CHAPTER XVIII.

VICTORY.

"Onward, onward! Now or never must we make a struggle for freedom!" exclaimed Horace. "If your strength fail you, Enrico, lean upon me. This is no time for giving way to weariness; and as for hesitation and doubt—"

"The firing has ceased!" gasped Enrico. "We know not who are the victors."

"The right has conquered, be sure of that!" cried Horace, whose countenance, beaming with hope and flushed with excitement, presented a strong contrast to that of Enrico, livid even to ghastliness! The young bandit in his dripping garments looked more like the corpse of a drowned man than one through whose veins the warm blood of life was coursing.

"Come on!" again exclaimed the impatient youth; and almost dragging his companion forward, Horace hurried on for a few paces, and suddenly confronted—Matteo!

Defeat, disaster, despair, were stamped on the dark lineaments of the chieftain, distinct as the blood-marks on face and hand. It was the wounded lion driven back into the shelter of his native jungle, who hears behind him the bay of the bloodhounds, the shout of the hunters on his track! Matteo had seen all his followers, save Marco, slain or taken, and then, not till then, had he dashed aside opposing weapons and plunged into the depths of the thicket. He had paused but once, and that was to reload a pistol, less to provide for defence than to assure himself that he should never fall alive into the hands of his foes.

Before this desperate man stood his prisoner, his Italian companion at his side. No thought of apparitions roused in Matteo superstitious dread; he doubted not that in mortal flesh and blood, he beheld a traitor and an escaping hostage, a hostage for the son of whose ignominious death he on that very night had heard!

A fierce joy flashed in the blood-shot eyes of the bandit; he had lost all beside, but a dying man's vengeance yet might be his. Matteo leveled his pistol and fired; the report rang sharp through the wood, a victim lay stretched on the ground, but that victim was not Horace Cleveland. Raphael had reached the spot at that crisis only in time to throw himself in front of his friend, and receive in his own bosom the bullet destined for another!

With a wild cry Enrico rushed forward and threw himself on the ground by his brother. Absorbed by one overpowering dread, the wretched young man was unconscious of all that was passing around him; he heard not, cared not for the desperate struggle of Matteo with the soldiers, his wrestling for liberty and life as a wild beast caught in the toils, nor knew that the struggle ended at last in the capture of the chief.

Enrico heard not, cared not for the sobs of delight with which a mother embraced a rescued son, nor knew the deep sympathy with which both Mrs. Cleveland and Horace now bent over Raphael. Had an earthquake shaken the forest, Enrico would scarcely have felt it. His brother's head was supported on his breast; the expression of the features was serene and painless, the heavy eyelids closed, and the long dark lashes resting on the colorless cheek.

"Raphael! My brother, look at me, speak to me! This is not, it cannot be death! One word, if it be of reproach—one look, were it even in anger! Tell me that I have not this night been rescued from the jaws of death, that I have not been saved from the whelming waters to be plunged in darker depths of wretchedness!"

The young man sobbed aloud in the anguish of his soul. His nerves had been completely unstrung by the events of the last few hours; his mind was crushed by the consciousness that it had been his guilt that had led to the ruin of his brother.

"He bleeds but little; he may, he will revive!" exclaimed Horace. "I will bring water!" And he hurried away towards the stream. Briny drops were fast falling on the face of Raphael, but they seemed to have no power to arouse him.

"O God, have mercy upon me! O God, spare my brother; let him not perish through my sin! I will submit to Thy will in all things—I will not murmur—I will not rebel—only spare this one precious life!" It was the wrestling, agonizing prayer bursting from a broken and contrite heart.

"See, his lips move!" exclaimed Horace, who had just sprinkled water over the face of the dying man.

Faint sounds came forth, soft and melodious still, from those tuneful lips so soon to be silenced in death; even Enrico hushed his wild grief to listen. Low but distinct were the words:

"Joy cometh—in the morning!—see—it is brightening in the east—darkness is passing away—and for ever!"

"Raphael, do you know me?" faltered Horace, as he knelt beside the Rossignol, and pressed his icy hand in his own.

Raphael did not answer the question; the spirit fluttering on the confines of a world of light seemed already to feel the eternal sunshine on its wings! The large dark eyes slowly unclosed, but their gaze was fixed upwards, as if they beheld the vision of glories hidden from mortal eyes.

"It is over," he murmured—"all is over—the struggle—the battle is past! More than conqueror—through Him—only through Him who loved me! Ah, Marino— thou art there to welcome me, the palm in thy hand—the glory round thy brow. I knew our parting would not be for long! See the angel faces bending from the clouds—they are waiting there to receive me—light is streaming from the golden gate. Oh, stay me not—I must go!"

"He must not die and leave me!" gasped Enrico. "Raphael, live, if it be but to guide me, to teach me how to wrestle with my sins, to lead me, even me, to the Savior!"

Raphael turned his eyes upon his brother with a sudden look of joyful recognition.

"Enrico, saved!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, saved from destruction of body and soul, saved to be—"

"My joy and crown of rejoicing!" cried the dying man, the radiance of unearthly rapture lighting up his fading features. "Oh, my God, I thank thee—I bless Thee—Thou hast given me my heart's desire—Thou hast heard my prayer for my brother! Hark!" he exclaimed, suddenly. "Do you not hear the shouts—the music—loud—louder! It is the song of triumph. The angels are beckoning me upwards—why cannot I rise and join them! He is there—my Leader—my King! I have waited for Him—sought Him—I have found Him! All the mists are dissolving—the clouds are melting into light—the chain that bound me to the earth is loosening—He holds out a crown—a crown of life—and I take it—to cast at His feet."

Horace covered his eyes. The martyr-spirit had spread its pinions and soared upwards, leaving a track of light behind!

* * * * * * *

A full pardon for Enrico was ere long procured from the king of Naples. It was granted partly on account of the services of his father, partly because of the earnest pleadings of the Clevelands, who thus sought to repay some portion of the deep debt which they owed his brother.

The death of Raphael Goldoni had effected more than his life. His light, which for a brief space had shone on earth to the glory of his heavenly Father, had not been extinguished in darkness. Horace and Enrico had seen his example casting a pure though feeble radiance in the deep gloom of the robbers' cave; but it had a stronger, more abiding influence upon them when they thought of him as one of the starry host, raised to glitter for ever in the cloudless heaven above! Raphael had longed to win souls to Christ, and had sought them at the greatest personal risk, in the darkest haunt of evil. For such is the crown reserved, for such is the promise given.

"'They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever.'"