Chapter VI: Part 6

After breakfasting on the wild apples, plums and peaches, that flourished by the road-side, and taking a hearty pull at my friendly flask to correct their crudeness, I pushed forward on my solitary march with all speed. On reaching a place where the road dipped down between two steep impending banks, from the summits of which the shady oaks formed by their entwined branches a thick impervious arch of the richest foliage, what was my delight on beholding my gallant grey quietly cropping the green herbage under the dewy shade! His reins trailed on the ground, his coat was rough, and the saddle and housings were awry; but on hearing my joyous halloo and whistle, the noble charger pricked up his ears, neighed in recognition, and, trotting up, rubbed his head upon my shoulder. In a minute more I was upon his back, and passing hill and hollow at a speed which not even the swiftest horse of the boasted Calabrian blood could have equalled.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*THE SIEGE OF CROTONA.*

Descending the chain of mountains terminating in the Capo della Nuova, I beheld before me the wide expanse of the Adriatic Sea stretching away into the Gulf of Tarento, now beautifully illumined by the light of the setting sun. As the fiery orb sank behind the hills I had left, it beamed a bright adieu on the towers of the Achaean city; tinging with saffron and gold the waves that broke upon the Capo della Colonna--the ancient promontory of Lacinium, once celebrated for the magnificent temple of Juno, destroyed by the soldiers of Hannibal.

The school of Pythagoras--the glory of Graecia Major--had disappeared with the power of Crotona; and of the majestic fane of Juno Lacinia but one solitary column--rearing its massive shaft above the prostrate ruins of the rest, and half submerged in the waves of the encroaching sea--remained to attest the grandeur of the edifice in its glory; when Greek, Ausonian, and Sicilian, bowed their heads before its pagan altar. The temple is now nothing but a heap of stones, mantled with green slime and sea-weed; and the desolation is heightened by the discordant screams of flocks of sea birds.

The banks of the classic Neathus have lost all their boasted beauty and verdure, and are now covered with sedgy marshes and stunted trees and shrubs; very different from that umbrageous foliage which clothed them in the days of Theocritus.

Having ridden for the greater part of the day under a burning sun, during the sultry hours of afternoon--a time which the voluptuous Italian passes in the slumbers of the siesta--I was half choked by thirst and the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, and Cartouche was beginning to falter with fatigue. As I slowly followed the tortuous windings of the road to Crotona, the approaching dusk of evening gradually invested in its sombre veil the brilliant scenery: the Adriatic turned from gold to crimson and the distant hills from emerald green to misty purple, until their bright summits faded away into the dim horizon, and the blue vault of heaven assumed the aspect of a spangled dome, spanning land and sea; while the moon ascended slowly to her place, like a mighty globe of liquid silver rising from the dark heaving waters of the ocean.

Evening had given place to night: but such a night! It seemed more beautiful than day! The balsamic odours of orange, olive and lemon groves, were wafted on the soft, refreshing breeze, till the whole air seemed to thicken with delicious fragrance. The sweet strains of the "Ave Maria" stole up the valley from the lighted chapel of a solitary convent, and the deep-toned chimes from a distant steeple were borne on the cool air, mingled with the tinklings from the lowing herds, and the evening hymn chanted by the shaggy-coated herdsman as he drove his cattle towards the basin of a gushing fountain. Myriads of insects buzzed around us, and Cartouche kept switching his long tail like a whip and shaking his ears with irritation, as they floated in a black cloud around him.

I found the modern Crotona to be little better than a village, dominated by the citadel or castle. Every vestige or memorial of its ancient grandeur had passed away, save the moss-grown column on the cape; and nothing survived of the once-magnificent city, from the gate of which the gigantic Milo led forth a hundred thousand men to battle. The superb temples over which waved the banner of Justinian, the massive walls and brazen gates which the cohorts of Totila the Goth assailed in vain, had long since crumbled into dust, and a wretched hamlet marked the site of the ancient Crotona of Mysellus.

The half-ruined citadel, built by Charles V., was occupied by a French garrison. It was blockaded by a brigade of British commanded by Colonel Macleod, and the Free Corps of Santugo, on the land side; while the _Amphion_ frigate, with a squadron of Sicilian gun-boats, cut off all supplies, succour, and communication from seaward. The French were reduced to great straits at the time of my arrival, and were daily expected to capitulate. General Regnier--who, since the battle of Maida, had endeavoured to maintain his ground between the citadel and Catanzaro (one of the finest towns in the province)--made suddenly a precipitate retreat towards Tarento; abandoning his soldiers in Crotona to their fate.

At Tarento, he was attacked by the chiefs of the Masse and the brigands, who compelled him to retire after losing seven hundred men. The Marchese di Monteleone narrowly escaped being taken prisoner while leading on a desperate charge at the head of a "handful" of cavalry. To his bravery and exertions when commanding the rear-guard, Buonaparte attributed solely the effective retreat of his shattered forces through these wild and savage provinces. The discomfited general retreated along the shore of the Adriatic with the utmost rapidity; passing through Melissa, Gariati Nuova, and Rossana, until he reached the northern frontier of Calabria Citra: then, turning like a hunted stag on his pursuers, he stood once more at bay; and, with the remnant of his force, took up a position at Cassano. There he entrenched himself, and awaited the formation of a junction with Massena, the Prince of Rivoli,--"the child of victory," and of devastation,--who was advancing at the head of an army flushed with success. Gaeta, after a brave defence for three months, had been surrendered to Massena's division by Prince William of Hesse Philipstadt.

