CHAPTER XV.

ONWARDS.

When Marco had reached the top of the parapet, Horace drew a little hope from the trivial circumstance that the bandit did not look at him, nor appear to notice his presence. He addressed himself at once to the improvisatore.

"Your preaching to the living is over, you may now pray for the dead," he said in a hollow, sepulchral voice, crossing himself as he spoke.

"Explain yourself!" exclaimed Raphael.

"Your brother is—" Marco pointed downwards—"with the souls in purgatory."

Raphael uttered an exclamation which was almost like a cry. "Not by violence, not by violence?" he gasped forth.

Marco gloomily shook his head, and muttered between his teeth, "The Cascata della Morte!"

"How did it happen?" exclaimed Horace, giving voice to the question painted on Raphael's agonized face.

"We were all on our way to the high road," said Marco, "when some one proposed that instead of following the bend of the river, it would be well for one or two of our party to cross it, so that by making a round to the left, we might come on the travelers from behind, while the rest attacked them in front. Enrico and I had orders to cross.

"You know," continued the robber, addressing himself to Raphael, "that the only bridge there is, the trunk of the tree, thrown across from bank to bank, some twenty yards above the Cascata. Enrico went first, I lingered to tighten my belt, which was loose. I know not whether he was taken with giddiness at seeing the waters rushing on so madly beneath him, or whether he stumbled on the rough bark, but I saw Enrico suddenly go down splash into the current. He gave a cry and struggled desperately, but the rush there is so strong and rapid that no swimmer could stem it; the water bore him on as if he had been a reed on the surface, on—over—you know the depth of the fall, and may judge whether he could reach the bottom alive."

Raphael closed his eyes, as if to shut out a vision of the awful scene—the precipice and the victim dashed over it.

"Not time for a single Ave or Paternoster," said the bandit, "even had he had the grace to repeat one; but I trow that you had made half a heretic of him. There was not a saint who would help him in his need, or he would not have come to so awful an end."

Raphael turned and rushed into the cave, to hide himself from the sunshine, and give vent in solitude and darkness to the first burst of uncontrollable grief.

"Ay, ay," said Marco, following him with his eyes; "if ever one brother loved another, that brother was Raphael. He is always teaching and preaching about submission, but I take it that when it comes to a sharp, sudden trial like this, the heretic's faith and trust will be whirled away, like that poor struggling wretch who has just been dashed to pieces over the fall. It was an awful sight, even to one used like myself to rough work," added the bandit, wiping his brow; "and often when I stand sentry within sound of that deathly cataract, I shall fancy that I hear again the last cry of the miserable Enrico."

"Is Matteo returning soon?" asked Horace, who could not forget his own perilous position even in his interest in the fate of the sufferer.

"He will come when he has done his business," was the surly reply. "The sun has nearly sunk behind the hills, but the expected party have not yet appeared. The band will keep on the watch, and perhaps pass the night in the woods. I am appointed sentinel at the rock-pass till they return, and I have come to fill my wallet and my flask, as it is uncertain how many hours I may have to remain and keep guard."

So saying, the robber went to the entrance to the cave, pushed aside the plants which almost concealed it, and stooping his tall, gaunt figure, entered in. Horace felt an almost irresistible impulse to try once more the descent of the rocks, impossible as he had found it to be to climb down while the shackles confined his ankles. He was almost bewildered by what he heard, evil tidings succeeding evil tidings with a rapidity which had overpowered for a time the stronger nature of Raphael, disciplined as it had been by conflict and suffering.

Horace attempted to pray, but could not collect his thoughts; only the only words of Scripture that came into his mind were,—

"'Oh, that I had wings like dove!"

And that aspiration, the poor doomed captive uttered from the depth of his soul.

In about a quarter of an hour Marco emerged from the cave, and proceeded towards his allotted post. He stopped as he was about to pass Horace, and looked at him with a scrutinizing eye.

"One might deem that you had been the one to lose a brother," he observed, "or that you had just seen the ghost of Enrico. You look white as a corpse on the bier."

Horace made no answer, and the robber went on his way.

Scarcely had Marco reached the wood, when Raphael came forth from the cave. He was now perfectly calm, but almost stern in his sadness, and Horace saw more distinctly than he had ever seen it before, the Rossignol's likeness to his brother. Raphael made a gesture to the prisoner to place his foot upon a large stone which was near, and then, to the surprise of Horace, threw himself on his knees beside him.

"When I besought God to make the path plain before me, I thought not of this answer," said Raphael in a low tone; "but just and true are his ways;" and the moment after, with a file which he had brought in his hand, he was working at the chain of the captive.

The mingled feelings of hope, fear, delight, impatience, which struggled together in the bosom of Horace pass description. Thought Raphael filed with the full power of his right arm, it seemed to Horace as though the stubborn iron would never give way, and the noise caused by the instrument sounded to him so loud, that he was in terror lest it should reach Marco, and awake his suspicions. At the first pause made by Raphael, though it was but to shake back the dark locks that had fallen over his brow as he stooped, Horace caught the file from his hand and used it himself with the desperate energy of one who felt that his life might be the sacrifice of even a few minutes' delay; but he found that better progress was made when he resigned it again to Raphael.

Not a single word was uttered by either until the work was completed, and Horace stood unfettered beneath the deep blue sky, which was already darkening into night. He would have leaped and bounded in the rapture of recovered freedom, but for an instinctive delicacy which forbade demonstration of joy in the presence of the bereaved brother of Enrico.

