them of cruelty and injustice; and, what was far worse, my soul rose in guilty rebellion against the decrees of Providence. I looked upon myself as a sufferer rather for the crimes of others than my own, forgetful that no circumstances could justify my compliance with what I had known to be evil.

"Sometimes, indeed, conscience, oft stifled, would make itself heard, and then the icy calm of despair was exchanged for a tempest of anguish, such as almost shook reason from its seat. I could no longer have recourse to the miserable refuge offered by pilgrimage or penance. Even the relief of confession was denied me, for I had never learned to go in simplicity of faith for pardon and absolution to Him who heareth in secret.

"This mortal life was to me as a prison, and yet I clung to its dark walls, for I saw nothing beyond but purgatory fires, which made the thought of death a terror. I knew myself to be guilty in the sight of God, and I could not recognize a compassionate Father in the awful Judge before whom I trembled. My service had been that of a slave, my sufferings were those of a slave; far more galling than the iron which fettered my limbs was that which entered into my soul."

"And how long did this misery last?"

"Not long," replied the Italian. "I and my companions in punishment were chained by two and two in the galleys, and on the third day of my labors, I was coupled with a man whose demeanor at once struck me as different from that of the other prisoners. He was not old in years, but his form was bowed by suffering and sorrow, and white as silver were his locks and the beard which descended almost to his girdle. He looked so calm and resigned in the dignity of conscious innocence, that even the first glance convinced me that no criminal was at my side. Had I been in a less gloomy and despondent mood, I should have questioned by new companion; but I had lost all interest in life, all care for what was passing around me.

"Even when Marino (such was his name) spoke a few words of kindly greeting to his partner in misfortune, I only bowed my head in reply, and preserved a moody silence. I thought that the galley-slave pitied me, and my proud heart shrank from pity, even when I needed it most.

"Our toil on that day was severe. We had to row at our utmost speed, hour after hour, under the burning rays of the sun, which were reflected with dazzling glare from the waters. I felt as if the unwonted and protracted labor were drawing my very life away, and I saw that my comrade, who was weaker, suffered yet more than myself. The beaded drops were upon his brow and his lip, and he bent over his oar as if every stroke might be his last. While we were painfully toiling on, a gay cavalier, stretched at ease in the stern of our galley, was humming a light lay of love, or quaffing cool draughts of sparkling wine. He took no notice of the exhausted rowers, except to express impatience at the slow progress which they made.

"At length the keel grated on the shore, we lifted our oars, and the cavalier stepped on the beach. There were gay friends to welcome him there, and take him with them to cool orange groves and glittering fountains, towards which we wearily turned our longing eyes. There with fair and high-born ladies, would he enjoy the feast, the dance, and the song, while we sat thirsty, weary, neglected—the very outcasts of mankind.

"My companion addressed me again, in a voice so faint that I could at first scarcely catch his meaning. 'Is it not well, my son,' he murmured, 'that there is One who hath said:

"'"Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest?"'

"The words sounded strange to me, and I replied with sullen despair, 'There is no rest for me—no, not even in the grave!'

"'Then you have never yet come to Him, never yet found the Savior,' said Marino; 'you have not yet accepted His invitation; perhaps till this day you never heard it.'

"This was so unlike any address to which I had hitherto listened on the subject of religion, that it instantly arrested my attention. Fresh from the pure fount of Truth came the words which Marino now uttered. Parched as I was with feverish thirst, with a force which I cannot describe came especially one blessed verse, which I have ever since regarded as the very breathing of infinite love—

"'And the Spirit and the Bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst, come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.'

"That day,—that sultry, exhausting day," continued Raphael, clasping his hands as he spoke, "I regard as the birth-day of my soul. It was then first that I learned that there was pardon, full, free pardon, even for the chief of sinners; that there was love, infinite love, towards those for whom the Lord had died. I learned that I had been 'bought with a price,' and that I was no longer mine own. In the morning my soul had been even as your person now is. I had been shackled with my sins, galled, imprisoned, without power to shake off either the burden of my guilt or the dread of its punishment. I had seen before me a forest labyrinth of difficulties and temptations, and had no clue to guide me through it. The grand, glorious truth that the blood of the Savior 'cleanseth from all sin,' broke at once my chain and set me free; and henceforth God's Word was to be my guide to safety, to peace, and, I trust, hereafter—to glory."