On my approaching Crotona, the red gleams that flashed across the darkened sky, and the deep booming sounds that broke with sullen reverberations the silence of a calm evening, announced that an interchange of heavy shot was taking place between the besiegers and the citadel. The loud report of the frigate's 42-pounders could easily be distinguished from the lighter artillery of the gun-boats and the curricle guns, which formed the only battering train Macleod had with him. From an eminence, I had a perfect view of the whole plan of operations. The noble frigate--whose lofty masts, well squared yards, sparkling top-light, and swelling sides, were reflected in the dark blue water--had been hauled close in shore, for the purpose of battering the citadel; but now, as the darkness was fast descending, her boats were towing her beyond range, and she came to anchor out of gun-shot in the Gulf of Tarento.

From the moment the first parallel was laid down, the siege had been pushed strenuously. On the land side, a line of circumvallation, consisting of a good breastwork and ditch, had been drawn around the fortress, to defend its besiegers from the incessant fire of the citadel. The daring and determination of this gallant little garrison drew forth the admiration of all; save the revengeful Calabrians, who panted for its surrender with a blood-thirstiness increased by resistance. The garrison was commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel de Bourmont: it had numbered only a thousand at the time of Regnier's retreat, and was now greatly reduced by the casualties of war. One night, sallying forth at the head of two hundred grenadiers, and passing through a line of counter-approach, De Bourmont completely scoured that part of the trenches occupied by the Calabrians, under Visconte Santugo. The exasperation of these Calabrians, and their thirst for deadly retribution, are inconceivable. On their crucifixes, on their daggers, and on the bodies of the slain, they solemnly vowed vengeance on the garrison when it capitulated; and only our bayonets restrained their cruelty.

The streets of Crotona appeared empty, and the town almost deserted; the spent cannon-shot and shell splinters, against which my horse continually struck his hoofs, sufficiently informed me of the reason. Many houses had been unroofed by the bomb batteries, or reduced to ruins by the cannonade; very few remained inhabited, and those only which were at a distance from the fire of the batteries. The French works were mounted with forty pieces of the heaviest ordnance.

I found Macleod among the parallels, where he was on the alert day and night, superintending the relief and defence of the trenches. His uniform was completely concealed by a rough great-coat, above which he wore a tartan plaid to protect him from the dew; that falls heavily by night in this warm climate, and always in proportion to the intensity of the heat of noon-day. An undress bonnet, a dirk, and basket-hilted sword completed his equipment. He read by torch-light the laconic letter of his friend the general; who, however, had enclosed documents of a more official nature for Captain Hoste, R.N., commanding the _Amphion_. The note ran thus:--

"DEAR PETER,

"If Crotona does not surrender in twenty-four hours after Dundas arrives, take the d--ned place by storm. Yours ever,

"J.S."

"Extinguish the torch, or there will be a vacancy in the Buffs to-morrow!" said Macleod to the soldier who held the hissing and flaring link. At that moment a thirty-two pound shot came whizzing along and buried itself in the breastwork, covering us with dust and clay. "A narrow escape!" continued the colonel; "these favours are exchanged liberally here. The podesta will order you a billet somewhere for the night; but come to me in the morning: my quarters are in the Strada Larga. I must send you to De Bourmont, as none of my fellows know any language save that spoken north of the Brig of Perth. By dawn, we will have the citadel summoned in due form by sound of trumpet. Meantime, adieu!"

After considerable trouble I discovered the residence of the podesta in the miserable marketplace. I procured a billet on a house which proved to be a place of entertainment, though a very desolate one. There I hastened to take up my quarters, wearied with fatigue and the heat of the past day, and having an appetite like that of a hawk. Resigning Cartouche to the care of the colonel's groom, I forthwith ordered a meal which was to pass for dinner and supper. Brisket a la royale, garnished with pickles, maccaroni with Parmesan cheese, &c., were the best the house afforded; these, with fruit of all kinds, and a decanter or two of Gioja wine, furnished a good repast enough for a hungry soldier, who had just escaped an iron pill that no mortal stomach could digest. The waiter had just removed the cloth, and I was stretching myself on the sofa to enjoy my first cigar, when Santugo entered, cloaked, booted and belted as if for some important expedition.

"How, my lord, for the trenches to-night?" said I, springing up.

"No, faith! the Free Corps have had enough of the trench duty. But, per Baccho! my friend, how rejoiced I am to see you," he exclaimed, flinging his plumed hat one way and his mantle another. "Cazzica, I am going to a place to-night where few men dare show their noses; and yet there are some of the prettiest faces in the kingdom of Naples within its walls: faces which, monsignore, the sun (as being of the impure masculine gender) dares not even to kiss with his rays. What say you, signor?"

"That I shall be most happy to accompany you, my lord: but let us finish this decanter first."

"Of the most inveterate soakers are you redcoats! Signor Claude, of all men in Italy, I would prefer you to stand by my side to-night."

"There is danger, then?'

"You readily appreciate the compliment. It may so happen that there will be a scuffle," said he gaily, as stretching out his legs and lounging back on his chair he half closed one eye, and with the other scrutinized the colour of his wine with a critical air.

"Good Gioja that; what vintage, think you?"

"The last earthquake, perhaps."

"I'll trouble you for the caraffa. In short, signor," said the Visconte, becoming suddenly grave, "I am obliged to throw myself entirely upon you, and rely on obtaining your assistance and advice. Being a Maltese religioso, Castelermo declines to accompany me; though I know that he loves convents no better than I do. He was once jilted by a nun, and plundered of his patrimony by an abbess, as he may yet relate to you; for poor Marco is a most inveterate proser, and sure to tell his love-story when not absorbed with his other theme, the glories of Malta the knight Valetta and old Villiers de l'Isle Adam. My relation Benedetto mounts guard in the trenches to-night, and their greatnesses of St. Agatha and Bagnara are doubtless immersed in the intricacies of chess, or the nonsense of faro: thus I have no friend but you; and as we were good friends of old in Sicily, and comrades at Maida, I am encouraged to make you the depository of my secret."

