CHAPTER XIII.

FAILURE.

Not the example and influence of Raphael alone tended to ripen good resolutions in the mind of the captive; much resulted from the effect of the long hours of solitude in which reflection was forced upon him. To one of Horace's lively temper and active disposition, meditation had appeared to be of all occupations the most tedious and unprofitable, as long as study or amusement could fill up each waking hour.

It was thus that little wisdom had been gained while a good deal of knowledge had been acquired, and that even the lessons of experience had made but small impression upon Horace Cleveland. He had had his day-dreams, it is true, and his schemes of ambition, but neither had been calmly reviewed in the sober light of truth. Now, having nothing else to do, Horace perforce must think; and the result of reflection was that the proud lad, who, exalted by conscious superiority over his companions, had feared comparison with no one, now felt mortified and even disgusted himself. He recalled circumstances that had once elated him; he remembered the trophies won by intellectual or physical efforts; all their glitter and glory seemed gone.

When the youth recollected how utterly he had ignored "the only object in life worthy of an immortal soul," he felt little cause to exult at having won the prize at the examination, or the honors at foot-ball or the boat race. These things were good in themselves, but what were they compared to the crown of life towards which the solders of the cross were pressing?

Horace thought of the heroes of old to emulate whom had been his ambition: he compared Cæsar and Alexander with Marino the galley-slave—they, sweeping like a pestilence over the earth; he, employing his dying breath in leading his fellow-sufferer to God. What were the different results of their labors? The warriors had, as it were, sent up a blazing rocket to startle the world, falling in a shower of dazzling sparks that glittered awhile, and then expired. The galley-slave had been the instrument in God's hand of lighting a star that should shine in the firmament of bliss when sun and moon should be seen no more. What are all human trophies compared to the trophy of a rescued soul, what all earthly glory compared to the glory which cometh from God?

"Raphael has been given a difficult, a perilous post of duty," thought Horace; "was none allotted to me? He tries to influence for good the lowest and worst his kind; have I had no power to influence, and if I had, what use did I ever make of it? Was not I also a soldier of the cross?"

The youth resolved that, if ever permitted to see his mother and his country, he would pursue a less selfish course than that which he had hitherto followed. His heart grew heavy as he thought of the possibility—at that moment it almost presented itself as a probability—that he would never be granted an opportunity of redeeming the past. Very bitter was it to him now to recall how his petulance and pride had distressed his mother, to know that he had added weight to the widow's cross, instead of helping her to support it.

"You have planted many a thorn in my pillow!" Were not these almost the last words that he had heard from her loving lips? Had he not seen her weep for the undutifulness of her only son? If a brother's blood was once said to cry from the earth, would not a mother's tears do so also?

Horace arose from his seat, restless and miserable; he must find something, do something to drive him distracting thoughts. Raphael left his guitar leaning against the rock. Horace took it up, and swept his hand over the strings; he could produce sound but not music. No melody came from the strong but objectless touch. He put down the instrument again; it only brought back again the theme of his painful reflections. Had he not struck life's chords with the same careless hand, and had they not given forth jarring discord?

Unable to play, the prisoner attempted to sing in order to while away the wearisome hours. He tried to wake the mountain echoes with some of the bold, spirited lays which he had sung with his comrades at school. Then a plaintive strain came to his remembrance; Horace had often heard his mother sing it, and he associated her voice with each word. It seemed so well suited to his own sad estate, his fallen hopes, once so bright and gladsome, that giving utterance to his feelings in the poet's appropriate lines, he sang Moore's well-known lay:

"All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest. All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest! Stars that shine and fall. The flower that drops in springing. These, alas, are types of all To which our hearts are clinging!

"Who would seek or prize Delights that end in aching? Who would trust to ties That every hour are breaking? Better far to be In utter darkness lying, Than be blest with light, and see That light for ever flying!"

"Beautiful, but not true!" exclaimed a voice beside him.

Horace started and turned round; he had been so much absorbed in the train of ideas awakened by the words, that he had not heard Raphael ascending the rocks, nor been aware that the mournful song had reached any ear but his own.

"Sing it again," said the improvisatore.

Horace felt some reluctance to comply with the request from one who was himself a master of the musical art; he would rather have listened than sung. At Raphael's desire, however, he repeated the strain, the improvisatore listening intently, and keeping time to the music with his hand.

"And now let me hear you," said Horace; "and let us have something more cheerful."

Raphael took up his guitar, and struck a few chords full of harmony and tone in a different and far richer key than that in which Horace had been singing. He afterwards remained for several minutes silent, gathering and arranging his thoughts.