"Now, put on my mantle and hat," said Raphael.

"Why so?" asked Horace. "Surely we shall escape together; I shall have your guidance through the forest?"

"Through the most intricate part you shall have it; but when we reach the post guarded by Marco, we must separate; it is only wrapt in disguise that you will be able to pass him."

"He is but one man—there are two of us," began Horace, all his natural courage rising at the prospect of a struggle.

"One man—but with two pistols at his belt, and with a hand that, when it draws a trigger, never fails to hit its mark. Remember also that the sound of a shot would be sufficient to draw the whole band upon us. Do not delay putting on this disguise; time is precious to you now."

Horace promptly obeyed. Though he had not yet attained the stature of Raphael, the difference between their heights was not great enough to be striking, and the almost sudden darkness of southern latitudes was now falling upon earth.

"There is the moon," observed Horace; "her light will serve to guide us on our way."

"I need it not," the Rossignol replied, "every step of that way is familiar to me;" and he began descending the rocks.

Horace followed, rejoicing in his newly-restored powers of activity, though their exercise was cramped not a little by the necessity of moving with caution in the darkness. Before he clambered over the rocky parapet, he turned one last glance towards the old oak, the dim outline of whose branches he faintly could trace.

"Farewell," thought the released captive, "farewell for ever to the place where I suffered so much of evil, and learned so much of good; where I have seen more of the wickedness of man, and more of the grace of God, in a few days, than in all my former lifetime!"

In profound silence, save when a pebble fell, dislodged beneath a climbing foot or hand, the twain descended those rocks down which the prisoner had so often gazed, measuring their depth with an anxious and at length a hopeless eye. A few more steps, and the fugitives had entered the depths of the forest. Here the light was almost entirely shut out, for rarely was a glimpse of the silver moon seen behind the thick branches. Over moss-grown roots, between the knotted, gnarled trunks of old trees, now bending low to avoid being struck by their boughs, now thrusting aside plants whose long trailing tresses concealed all trace of a path even during the day, Raphael guided his companion.

Occasionally there was a rustle as they started some wild creature from its lair, or a frightened bird rose on the wing. A single nightingale was pouring forth its soft, melancholy lay; other sounds there were none, till a faint noise, as of a distant waterfall, reached the listening ear. A sudden turn at length brought the fugitives to a break in the forest, and Horace saw before him the same ledge of rock overhanging a precipice which he so well recollected traversing under the guidance of Enrico.

The moon, almost at the full, in unveiling brightness shone on the cold gray stone, veined with green moss and lichen, and the wooded heights which rose on one side above it, and even revealed the awful beauty of the deep gorge on the left, glimmering on a stream which, hundreds of feet below, wound like a thread of silver through the dark valley. Distinct in the moonshine, which threw his black shadow on the rock wall behind him, rose the gaunt form of Marco the bandit. He stood at so narrow a part of the ledge, that though he was almost close to the rock, the precipice in front of him yawned scarcely more than a yard from his feet. He could hardly be passed without being touched, and Horace perceived at once that, without the protection of a disguise, the attempt to cross in front of the watchful sentinel must bring inevitable destruction.

"Draw your hat lower over your brow," whispered Raphael; "the pass-word is 'Speranza.' If Marco speak to you, do not reply. Silence on my part would cause no surprise after all that has passed. The sound of water will be sufficient to guide you, till you reach the bank of the stream. Do not attempt to cross it," Raphael's voice faltered as he spoke, "turn to the right and follow its course till you reach the high road, which crosses it by a bridge. And now—God's blessing go with you!" and extending his hand to Horace, Raphael added, "here we must part."

"O Raphael!" exclaimed the young Englishman, grasping it with emotion, "I cannot desert you thus, I cannot leave you to the vengeance of Matteo—I feel that your blood would be on my head—I would rather go back to the cave!"

The two hands were yet clasped in each other, and Horace felt the warm pressure of his friend's as he replied, "You would have no chance of mercy; your young life would be the certain sacrifice; I have a thousand advantages which you do not possess. I know every man in the band—I have put most of them under obligation; every path in the forest is familiar to me as well by night as by day. If you knew the mountain's weight which will be removed from my heart by your flight, you would not dally thus with your fate."

"But do I not leave you to danger—the most terrible danger?"

"You leave me to the care of my heavenly Father. He is with me, I have nothing to fear."

"But," began Horace, still retaining his hold of the hand of Raphael, "if you should suffer for this generous act, I never should know peace any more."

"Say not so," murmured the Rossignol, with more than his usual sweetness of tone; "if anything should happen to me, think that the lone, desolate wanderer has found at last rest and a home; that the dreary warfare is ended—the long life-struggle over. I am not, as you are, a mother's hope, and pride, and comfort; I now stand alone in the world."

"I will be your brother!" exclaimed Horace. "Oh, I cannot, will not desert you!"

"You could not serve me, even were you to return to the cave," said Raphael; "I could not replace the chains; the Rubicon was passed when I filed them asunder. My chance of escape would be greatly lessened by my having to care for your safety as well as my own. Therefore go, my friend—my brother!"

Raphael drew Horace to his heart, and pressed him to it for a moment in a close embrace; then suddenly unloosing it, he turned around and buried himself in the wood.