This serio-comic preamble led me to expect some wondrous disclosure. He paused for a moment, and heaved a long preliminary sigh: when, as I filled up our glasses, his glance fell upon Bianca's ring which glittered on my finger. He changed countenance visibly, and for an instant his dark eyes kindled with fire, while his brows knitted and became as one.

I was beginning to erect my bristles in turn; when, assuming a grave but not unpleasant tone, he thus addressed me:--

"Signor Claude, I perceive you have already won far on the good graces of my cousin Bianca. From what passed at Palermo, I might have expected this; and yet, considering the shortness of the time, and the pride of the girl, I am somewhat surprised. But I have no wish to interfere: nor shall I have cause; if, in loving her, you bear always in mind that she is the daughter of a soldier, and the cousin of one of the first Neapolitan nobles."

Not altogether pleased at his tone, I was about to reply--perhaps with an air of pique--when he continued, with a laugh--

"Stay, caro Claude! I know what you would say: that you value not a rush the wrath of any man; and that you love Bianca as never man loved woman. I can imagine all that: but beware how you display the jewel before some eyes! Many a poniard that now rests quietly in its sheath might be edged and pointed anew. Eh--hah! excuse my brevity, and want of ceremony just now; but having a love affair in hand, time presses. One at a time is quite enough to be concerned in."

"Believe me, Luigi, if I can be of any assistance, it will afford me inexpressible pleasure."

"Good! I knew you would be my friend."

"But whom mean you to parade?" said I, stretching my hand over a table where my pistols lay.

"Per Baccho!" said he, with an air of displeasure; "a duel is the first thing you Britons think of when one is in a scrape. There are none fought in Italy. A bravo's poniard at a ducat the inch--you understand?"

"Then, Santugo, the lady----"

"Is a nun of the convent of Santa Caterina da Siena here, at Crotona."

"A nun?"

"In that little word lies all the danger, the difficulty, and the devilry!"

"To poach on the preserves of his Holiness is ticklish work in this part of the world!"

"I know it," he replied, gloomily; "and am acquainted with three gentlemen of Naples who, for meddling with ecclesiastics, have borne all the terrors of the law--imprisonment, ignominy, the weight of the public scurlada, and confiscation of everything: they are now compelled to serve under Fra Diavolo, Francatripa, and others, as common brigands. Per Baccho! I have not forgotten the unhappy Cavaliere di Castelluccio, who was lately spirited away by the Bishop of Cosenza, and has never been heard of since. However, these are but slight dangers for us, over whom the holy office once stretched its iron arm. In these days, what priest would dare to put forth his hand against me, the Visconte di Santugo, and Grand Bailiff of Calabria-Ultra? Well, Claude, the lady is a nun; and I must have her to-night, even should we be compelled to fire the convent, and carry her off in the confusion. Ah! Del Castagno tried that with a girl at Nicastro--a dashing attempt; but he was caught by the sbirri of the Bishop Petronio and consigned for six months to a dungeon at Canne, where black bread and stale water so completely cured him of the tender passion, that he regarded the poor damsel with the most pious horror, and has now become the sober-minded husband of cousin Ortensia. But I jest with a heavy heart! Dundas, I believe you to be honourable as I have found you brave; and in the affair of to-night, would rather have you as my comrade than any of the volatile Neapolitans of my acquaintance--fellows whose friendship will perhaps only last while the flask contains a drop of wine and the purse a ducat."

"The lady?" I observed, impatiently.

"Is Bianca's sister."

"How! the Signora Francesca?"

"Even so: the second daughter of old Annibale di Santugo, who fell while fighting under the Cardinal Ruffo in Apulia. Though poor in ducats, he was rich in blood and name--being my father's younger brother. With his last breath, he bequeathed to my care his three motherless girls--Ortensia, Bianca, and Francesca. Francesca was esteemed the greatest beauty in Italy; yet in an excess of folly--or rather, let me call it, generosity--she immured herself in a convent. To remove the only obstacle to her sister's marriage with my friend Benedict, did this dear girl (of all the loves I have had, my only true one!) give up her slender patrimony, and take the veil in this convent at Crotona. But the bright tresses shred from her brow were scarcely consumed on the altar, ere bitter repentance and heart-consuming grief seized her. I was serving with the Neapolitan army in the Roman territories, and had not then seen her--at least, since her childhood. Would to God that I never had! How much agony might have been spared both of us! I met her at the baths of Nicastro; where, in strict charge of my mother, she had gone, by special permission, for the recovery of her health, which the close confinement of the cloister, unavailing regrets, and a lingering love for the world she had left, were destroying. I was fiery, ardent, and only three-and-twenty; she, a drooping but beautiful girl, devoted to Heaven--a veiled and vowed nun. Oh! what madness could have prompted me to love her? But Cupid and the devil are always at one's elbow. We were cousins--a dangerous relationship--and our intimacy, open and unconstrained, plunged us at once into this delicious passion, the impulses of which I found it impossible to resist. I evaded the watchful eyes of my mother, and gained, beyond redemption, the affections of poor Francesca. She returned to her convent wretched and heart-broken. Infamy and death are, perhaps, before her. Oh! Madonna mia! She must be rescued, and at all risks!" he exclaimed, leaping up, and wrapping his cloak around him. "You will accompany me, of course? Remember 'tis the sister of Bianca!"

