Chapter IV: Part 4

Bianca shuddered as she surveyed the distant foe and glanced at the castle batteries below us; where, in regular order, stood the long lines of iron twenty-fours and thirty-twos, with all the accompaniments of rammers, sponges, and handspikes; pyramids of balls occupying the spaces between. The glittering bayonets shone on every bastion and angle; while the numerous sentinels, and the hourly rounds of the watchful commanders of guards, denoted an alertness and excitement: a vicinity of warfare equally appalling and novel to her. Whilst we were watching all these preparations, a little drummer beat the warning for the "evening retreat;" the sharp rattle of his drum agitated Bianca so much, that she burst into tears, and, sinking on my shoulder, exclaimed, "Oh, Claude! would to God, we were safe at Palermo! All this is indeed terrible."

"All _this_!" I reiterated. "Faith! Bianca, I see nothing terrible here. The guards on the alert, the cannon in order, the duty carried on strictly, all bespeak the orderly garrison. But if the mere sight of these things and the clatter of that little boy's drum affright you, think what will be your terrors when yonder hill bristles with brigades of cannon, vomiting death and fire; when every point around us glitters with steel, and even the roar of Dragara is lost in that of the conflict; when men are falling like ripe grapes in a storm, and the shot flying thick as hail, rending battlement and tower. Oh! think of all these dangers, dear one; and, once more, let me entreat you--implore you, to retire to Messina. Consent, Bianca; and I will this moment order a gun to fire for the _Electra's_ boat."

"And you counsel me to leave you so soon?" said she, bending her soft eyes on mine.

"Your gentle mind cannot conceive the horrors of a siege. Scylla I must defend to the last, for such are my orders: but how long can such a little fortress withstand the mighty army of Massena? Our separation, Bianca, can only be for a time----"

"Caro Claude, for a time--but how long? You may be taken prisoner and carried to Don Pepe's dungeons in Dalmatia, and I may never see you again. When I think of poor Benedetto's fate--oh, horror! Say no more, Claude: death only shall separate us."

The entrance of Bob Brown or Annina (they now composed our entire household) put an end to this pathetic interview. Bianca smiled through her tears, and looked so beautiful and happy, and love made me so selfish, that I said no more of her retiring to Sicily.

The evening was sunny and still, the air serene, and the sea calm, except around the rock of Scylla. The green Sicilian shore rose up, clearly and distinctly, from the azure ocean; and the sails of the _Amphion_, the _Electra_, the _Glatton_, the _Pompey_, and all our numerous war-ships which studded the Straits, shone white as snow in the sunbeams; while Sicilian gun-boats, slave-galleys, and xebecques dotted the sea between: the cloudless sky and the range of hills which terminates at the Faro, formed the background. Our casements were open, and the setting sun poured his bright rays into the castle-hall; the roof of which was covered with the dilapidated frescoes of Matteo Prette, and the faded coats armorial of the princes of Ruffo Scylla. It was a noble relic of other days. Massive Ionic columns of Sicilian marble, with bases of green Corsican jasper, rising from a tessellated floor, supported its arched roof; between these, in niches, were some rare pieces of ancient sculpture, dug from the ruins of the neighbouring Columna Rhegini: or, perhaps, relics of that edifice which Anaxilaus, its prince, first raised on the rock to defend him against the warriors of Tuscany. The early flowers of a warm Italian spring were blooming in the balconies, and their sweet perfume was wafted around us.

Bianca was seated at work, brocading a piece of scarlet Palmi silk, while I lounged on a sofa reading the last "Gazetta Britannica;" a silver caraffa of the cardinal's muscadel stood close at hand, and I thought, while knocking the ashes from my third cigar, that my situation on the staff would be a very pleasant one, if Monsieur le General Regnier contented himself by remaining entrenched at Cassano, instead of beating up my quarters at the extremity of lower Italy.

A smart single knock at the door announced Sergeant Gask.

"Mr. Lascelles has sent me to say, sir, that the officer taken prisoner at Bagnara, who wished to be sent to Dalmatia on parole, appears to be an Italian."

"The rascal!" I exclaimed; "but perhaps he is a Roman or Venetian."

"He says the last, sir; but I could swear that he is a Calabrian born and bred."

"Bring him here, with a file of the barrier guard, that I may examine him myself."

Gask retired, and in five minutes returned with the prisoner--a sullen and dogged-like fellow, wearing a plain French uniform, blue, with scarlet facings, an aiguilette and shoulder-scales. He was swarthy, and his lank moustaches gave him a melancholy aspect; while the rolling of his restless eyes announced that he was very ill at ease.

On his entrance with the escort, Bianca withdrew. Imagine my surprise on recognising Pietro Navarro, who grew deadly pale on beholding me.

