CHAPTER IX.

ANXIOUS HOURS.

How unwilling is youth to part with hope—how it clings even to its shadow! Believing against the evidence of his senses that what was so desirable could not be impossible, Horace only desisted from attempts to descend the rocks, when, in making them, he had hurt his ankle so severely that he would have cried aloud with anguish had he not feared that the sound might be overheard by the robbers. With a very heavy heart, the unhappy captive then dragged his chain to a little cleared space, a few yards higher than the entrance to the cave, where the roots of an oak offered a rude seat. Here Horace Cleveland rested his aching limbs, and leaning his head on his hands, gave himself up to anxious thought.

Still his mind was running upon chances of escape. Horace recalled the words of Raphael which had surprised him when they were uttered,—"I shall ask a favor of you which, if granted, will richly repay any services that I can render." What favor could a prisoner possibly have it in his power to grant? Raphael must be anticipating his release, and his restoration to a position in which he could largely reward any kindness which he now might receive. Perhaps the young Italian hoped that Horace might procure his pardon from the king of Naples for some crime, the commission of which had driven one born for better things to seek the shelter of a robber's den. Perhaps the free pardon of Enrico might be the desired boon. Horace's thoughts rambled on through paths almost as mazy as the forest before him. He would place Raphael in the way of distinguishing himself. Raphael was the son of an officer, and bore the stamp of a gentleman; with his singular talents, he would grace any society, and might raise himself to a high position.

Horace had already begun to feel a strong interest in his mysterious friend, whose character and situation afforded to the youth's mind an enigma which he was curious to solve. Raphael certainly kept evil company, and a man may be known by his chosen associates; the girl at the inn had more than hinted doubts regarding his character; the Rossignol had himself confessed that he had once worn shackles, which confirmed Giuseppina's report that he had known the inside of a prison. But, on the other hand, Horace recalled the song of Raphael; he remembered how his presence, like that of some being of higher and purer nature, had checked the foul flood of vile conversation which had flowed amongst the banditti, and how in the dim twilight, he on that morning had seen the young Italian kneeling in prayer.

That last recollection raised in the bosom of Horace, a feeling of self-reproach. Except a few instinctive ejaculations, which could hardly be called prayers, since his capture he had neglected the duty of devotion. He had been so much taken up with his own hopes and fears, his difficulties and dangers, so great had been his eagerness to escape, and the excitement caused by the strange scenes passing around him, that Horace had not bent his knee in prayer, as he had been accustomed from childhood to do.

And yet, never through the course of his life had Horace had greater need of Divine protection. He had tried all earthly means for his deliverance, and all having failed, nothing remained for the prisoner but to turn unto Him in whose hands are the issues of life and death.

Under the spreading branches of the oak, in the stillness of that wild and desolate spot, the young captive knelt down and prayed. Horace prayed for his mother—for himself—more for rescue from earthly trials than for grace and strength to endure them, for the youth was yet ignorant of human weakness, and of the objects for which affliction is sent to the sons of men.

"Ha, ha! See the heretic at his beads!" exclaimed the mocking voice of Beppo, who, with two or three of his companions, had sauntered lazily forth into the sunshine.

Horace was on his feet in a moment, ashamed—strange cause for shame!—at having been discovered by these men in the act of prayer. The scornful laugh of the robbers brought the blood to his cheek.

The banditti had merely come out of the cave to sun themselves in the morning beams, and enjoy in the open air the dolce far niente of which the Italians are so fond. They stretched themselves on the ground in front of their den, and the better to beguile the time, amused themselves by asking the young stranger a number of questions regarding his country, its customs, its people, its ruler, making their comments upon his replies in a half jocular, half insulting manner, which sorely tried his patience. Common sense, however, showed Horace that there was little to be gained by quarreling with men who held his life in their hands, and that it was better to bear an insulting jest than to try whether the robbers' stilettos had keener edge than their wit.

Partly to change the current of conversation, and partly to gain information on a subject that interested him, Horace suddenly asked Beppo where the Rossignol had learned the song which he had sung on the preceding night.

"Who ever asked where the nightingale learns its lay?" answered the robber, whose face looked even more repulsive when seen by the clear light of day, than it had done by torch-gleam. "And yet notes of his sort suit our wild haunts so ill, that I trow that he learned it in his cage!"

"He has been in prison then?" asked Horace.

"Oh, he, like most of us, has known what it is to lodge free, gratis, and for nothing at the expense of our gracious King Francis," laughed Beppo, "and has found the bedchamber none of the airiest, and the royal fare none of the daintiest!"

"And for what offense?" began Horace.

But Enrico, who had joined the party, fiercely cut his questioning short.

"There be ways of shackling tongues as well as limbs!" he exclaimed, resting his right hand on the butt of his pistol, and glaring at young Cleveland as if he had touched a wound.

Horace made no attempt to pursue the conversation so rudely interrupted. The banditti began to amuse themselves with dirty cards, gambling away their ill-earned spoils; and Horace, as he sat watching them in silent disgust from under his tree, saw many things that had belonged to himself and his mother staked and lost in play.

Then came the noonday meal of maccaroni and the peculiar fruit of the cactus, which was eaten in the open air, and of which the prisoner, with a rude hospitality, was invited by the robbers to partake. The day had now become oppressively hot, and the banditti, after the fashion of their country, stretched themselves on the ground to enjoy their afternoon siesta.

Horace did not sleep; even had he been in the habit of conforming to this Italian custom, he would now have felt too restless and anxious to do so. In a half-recumbent position he remained listening to the loud, monotonous noise of the cicala, a kind of beetle that all day long fills the air with its harsh grating sound, and watching the lizards as with quick motion, their lithe, slender forms glanced in and out of holes in the rock. Familiarity with the sight of the robbers had rather lessened his fears of danger from them, and though Horace had small hope of effecting his escape by any efforts of his own, he had strong expectations that the unwearied exertions of his mother would avail to procure his release.

When the sun, sloping towards the west, was throwing the broad shadow of the mountain across the valley which stretched in front of the cave, the banditti prepared to start upon some lawless expedition. The day of listless indolence and reckless gambling was probably to be succeeded by an evening of crime. Horace was well pleased to find that Matteo had no intention of dragging his captive with him into the woods. The youth had exchanged no word with the chief on that day, but before the robber quitted his mountain haunt, he strode up to Horace, and addressed him with an expression of savage determination upon his hard features, that was calculated to inspire more fear than the tenor of his words.

"I need hardly command you, boy, not to stir beyond this platform of rock, as—even were you unfettered—it would be impossible for you to find your way through yon forest without a guide. It may be as well, however, to remind you, that these woods are our familiar haunts, that watch is kept there by night and by day, and that a network surrounds you there which you would feel before you saw it. Were you detected in any insane attempt to break through the toils, short and sharp would be the means taken to curb your restless humor. You are not the first prisoner whom I have kept for ransom, and I have found a little iron in the foot a more effectual restraint than a great weight of iron around it."

"Ay," joined in Beppo, who had overheard the threat, "the procuratore of Garda will go halting for the rest of his life, as a token that he passed one night in the den of the wolf, and tried to make his escape in the morning!"