"And if she consents to elope?"

"We must carry her off to a little villa I have somewhere in the Val di Demona. There she can be quietly domiciled until the uproar is over, and I can obtain a dispensation from Rome; after which she may resume her old place in society, and laugh at the authority of the Signora Abbadessa--who, I learn from her friend, Benedetto, is a regular Tartar. Now, Claude, let us march."

I buckled on my sabre, drained the decanter, and, forgetting the fatigues of the day, set forth with Santugo. We were both muffled up in our cloaks, and had our forage caps pulled over our faces to elude observation.

At the corner of the Strada Larga, I lit a cigar at the consecrated lamp before a Madonna, and we pushed on at a brisk pace, regardless of the maledictions and cries of "Eretico!" which my heedless act called forth from some Crotonians who observed it.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*THE ABDUCTION.--A SCRAPE.*

We left Crotona by an ancient archway, massive, dark, and covered with lichens; and almost hidden beneath a mass of vines and ivy. Through this gate, perhaps, had rolled the "tide of war" that swept away the host of the luxurious Sybarites. Taking the road to the old promontory of Lacinium, a quarter of an hour's walk brought us beneath the high walls of the convent, which, from the summit of a wave-beaten rock, threw a long dark shadow across the moonlit Adriatic. The wild roses and orange trees grew in luxuriance on three sides of it, and filled the air with a fragrant perfume.

"How brilliant the moonlight is!" said I, by way of saying something, for my lively friend had become unusually silent and thoughtful.

"Hush! Signor Claude; speak softly, and keep well in the shadow. As for the moon, I would that the angel of darkness stretched his wings between us. I could well spare her lustre just now. If we are observed, our walk will have been to little purpose."

"Ghieu! I believe you; ho! ho!" laughed a strange voice near us.

"Did you speak?" asked Santugo, in a fierce whisper.

"Not I," was my somewhat curt reply.

"Corpo di Baccho! then we are watched!" he exclaimed, drawing his sword, and searching about him with kindling eyes.

"Imagination, Santugo."

"Ghieu! ho! ho!" laughed the voice again, close behind me. I turned suddenly round, but saw nothing, save the massively-jointed wall. I was startled and annoyed, and instantly loosened my sabre in its sheath, keeping my sword arm free from the folds of my cloak.

Santugo's irritation was excessive; he ran his sword into every bush, searched every nook and corner, and scanned the whole walls, even at the imminent risk of being discovered, but to no purpose: whether the voice was real or imaginary was yet a mystery. We listened intently; all was still, save the soft rustle of the orange trees, and the dash of the surf, as the Adriatic rolled its waves on the basaltic cliffs beneath the convent walls. A bell, swung from a beam in the square, open-arched campanile, or steeple, tolled midnight; and a faint, flickering light was immediately seen transiently lighting the tall windows of the chapel, illuminating the bright hues of the stained glass, and burnishing the stone tracery of each in succession.

"'Tis Francesca d'Alfieri!" exclaimed the Visconte, with rapture. "She does penance alone in the chapel to-night; each sister does so in turn. I have enlisted the zitella of the convent in the service of love, and have no doubt of success." While speaking, he threw a handful of sand against a lattice, which opened, and a young female face appeared; a rose was thrown to him, and he clapped his hands twice: these were the private signals agreed upon. At that moment, I was certain I heard a growling chuckle close by us; but, without taking notice of it, I listened attentively for any sounds that might follow.

"Is all safe and quiet, Signora Pia?" asked Santugo.

"All, monsignore; but for sister Francesca's sake and our own, be cautious," replied the girl, with a trembling voice. She then unrolled a ladder of rope from the window, to the inside of which she assured us it was firmly fastened. In imitation of Santugo, I folded my cloak round the left arm, and mounting after him, scrambled to the summit of the wall, then leaping down we found ourselves standing in the garden, where our feet made terrible havoc among the abbess's flower-beds and glass-covered seeds.

"Che gioja!" said Santugo; "all is safe! a twenty-oared scampavia awaits us beneath the shadow of the convent wall: Giacomo has manned it with thirty of the most unscrupulous in the ranks of the Free Corps. But two grand points are yet to be gained; the postern must be unbarred, and the cord of the alarm bell cut; after which, we may proceed leisurely, and laugh at the rage of the Abbadessa." He walked quickly towards the chapel, and I followed, feeling somewhat piqued at the cautious manner in which he revealed to me his plans.

The zitella (or girl of the convent) led us into the chapel, every part of which was involved in deep gloom, except a little shrine, where, beneath a gothic canopy of white marble, stood a silver image of Saint Hugh. Two tapers glimmering before it served to reveal the figure of the fair devotee, as she knelt with clasped hands before the gilded rail which enclosed the object of her devotions--the shrine of the patron saint of her family. The beauty of the little edifice, and the richness of its shrines,--its columns with shafts of porphyry and capitals of marble,--its roof of gilded fresco, and floor of the most elaborate mosaic,--its alabaster tombs and gorgeous altar were all unheeded. We stole softly up a side aisle, and concealed ourselves behind the dark shadow of a monument, where I had leisure to observe Francesca and compliment Santugo on his admirable taste.

There was something in the gloomy and mysterious aspect of the place, the situation and sombre garb of the recluse, which fascinated me, not less than the beauty of her person. It was long since I had seen her, and she now seemed more lovely and more interesting than ever: and more like Bianca. Her face was pale--too pallid perhaps--but of a beautiful oval form, and possessing a regularity of feature which would have been deemed insipid, but for the lustre of her dark Ausonian eyes, and the peculiarly aristocratic curl of her lip. Luigi spoke hurriedly:--

"Signor Claude--you remember her--and the night with the conciarotti. 'Tis Francesca--my matchless Francesca, as good as she is timid and beautiful! O, Anima mia--behold me--I am here!" he added, going softly towards her; "courage, sweet one! there is not a moment to be lost. I have possession of the postern towards the sea, where a barge of twenty oars awaits us. Do not shrink from me, Francesca! The hour of deliverance and of happiness is come."