"I will be your echo," he then said with a smile; "but I will give back your notes in more joyous strain, less meet for the poet, but more for the Christian;" and catching up the air, Raphael sang in Italian as follows:—

"Earth's bright hopes must fade Not those which grace hath given; Joys were fleeting made, But not the joys of heaven! Stars that shine above, And flowers that cannot wither, These are types of peace and love That shall abide for ever!

"Who that seeks the skies Would mourn earth's pleasures blighted. Weep o'er broken ties Soon to be re-united! Blest e'en awhile to be In darkness and in sorrow, Assured we soon the dawn shall see Of an eternal morrow!"

Raphael did not lay down his guitar. The last thought seemed to link itself on to another, and changing the mournful air to a burst of triumphant melody which appeared to well up fresh from a deep spring of joy within him, the Rossignol poured forth in his richest tones the following:

SONG OF HOPE. "Now in the east Hope's trembling light Proclaims a brighter dawning; Though woe endureth for a night, Joy cometh in the morning!

"For many weary ages past Hath sin's dark night prevailing A gloom o'er all the nations cast, Whence rose the sounds of wailing! The idol-gods have many a shrine Where, bound in chains of error, Myriads, shut out from light divine, Crouch down in shame and terror! But in the cast Hope's rosy light Proclaims a brighter dawning; Though woe endureth for a night, Joy cometh in the morning!

"Like Cynthia from her silvery car, The Church could darkness lighten; Each high example, like a star, Shone forth to cheer and lighten. But I shall need not star nor moon In that clear day before me, The sun of righteousness shall soon Burst forth in cloudless glory! Yes, in the east, Hope's kindling light Proclaims a brighter dawning; Though woe endureth for a night, Joy cometh in the morning."

"Hark!" exclaimed Horace suddenly. "The robbers are in the wood!"

The music had scarcely died on the lips of Raphael. His eyes were fixed upon the sky as if already beholding in its blue depths the signs of the coming triumph. He turned them now towards the forest, and something of the brightness of hope lingered in them as he said, leaning over the rocky parapet to gaze:

"They bring no prisoners, I see no spoil. They have been disappointed again of their prey."

The gang of robbers wore a very different air from what they had done in the morning, as slowly and sullenly, one by one, they swung themselves up to the platform in front of the cave. On Enrico's face alone, Horace fancied that he could detect an expression of relief, as his eye met that of his brother.

"They never came, though we watched for them from sunrise till sunset!" cried one of the band. "I take it they've put off their journey till the morrow. Some woman's whim, I'll be bound, for we heard there's a signora in the party."

"We'll make them pay dear for our lost time," growled Matteo with an oath, as with the back of his rough hand he wiped his heated brow.

"I say," exclaimed Beppo, with a malignant scowl at Raphael, "we'll never have luck with such a preaching, praying heretic amongst us. What's the use of our burning candles to the Madonna, or vowing what best we can spare to the saints, if we've him praying hard against us?"

"The saints and the blessed Virgin Mary wouldn't listen to him," cried Marco, crossing himself as he mentioned the Madonna's name.

"I take it that his prayers go higher and straighter than ours go, Marco," said Beppo; "and they can do something down here below, or Enrico would not have hung back as he did to-day."

"I did not hang back," fiercely retorted Enrico.

"You'll prove but a hollow reed at the pinch," said Beppo, who looked quite ready to defend his opinions with something harder than words. "Did not that psalm singing brother of yours do all that he could to prevent you from going about your business this very day?"

"He did not," stammered forth Enrico, avoiding meeting the gaze of Raphael.

"Did you not?" cried Beppo, turning to the improvisatore, upon whom every eye was now bent.

Horace was almost startled at the short affirmative "si," which was the only reply of Raphael.

"You did—did you?" exclaimed Matteo, striding up to the speaker, while his hand fumbled in his leathern belt.

"And you prayed that our quarry might escape us!" cried Beppo.

"You did—did you?" repeated Matteo, more savagely than before.

Raphael met his fierce gaze with unblenching eye, and again briefly answered "si."

Horace held his breath, as one who sees a wild beast crouching for his deadly spring on a defenseless victim; he expected every moment to see Raphael laid dead at his feet. When Matteo contented himself with growling out a curse and a threat, and with the other robbers sauntered into the cave, the youth could hardly believe that the improvisatore bore not indeed a charmed life, and that some invisible circle of protection had been drawn around him by a hand unseen.

"How could you dare to brave so his fury?" exclaimed Horace to Rossignol. "I thought that he would have struck you to the earth."

"He that speaks for the truth must hold to the truth," replied Raphael, as, taking up his instrument, he followed the banditti into their dark retreat.