CHAPTER VI.

THE ROBBERS' CAVE.

Enrico, followed by his prisoner, groped his way through the cave, and then along a passage in the rock too low to admit of their standing upright. The dampness of the air, the darkness of the place, made the unhappy Horace feel as though he were entering a tomb. They soon, however, emerged into a very spacious cavern of irregular shape, at one side of which was some light. This light, as Horace soon perceived, came from two wax tapers, burning in front of an image of the Virgin. The feeble gleam served only to make "darkness visible," not reaching at all to the roof of the cave, and showing but little even of its brown rugged wall. The place was tenanted by bats, which wheeled around in circling flights, seeming to Horace's fevered imagination like spirits of evil haunting the robbers' cave. The youth watched with curiosity to see whether Enrico would cross himself or bow on passing the image, and as he did neither, the prisoner ventured upon a remark.

"I should hardly have expected to see that here," he said, pointing to the shrine.

"Why so?" asked his companion.

"Because," answered Horace, trying to put his reply in the least offensive form, "I should not have thought Matteo a man to care for religion."

"That shows how little you know about him," said Enrico. "Some of your mother's good ducats will go to a fat friar for masses, that the rest may be enjoyed with an easy conscience; and though Matteo has not scrupled to rob a traveler on this Friday, nothing would persuade him to touch a morsel of meat.

"Is it possible," exclaimed Horace, "that a man can so deceive his own soul?"

"None of that talk here," cried Enrico, with gesture of irritation; "we have more of it than we like, and will never stand it from you!"

"From whom can they hear it?" thought the astonished Horace. "One would as little expect to hear truth as to find honesty in a den like this!"

Enrico now lighted a torch which was fastened in the rock a few feet above a long low table, which Horace now for the first time perceived, and which, with the rude benches on each side of it, seemed to form all the furniture of the place. On it were ranged sundry flagons, bottles of wine, and other preparations for a meal.

"I suppose that while you are our prisoner, you will partake of our fare," said Enrico. "Will you join our jovial party at supper to-night, or shall I at once introduce you to the luxuries of our private apartment—the elegant chamber which you are to share with me and my brother?" Enrico's tone was satirical, and there was indescribable bitterness in his smile.

"If you could possibly keep me apart from the band to-night, I should be thankful," said Horace, "I am parched with thirst, but I have not the slightest inclination to eat food."

Enrico went up to the table, and filled a large tankard with water, which Horace eagerly drained. He then bade the prisoner to follow him, and a little more—to Horace—painful clambering up rude stony steps brought them to a recess in the side of the cave, about ten feet above the floor, and overlooking the table.

It was so utterly dark, that it was by feeling and not by sight that young Cleveland became aware that there was a heap of dry leaves upon the rocky floor.

"As the Rossignol has not returned," said Enrico, "you may take possession of his bed. I warrant it that you have been accustomed to a more soft and dainty couch! I must go below to prepare the banquet."

So saying, Enrico groped his way back to the floor of the cavern; while Horace, dizzy and bewildered by the strange events of the night, gave a deep sigh of relief at finding himself in comparative solitude. He threw himself down on the heap of leaves, resting his burning forehead on his arm, and tried to collect his scattered thoughts and realize his position.

"What a strange, wild place this is! Shall I ever leave it alive?—Shall I ever look upon the sunshine, or feel the pure breath of heaven? What horrors these walls may have witnessed! Could they speak, what fearful tales of crime might they disclose! And it is more than probable that, ere a week shall have passed, another may be added to the list."

Horace changed his position in feverish restlessness, and a sharp thrill of pain reminded him of the fetters on his limbs. "There would be none to lift a hand, or to speak a word in my defence; no, nor to feel pity for my youth, whatever I might have to endure! Even this Enrico, who seems somewhat less brutal than the rest, would shoot me dead on the spot rather than suffer his captive to escape. Oh, my mother, my poor mother, how little you ever expected your son to be in such a situation as this!"

Then Horace recalled how, ever since he could remember, his parent had been wont to come and sit at night by his bed-side, stroke back his curly hair, and talk to him of holy things, and tell him how much she loved him. These nightly visits, once a pleasure to both, had within the last year become a cause of painful feeling between Horace and his mother. The youth had grown jealous of being treated like a child; it had annoyed him to be disturbed from his desk or some interesting book by the entrance of his mother at her regular hour; to be chidden for sitting up late, or warned of the danger of fire. Horace had become so impatient et the interruption, the reproof and the warning, that he had at last actually locked his door, answering his mother's "good-night" without turning the key to admit her.

Mrs. Cleveland had been deeply wounded, Horace hardly guessed how deeply, but it was agony now upon this his first night of captivity to recall the sound of her step in the passage, the tone of her plaintive "good-night," and to think that that step—that voice—might be heard by his ear no more. Oh, why had he not loved her better?—Why, why had he not always welcomed the presence of one so dear?

With this train of thought came linked another; it was not only in filial piety that Horace Cleveland had failed: his neglect had not been only towards his mother. Carefully brought up as he had been, the youth had, with tolerable regularity, observed the outward forms of religion, and conscience had been easily satisfied that all was right with his soul.

Horace had mistaken reverence for devotion, and belief in God's truth for faith. But such a shadow of religion could not support him under the pressure of real trials, or make tolerable the prospect of death: it had no strength or solidity in it. Horace could not realize the presence of a heavenly Father in the dark, gloomy cave, nor was the psalmist's assurance his,—

"The Lord is my light and any salvation, whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?"

In courage and spirit he was by no means deficient—but human courage and spirit will bend under the pressure of protracted trial; that terrible walk in shackles had for the time exhausted the energies of Horace, and in that gloomy abode of evil, he felt desolate and wretched indeed.

Even the comfort of silence was soon taken from the prisoner. Before many minutes had elapsed, a wild uproar of voices announced the approach of the band. One by one the robbers emerged from the low passage which united the outer and inner caves, some bearing spoil, and some bearing torches, which threw a wild, red glare on their dark faces and picturesque dress. Horace counted eight bandits, including Enrico. The men sat noisily down at the table. Matteo and some others had their seats near the wall, and were so immediately under Horace that he could not see them, without stretching his head so far forward that he would himself have been exposed to the observation of the robbers, which he anxiously desired to avoid; but while remaining under cover of the darkness of his recess, Horace had full view of Enrico and three of his companions, who sat opposite to their chief.

I shall not enter into details of what—with disgust and horror—Horace saw and heard on that night; the oaths, the tales, the songs of the coarsest description, the sounds of wild revel, the burst of laughter strangely echoing through the recesses of the vaulted cave, till it seemed as though fields unseen shouted and laughed again. Enrico, laying aside his former manner, appeared to be the gayest of the gay, plunging into the torrent of unholy mirth as though he sought to drown all memory and all remorse.

Horace tried to shut out from his own ears the sounds of profane merriment, but he tried in vain. It seemed to his loathing mind that if one black spot were to be found on earth, where evil, unmixed evil, reigned triumphant, where faith was quite shut out, where heavenly hope could not come—that spot was the robbers' cave in the depth of the Calabrian mountain!