"O, never for me--on earth at least! Madonna, guide me, look upon me in this moment of doubt and agony!' she exclaimed, in tones of despair. Sinking against the altar rail, she clung to it with one hand, and covered her face with the other, sobbing heavily. The Visconte knelt beside her. Her beauty, her distress, her resemblance and near relationship to Bianca, all operated powerfully upon me, and I felt for her deeply.

"O, misery!" she exclaimed, in a low but piercing voice; "Luigi of Santugo, to what are you about to tempt me? Reflect upon the deadly sin of this act!"

"Evoe! ho! ho!" laughed a shrill voice, which awakened the thousand echoes of the hollow chapel. Francesca clung to Luigi, overcome with shame and terror; and looking up, I beheld above my head the great visage of the hunchback, peering from beneath the shadow of a gothic canopy, under which he was squatted "like a pagod in a niche obscure." A terrible grin of malice and mischief distorted his hideous lineaments. I rushed upon him, but he slid down a pillar like a cat, and eluded me. The startled Visconte silenced at once all the scruples of his cousin, by snatching her up in his arms, and bearing her into the garden; a task which evidently required considerable exertion, notwithstanding the seeming lightness of her figure. But a plump girl of twenty or so is not so easily run away with as romancers would have us to suppose. At that moment the alarm bell was rung furiously, and through the open arches of the campanile, we saw the figure of the hideous imp, Gaspare Truffi, swinging at the end of the rope, and grinning like a demon, while he danced and yelled at the top of his voice, "Evoe! ho--ho! Ghieu! Sacrilege and rescue! Ajuto! help!"

"Would to Heaven I had pistols to silence the clamours of that apostate wretch!" exclaimed Santugo, as the noise of approaching feet and the hallooing of men were heard in the distance. "The bell is arousing the paesani!" he added, drawing his sword. "Quick, signor! As my friend and brother officer, good service must you do me this night, or, by the crown of the Sicilies! you must think no more of Bianca d'Alfieri." I liked neither the words nor the tone; but pardoned them out of consideration for the anxiety of my excitable companion.

"The zitella keeps the postern beside the fountain, sparkling in the moonlight yonder, and through that door we must pass to the sea!" The poor zitella lay senseless beside the gate, weltering in her blood, which flowed copiously from a severe wound in her temple, and the key having been broken in the lock by Gaspare, our retreat was utterly cut off! The alarm and exasperation of Santugo were indescribable. The devil! what a moment it was, a forlorn hope was nothing to it!

The bell continued tolling; the whole convent was alarmed, and a mob was heard clamorously demanding admittance at the porch. The visconte's followers were as noisily enforcing ingress at the seaward gate; on which they thundered with their oars and musket butts, vowing dire vengeance if their lord was in the least maltreated. Long ere this, the Signora Francesca had fainted.

"Aprite la porta--open the gate! Beat it down! Plague of San Carlo upon it! Bravo Giacomo!" cried Luigi. "Via! it yields: strike well and together! A hundred ducats to the hand that beats down the door! Heaven be thanked, a cloud is obscuring the moon, and it will not be known which way we steer!"

"Viva la Signora d'Alfieri! Viva Monsignore Santugo! Corraggio, colonello mio!" cried the Calabresi, as they redoubled their attacks on the strong oaken postern.

"Sacrilege!" cried the shrill voice of the Abbess from a window; whence she implored the people to rescue a daughter of the church whom brigands were carrying off perforce.

At this critical moment the great gate was opened, and a mob of peasantry, mule-drivers, and fishermen, armed with clubs, rifles, ox-spears, and poniards, almost filling the garden, rushed with a yell upon us. Giacomo's boatmen at the same time had beaten the postern-door to fragments, and the light of the waning moon poured through upon the glancing bayonets and white uniforms of the Calabrian Free Corps.

"Save the zitella!" cried Santugo. Giacomo bore her on board the scampavia, in the stern sheets of which Santugo deposited his cousin, and brandishing his sword aloft, gave a reckless shout of triumph. It was the last I saw of them. Enveloped in murky clouds, the moon sank behind the mountains of Isola, and the scene became suddenly involved in gloom. The assailants were too close upon me, to permit my following the Visconte's example, by springing on board; and I was compelled to stand on the defensive, slashed one across the face with my sabre, he fell shrieking into the water, where the relentless Giacomo despatched him with the boat hook. I was soon hemmed in on every side; and sinking beneath a shower of blows, was beaten to the ground. The last sound I heard was a yell of defiance and rage, as the broad oars dipped into the water, and the swift scampavia shot away like an arrow from the shore.

Supposing me slain, Luigi thought only of saving Francesca; and while his twenty rowers pulled bravely, the soldiers gave the baffled pursuers a volley from their firelocks. The Calabrian peasants never went abroad without their cartridge boxes, poniards, and rifles. The latter were in instant requisition; and a skirmish ensued, in which several were wounded on both sides before the fugitives were beyond range of musket shot.