There were some moments of silence, only broken by the ceaseless noise of the cicala and the sigh of the wind through the wood.

"Who was Marino," inquired Horace; "and how came so good a man to be working as a slave at the oar?"

"He had been sentenced to the galleys for a very different crime from any of which I had been suspected," replied Raphael. "Marino, as I learned afterwards from himself, had been a student of medicine, brought up in the Romish faith. Circumstances, or rather the leading of God's Providence, had taken him to England, where he had resided for years, and where he had acquired not only a knowledge of the languages, but of the truth which in your land is guarded and prized. Marino might have remained honored and happy amongst those whose communion he had joined, but he thought of the darkness of ignorance shrouding his own beautiful country; he thought of the bondage of superstition in which his fellow citizens groaned. Marino returned to be a missionary to his own people.

"Following the steps of his Master in the path of self-denying labor, he soon tracked the holy footprints through sufferings also. You know, doubtless, that with Italians it is held a crime to search the Scriptures; doubly a crime to teach others to do so. Marino for both offenses was sentenced for three years to the galleys. Alas! Broken down as he was, by hardship and trial, his life did not last out the term."

"Was it not much to be regretted," observed Horace, "that, instead of laboring where he could have labored in safety, this good man threw away freedom, and, as it proved, life itself, upon such a desperate venture?"

"I have no reason to say so," replied the Rossignol with deep feeling. "Marino was silenced from preaching the gospel to freemen, that he might carry the glad tidings to slaves! Who can say that he lived or that he died in vain? I was not the only wretched outcast over whose darkness he shed light, though to none was he such a friend, such a father as he was to me. When his spirit passed away, I felt that for the third time my earthly stay had been wrenched from my hold, but now I was not left desolate. Marino had led me to the Rock—the changeless—the everlasting!"

Raphael's voice faltered as he continued, covering his eyes with his hand: "When they dropped his lifeless remains into the sea, without funeral rite, without toll of bell, without even a coffin to shroud them; when the waves of the Mediterranean rolled over the spot where slept the friend I loved best upon earth, even then God sent thoughts of comfort—of triumph—into my soul. I knew that Marino would rise again, incorruptible, immortal, glorious; that the sea should give up her dead and the Savior reclaim His own. And I knew that there was something left also for me—an object in life, as well as a hope in death."

"What was that object?" asked Horace.

Raphael seemed unable to give an audible reply. He turned over silently the leaves of his Testament, and laid his finger upon this verse: "'The love of Christ constraineth us; because we thus judge that if One died for all, then were all dead; and that He died for all that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto Him which died for them!'"

Horace remained for a space with his eyes riveted upon the passage, marveling how he had never before seen how it contains not only the ground of a Christian's hope, but of a Christian's willing obedience. What is true religion but "a personal love for a personal Savior?"

"'The love of Christ constraineth!'" That is the very watchword of the soldier of the cross upon the battle-field of life. Not to live to self, but unto God; not to do our own will, but God's will; to make His love our inspiring motive, His glory our end and aim;—this is the object, the only object, worthy of an immortal soul.

After a lengthened pause, Horace resumed the conversation. "I am surprised," said he, "that one whose whole character had been changed like yours, should ever have come back to a den of wickedness like this."

"When Marino departed," replied Raphael, "my six months of durance had almost come to a close. Often and anxiously I revolved in my mind what course it would be right to pursue after I should have regained my freedom. Sometimes I almost decided upon working my way to England; at other times I proposed returning to Naples, seeking out some old acquaintances of my grandfather, and trying through their assistance to make my entrance into his profession.

"Amidst my various projects one truth was ever recurring to my mind. A soldier chooses not his own post; it was my one simple duty to find out where my Leader would have me to be, and what He would have me to do. More and more strongly the conviction came that nowhere was light more needed, and into no place was it less likely to penetrate, than into this robbers' cave. Here seemed to be my allotted post, and hither I accordingly came."

"You were throwing yourself into the midst of great temptations," observed Horace.