Reckless and bold as he was by nature, perhaps Santugo would not have dared to commit such an outrage against his religion, and the prejudices of the Italian people, at any other time. But the power of the Church, shaken by the recent destruction of the (misnamed) holy office, was feeble; and such was the disorderly state of the country, then filled with armed banditti who made it the scene of perpetual rapine and warfare, that the authority of the law, at all times weak, was completely neutralized. The rank, power and wealth of Santugo's family, and his interest with Carolina and the court of Palermo, emboldened this wild young noble to plunge into what was esteemed by the superstitious and bigoted Calabrians as a deed replete with sacrilege and horror, and which could not fail to draw down the utmost vengeance of the Church and Heaven itself upon the unhappy perpetrator and his impious followers. Indeed, a short time afterwards the Papal malison was duly thundered forth against Santugo and myself, and published in the columns of the Diario di Roma; consigning us to the warm protection of his most satanic majesty.

For that I cared less than for the broken head and sore bones which were my share of this adventure. I had also the pleasant prospect of my name becoming a standing quiz at every mess in the Mediterranean when the story appeared in the _Gazzetta Britannica_--a gossiping, military, patriotic paper published during our occupation of Sicily, and the only public journal in the island: where the press is (or was) under the severest restrictions.

The clamours of the people at this act of sacrilege led me to expect the worst treatment at their hands. Stunned by the blow of a club, I was severely beaten while lying on the beach, and narrowly escaped being poniarded by the hunchback; from whose vindictive malice I was saved only by the intervention of a priest. Elevated on the shoulders of some herdsmen, Truffi now harangued the rabble--proposing, first, that they should tie a stone to my neck and cast me into the sea, or bind me to a tree and make me a target for their rifles at eighty paces. Resistance was vain, as they had securely bound me with my sash. But I demanded instant liberation, and that my sabre should be restored to me; and I threatened severe retribution from our general and the chiefs of the Masse should they dare to maltreat me.

Though they laughed at my threats, their effect was not altogether lost; and I was not subjected to further violence. Placed upon a sorry ass, and accompanied by a throng of shouting peasantry, I was conducted back to Crotona in ridiculous triumph, and then thrust into an iron cage at the end of the Casamatta, or ancient prison of the town, where I was left to my own reflections for the remainder of the night, or rather morning--for it was then past three o'clock. I was burning with indignation against these base ragamuffins, whose pomelling made every joint of my body ache; but nevertheless soon fell into a sound sleep on the stone floor of the cage; nor did I awake until the morning sun shone down the picturesque vista of the dilapidated Strada Larga. I arose with stiffened limbs; and at first was unable to comprehend where on earth I was. But the cries of "eretico!" "assassino!" "ribaldone!" &c., and a thousand other injurious epithets with which I had been greeted by the rabble, were yet ringing in my ears, and, together with the disordered state of my dress, brought the whole affair to my recollection. With revengeful bitterness, I remembered the many indignities I had received from Gaspare Truffi: once he had snapped a pistol in my face; twice he attempted to poniard me; and he would probably have had me despatched, but for the firm intervention of an old Basilian father. A dim recollection floated before me of having seen his gnome-like visage peering between the iron bars of the cage long after the crowd had departed--his eyes glaring with hatred and malice that made them glisten like a snake's beneath the dark shadow of his heavy brows--while he informed me, in the guttural Italian of Naples, that I would "yet feel his knife between my ribs, as he was sworn to revenge his gambling defeat at Nicastro," and the sabre-cut bestowed on his hump at the Villa of Alfieri.

"'Sdeath!" thought I, while starting up from my hard couch, "I must have this creature flogged or hung! It is too ridiculous to be persecuted by a contemptible hunchback, who follows me like an evil genius everywhere. Ola, Signor Benedetto, Cavaliere del Castagno!" I cried aloud, as that redoubtable gentleman swung himself over a window of the podesta's house and alighted in the street about a hundred yards from me. But without looking to where the voice came from--as he had evidently no wish to be recognised--he drew his hat over his eyes, threw his ample cloak over his disordered attire, and hurried down the Strada Larga. I remembered the podesta's daughter--a pretty girl, from whom I had received my billet last evening.

"Poor Ortensia!" thought I; "and thus your loving Benedict spends his tour of duty in the trenches!"

Save himself, no one seemed yet stirring in Crotona; its ruined streets were completely deserted. At times a casual patrol of our troops passed; but these were far beyond hail: and, in truth, I looked forward with dread to being discovered in the cage--knowing too well it would furnish a subject for laughter to every corps in Sicily. The idea of the general's aide-de-camp being barred up in an iron cage, like a common rogue, or a rat in a trap, was too replete with ridicule to be patiently endured: but, after a few attempts to break prison and escape, I was obliged to abandon the attempt and await my deliverance patiently.

To increase my annoyance, a few withered and sun-burned gossips gathered round the parapet of a circular well (a fountain, by-the-bye, is ever the grand rendezvous of Italian gossips), and after filling their classic-shaped jars with water, they rested them on the margin of the spring, and stared at me to their full contentment; relating to the passers-by their own version of the story, with such additions and variations as the exuberance of their fancy or hatred of a heretic suggested. To the peasant come to market in his wolf-skin jacket and leather gaiters; the hind driving his team of oxen to the field; the shepherd on his way to the mountains; to the water-carrier; the impudent, rosy-faced itinerant improvisatore with his lute; and the white-bearded Franciscan, with his greasy angular hat, snuff-begrimed cassock, and begging-box;--to each and to all who stopped at the well, did these shrivelled crones relate, with great emphasis and gesticulation, the story of the sacrilege committed at the convent of St. Catherine by the English heretic.

Vehement and ugly, as all old women in southern Italy are (the lower classes at least), they soon collected a dense crowd round the cage, and I was stared upon by a circle of hostile eyes in a manner very unpleasant to endure. I might have laughed at a predicament so ridiculous, but the petulance of the Crotonian rabble soon became annoying; their religious scruples were aroused by the malicious observations of these old gossips, and I began to expect a martyrdom like that of St. Stephen.

But relief was at hand. Cavaliere Benedetto, though he hurried off so abruptly, had recognised me, and despatched a party from the trenches to my rescue. I hailed with joy their glittering bayonets, which I soon saw flashing above the head of the mob. Bitter was the wrath of the Italian soldiers when they beheld me so unworthily treated; their musket butts were in immediate requisition, and in three minutes one side of the cage was dashed to pieces, and I was free.

Under their escort I gladly hurried to my billet, where I put my disordered uniform in proper trim for appearing before Macleod after breakfast.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*THE SUMMONS OF SURRENDER.*

Meanwhile, Santugo and his fair companion were ploughing the waters of the Adriatic, and scudding along the coast of Calabria as fast as twenty oars and an ample lateen sail, filled by a strong Borea or breeze from the north, could carry them. With the Visconte, and still more with his cousin, the affair was not yet ended; innumerable griefs and troubles were in store for them. But I heard no more of the abduction for a time, save in the jokes of my comrades; and once in a friendly note from the general, warning me to avoid all such affairs in future, as they were calculated to prejudice the Calabrians against us, and injure the cause of Ferdinand, for whom we were fighting.

I had just completed my brief toilette, and was hastily paying my respects to hot chocolate, devilled fowl, cream cheese, marmalade, and maccaroons, when Santugo's grave friend, the Maltese knight, Il Cavaliere Marco di Castelermo, entered.

"Basta!" he exclaimed, casting aside his sword and sable cloak; "what have you and the Visconte been about last night? Broken into a convent of consecrated nuns, as if it had been a mere bordello of Naples, and carried off, by force of arms, the queen of that sainted community! It is a sad affair, signor."

"Sad, indeed, as my ribs find, to their cost, this morning: moreover, I have lost in the scuffle a splendid sabre of Damascus--the last gift of a friend who fell beneath the guns of Valetta."

"Ah! you served there? So did I. So Santugo has robbed the convent of its brightest jewel--Francesca d'Alfieri, who shone among the beauties of Palermo like a comet among the lesser stars."

"The young lady has attractions which----"

"Attractions!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Italian; "I tell you, signor, she is magnificent! Ah! had you seen her last year, when she appeared as Madonna, on the festival of the blessed Virgin! The whole country did homage to her wondrous beauty. Francesca seemed a vision of something more than mortal, as she sailed along on the lofty gilded car among clouds of gauze and silver, with a crown of diamonds blazing on her ebon tresses, wings on her shining shoulders, and incense, divine music, light and glory, floating round her. Basta! she was an angel of love! The people, as they knelt, forgot their prayers to Madonna, and offered up only praises of her beauty. I honour the Visconte for carrying her boldly off. The girl would have been destroyed in an Italian convent; where (I blush to say it) purity of heart is a wonder, and innocence a crime. But I tremble to think of the retribution which the Bishop of Cosenza may deem due for the abduction: he is a stern, relentless fellow."

"But what will the lieutenant-colonel commanding think of Santugo abandoning his battalion--deserting in fact, with thirty rank and file of the Free Corps, with their arms and accoutrements?"

"His youth, rank, and the ideas of our country must plead for him."

"And then the sacrilege, signor: what will the people say of it?"

"Just what they please, Santugo is too spirited a cavalier to value a rush the silly scruples of a bigoted peasantry, or the idle thunders of a knavish priesthood. He will only remember, that in abducting his cousin--replete with danger though the act may be--he has done a good deed in the cause of love and humanity. Corpo di Baccho! read "The Prosecution of the Dominican Nuns of Pistoia in 1781, by the Canon Baldi," and you will see there disclosed a mass of the most corrupt female profligacy: a revelation amusing as it is horrible. Signor, you would shrink with dismay if made acquainted with one-half of what passes within the walls of our southern convents, where belladonna, the dungeon, and the poniard are too often at work. In the indictment of the Canon Baldi there is displayed a regular system of depravity, into which the young nuns are slowly initiated (after the first year of their novitiate is passed), as into a lodge of freemasonry--craving pardon of the gentle craft for a comparison so vile. Basta! manfully as I have fought for Italy and her ancient liberties, I would yet more willingly lend a hand toward the utter demolition of every convent within the land. Still, thanks to Madonna! I am a true Catholic, and commander of the Maltese cross; and as such I swear to you, signor, on the blessed badge of the isle, that no man has a better reason for being at feud with the female order of ecclesiastics than I have. I was ruined in my prospects, seared in heart, and robbed of my patrimony by the knavery of an abbess and the art of a deceitful nun. But enough of this." He paused, with a kindling eye, and his cheek coloured as if he remembered that more had been said than was quite necessary; but mastering some old recollection or inward emotion, by a strong effort, he continued, in a tone of affected carelessness, "Signor Claude, there is a relief in telling one's sorrow; and some night, when the Gioja or Lipari loosens my tongue, you may learn how it first came to pass that I shaped the Maltese cross on my shoulder. But just now we must hurry to the trenches, upon which De Bourmont has commenced his morning salute of round shot and grape."

We found the whole citadel of Crotona, and the outwork possessed by the French between it and the sea, enveloped in white smoke; amid which the dark corbelled battlements, the flames that flashed through, and the bayonets that glittered over them, were seen for a moment, and then obscured as the smoke wreaths rolled on the morning wind. The French worked at their batteries manfully, pouring showers of cannon-shot, bombs, and bombelles, on our troops; who were pretty secure behind their breastworks, and repaid them with considerable interest from an eminence on which a fascine battery was erected.