"I felt that—I feel it," replied Raphael; "and I often have I feared presumption, and closely have searched my own motives for running so great e risk. But," he continued, as if conscious that there was a need of explaining his position in order to justify his conduct, "I knew that there were circumstances in my favor, which made it possible for me to plant my foot where by another man no standing ground could have been found. I was known amongst the banditti, liked, favored; perhaps I counted too much upon that favor, as I certainly did upon the circumstance of having saved the life of their captain."

"But the danger!" exclaimed Horace Cleveland.

"There was nothing but bare life to be hazarded; I had nothing else that I could lose—not even a fair reputation. I had neither father nor mother to mourn me! I had but a brother, and he was one of the band. Perhaps my strongest earthly incentive was the hope of being the means of winning his soul."

"And how were you received by the banditti?" inquired Horace, who regarded this project of planting a "home mission" in the midst of a gang of ruffians as the wildest, most impracticable scheme which enthusiasm had ever devised.

"I was received with a welcome so cordial and warm, that it almost shook my resolution to strip away all deception, and at once avow the reason for my return. I was enabled, however, to speak out the truth—to own that I came not to rejoin the band, to eat bread that was won by robbery, or to touch gold that was stained with blood—to say that if the outlaws desired it, I would tend their sick, and do what other kindly offices I might without wounding my conscience—but that I was now the soldier and servant of One who suffers no compromise with sin."

"I should have liked to have heard such an avowal made to such men," exclaimed Horace, "and to have seen the countenance of Matteo as you spoke! That was indeed walking into the lion's den, and laying your hand on his mane. How was your strange offer received?"

"With bursts of laughter and mocking jests. I believe that some of the banditti deemed that imprisonment had affected my brain."

"I marvel not at that," returned Horace. "Did you not find it hard to stand against the storm of ridicule?"

"So hard that I almost cowered beneath it. I had then, however, nothing beyond such ridicule to bear. The robbers were amused—not infuriated. My conditions were mirthfully accepted. I was elected with shouts as friar and father confessor to the band, and was given full leave to pray and to fast as long as it might suit my pleasure to do so."

"The outlaws doubtless thought," observed Horace, "that your resolution was but some strange passing fancy."

"I doubt not that they thought so," replied Raphael, "and that they promised themselves much diversion from what was to them so novel. But when the robbers found that though they might be in jest, the object of their mockery was in earnest, opposition assumed a different form."

"You were persecuted, threatened, tormented," said Horace, recollecting the lacerated shoulder, and the cruel insults of which he had himself been a witness.

"I had a little rough discipline," answered Raphael lightly, "such as every soldier must look for. I have often cheered myself under it by remembering the words of my father—if applicable to earthly warfare, how much more so to the heavenly!—'The duty of a brave soldier is simple, prompt, unswerving obedience, even unto death!'"

"But does it not damp your spirit," asked Horace, "to find that you labor and suffer in vain?"

A thoughtful, pensive expression sat on the brow of the young Italian as he replied, "Is there not a promise that such labor shall not be in vain? I have not much to cheer me, I own, as regards any little efforts of my own; yet the village youth whom I am now going to visit has begun to pray in earnest, and in the Savior's name alone. Sometimes I think that in my brother's bosom a better spirit is stirring, though he is hedged round with difficulties whose greatness a stranger cannot fully understand. God will give Enrico to me; while life remains, I will never cease to pray for my brother, and He in whom I trust will grant me my heart's desire."

The sigh which followed came from a burdened, but yet a confiding heart.

"Oh, yes," cried Horace, anxious to efface the painful impression caused by a thoughtless question, "you will not suffer without reward. I know not whether you will care to hear it, but I must tell you one thing. Though, from my cradle, I have heard a great deal about religion, I have never thought so seriously upon the subject as you have made me do during these last few days. If I ever become a real Christian—a faithful soldier, as you would say—I shall trace, the beginning of an earnest life to these hours which I have spent with you under this oak."

The pale face of Raphael lighted up with an expression of joy, as when a sunbeam, bursting from behind a cloud, throws over a still stream a pathway of glory. The smile was so bright, so sudden, so angel-like in its gladness, that it often in future days recurred to the memory of Horace. Raphael grasped his hand with the warmth of a brother, but without commenting upon what he had said; and the improvisatore soon afterwards descended to the forest to go on his errand of mercy to the sick.