Le Moine fired salvoes by sound of bugle, and the _Amphion_ discharged her broadsides, and with such effect that a great part of the castle wall came away in a mass from the rocks, and the unfortunate who lined it were hurled into the ditches in an instant: the well-jointed masonry rolled down like a stony avalanche, and cannon with their carriages, fragments of bodies and weapons strewed the streets below. Three hearty cheers arose from our trenches, and were echoed by the tars of the _Amphion_; which was hauled yet closer in shore, and poured her shot in rapid succession on the lower works of the citadel. The Sicilian gun-boats, with their thirty-two pounders and howitzers, dealt death and destruction among the sand-bag batteries and stockades: these the French soon abandoned, retiring with precipitation into the castle of Carlo V. After maintaining a brisk cannonade for nearly two hours, the fire of the enemy began to slacken; and by the material with which their guns were served--such as pieces of metal, crowbars, broken bottles, stones, bolts, and bags of nails--we perceived with satisfaction that their ammunition was fast failing. Yet they manned the breach as if expecting an assault immediately; and, even while exposed to a galling fire, worked bravely, repairing the damaged wall with fascines, bags of sand and wool, stakes and "chandeliers." They were doubtless resolved to meet any escalade with the courage of Frenchmen, and with the indomitable valour that distinguished all soldiers of the empire.

At last the fire on both sides ceased, the clouds of smoke curled away from the old towers of Charles V., the bright sun shone joyously on bastion and curtain, and we plainly beheld the sad havoc made by the salvoes of our batteries, and the broadsides of the frigate.

"Now, Dundas!" cried Macleod, scrambling out of the trenches, "as the gallant Monsieur de Bourmont has given over his morning's shooting, and as you know something of his lingo, just tie a handkerchief to the point of your sword, and go up and inquire whether or not he means to surrender the place without any more bother? If not, let him expect broken heads to be plenty before tattoo to-night. By Heaven! the Ross-shire Buffs will dye their tartans red in the best blood of his garrison, brave fellows though they be!"

"And the terms, colonel?"

"Such as Frenchmen--such as brave soldiers may accept without dishonour; but nothing more. Give this my summons of unconditional surrender; and, as they know not of the fall of Gaeta and Massena's advance, they will no doubt yield at discretion."

With a white handkerchief fluttering from the point of my sabre, and having a Corsican bugler in attendance, I departed on my mission from the trenches; where more than two hundred of our soldiers lay weltering in their blood. Most of their wounds being inflicted by cannon shot, or the explosion of bombs, were ghastly beyond description. The earthen trenches in some places were literally flooded with gore. None but those who have seen a man bleed to death from his wounds being left undressed, can imagine how much blood the human frame contains. The ensanguined mud, where corpses, wounded men, fascines, shot and shell, lay all mingled together, made our approaches frightful; and I gladly sprang out and left them behind me.

As usual, the morning was beautiful: earth and sky were bright with summer splendour. The sea of Adria shone in a blaze of yellow light, and the chain of mountains stretching away to Isola, the little white village dotting the sandy beach, and the solitary column of Juno Lacina, afar off, made up a charming landscape; the beauties of which, my mind was then too much occupied to appreciate. To bear a flag of truce is an exciting duty; and I felt my pulses quicken, on finding myself close under the enemy's cannon, yet warm with the heat of their last discharge. As I approached the old fortress, its walls shone gaily in the bright sunlight; but the blood oozing from the carved stone gargoyles, or spouts, of the battlements, told a terrible tale of the havoc made by our shot and shell.

An ample tricolour waved lazily in the warm breeze, and serried lines of bright bayonets glittered over the ramparts, while grim faces peered at me through the dark embrasures and narrow loopholes of the time-worn walls. The troops were formed in rank-entire, with arms shouldered. Poor old Bourmont was evidently making the greatest possible display of his force.

When within twenty yards of the gate, the Corsican sounded "a parley;" which was answered by beat of drum within the fortress. The rattling drawbridge descended, and a wicket opened in the gate, which was composed of enormous palisades, cramped and bolted together. (I observed everything narrowly, while they allowed me the use of my eyes.) Immediately on stepping through the wicket, we were encircled by twelve Voltigeurs, with fixed bayonets; and a young French officer, saluting me with his sabre, informed me that my eyes must be immediately blindfolded, and my orderly committed to close ward in the guard-house.

"Monsieur," I said, indignantly, "I am, as you see, a staff officer in the service of his Britannic Majesty, the bearer of a despatch to Lieutenant-Colonel de Bourmont, and not a spy!"

"My orders are strict," he replied, with equal hauteur; "since you have entered the gates, your eyes must be blindfolded, or you and the bugler will be made prisoners forthwith! I pledge you my word as a gentleman and soldier that no dishonour will be offered." We shook hands; the Corsican boy was consigned to the care of the barrier guard, while my eyes were blindfolded, and giving me his arm, the officer led me away in this ludicrous manner, I knew not whither.

On the bandage being removed, I found myself in a large vaulted room of the old castle. It was roofed with stone, and I heard the tramp of feet and rumble of gun-slides on the bartizan above. The groined arches sprang from twelve dilapidated corbels, representing the apostles. A bare wooden table, a few chairs and trunks, cloaks and sabres hanging on the wall, spurred boots, empty bottles, and cigar boxes lying in a corner, constituted the furniture of the room. The light streamed into it between the stone mullions and corroded iron bars of three deeply embayed windows; through which a view was obtained of the Gulf of Tarento stretching away to the north, and the dark wooded ridges of La Syla to the westward, rising five thousand feet above the sea's level.