"Good-evening! Signor Navarro," said I; "I did not expect to meet a descendant of the worthy inventor of mines under circumstances so degrading."

"I am Pepe Biada, a Venetian, bearing a commission in the artillery of the emperor. You are making some mistake, signor, and I warn you to beware of reprisals. A heavy brigade of guns are already _en route_ for Scylla, which cannot hold out a day against the forces now marching on it--no, San Martino!--not a single day."

"San Marteeno? ha! the true Neapolitan twang that," I exclaimed. "How many men are moving on this point?"

"Six thousand, exclusive of artillery, horse, and sappers," he answered, gruffly. "I demand, signor, as a Venetian, in the service of the King of Italy, that I may be permitted to retire on my parole of honour." He spoke boldly, and seemed to imagine that his information had staggered me a little.

"You must first be examined by a military court-martial. I have not forgotten that night when you poniarded the brave cavaliere of Malta in mistake for me. On clearing yourself of that, and several other gross misdemeanours, you will be transmitted to Sicily, to be treated as the government shall deem fit. You will be good enough to hand me your sabretache? Take him away, Gask, and guard him well--he deserves no mercy. Give Captain Gascoigne my compliments--send him here, and desire the orderly drum to beat for orders."

Navarro, finding that his assertions of innocence were made to one who was too well convinced of his guilt, in silence unbuckled his belt, threw it with the sabretache towards me, and retired with his escort. From its bulk and weight, I thought it contained something of importance; but found only an Italian work on engineering by Donato Rosetta the canon of Livournia, together with a few sketches of forts and roads. One of these was important enough: it showed the castle of Scylla, with the positions to be occupied by the French cannon; their proposed approaches and trenches were laid down, and our weakest points were marked. This document was a fresh cause for exasperation: from his knowledge of the fortress and its locality, Navarro must have been of the utmost use to General Regnier; and I was determined to bring him to trial without delay. My process was harsh: but let the peculiar nature of my position, the power with which I was vested, and Navarro's crimes, excuse it.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*THE DRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL.*

I paraded the whole of the little garrison, and ordering a drum-head court to assemble immediately, wrote the charges on which the prisoner was to be arraigned before it: but I was interrupted by an outcry and combat in the guard-house. Snatching the sword from Gask's belt, he had attempted to stab him, and break away by force; but the soldiers beat him down with the butts of their muskets, and he was secured with handcuffs, an iron bar, and a padlock.

Formed in close column, the whole garrison, including the free corps of Santugo (who, although their lieutenant-colonel, was, oddly enough, under my orders,) paraded to hear and behold the proceedings. So exasperated were the Calabri, that the presence of British soldiers alone prevented them from sacrificing the unhappy Navarro, and thus destroying all that judicial form which I meant to give to our proceedings.

In centre of the castle court was placed a drum, with a Bible, pens, ink and paper upon it. The president stood on one side, and the members on his right and left hand; Navarro, with his escort, stood opposite: I had to act in the triple capacity of prosecutor, witness, and approver. The paper found attached to the poniard in Castelermo's bosom, the likeness of Navarro, disguised as one of the Campagnia di Morti, together with the contents of his sabretache, I laid before the court for examination.

Brief as the proceedings of such a tribunal always are, ours were necessarily unusually so: a forward movement was at that moment being made by the French cavalry, and we were pressed for time. The following is a literal transcript of the short and singular document indicted by Lascelles on that occasion: it is still in my possession:--

"Proceedings of a drum-head court-martial, held on PIETRO NAVARRO, late of the Sicilian Engineers, by order of Captain DUNDAS, 62d Regiment, Commandant of the Castle of Scylla.

"The court being duly sworn, and having weighed and considered the evidence against the prisoner and his defence, are of opinion that he, Pietro Navarro, is guilty of the following charges:--

"_First_, Of assassinating Marco di Castelermo, a Knight Commander of Malta, and Captain of the Free Corps.

"_Second_, Desertion to the enemy.

"_Third_, Conspiring with rebels to destroy the Villa D'Alfieri.

"_Fourth_, Poisoning the well of H. M. Castle of Scylla, and thereby endangering the lives of the garrison.

"_Sentence_, To be shot or hanged, as the Commandant shall direct.

"MEMBERS. "PAT. GASCOIGNE, Capt. 62d Regt. Pres. "O. LASCELLES, Lieut. 62d Regt. "PELHAM VILLIERS, Lieut. 62d Regt. "CONTE D'ARENA, Lieut. Free Corps. "CONTE DI PALMA, Lieut. Free Corps. "Scylla, Feb. 1808."

To this I affixed my signature, with the fatal words "_confirmed--to be shot_." Navarro grew pale as death when I laid down the pen; and as I gave the command, forming the close column into a hollow square by marching it to the front and wheeling the subdivisions of the central companies outward, he seemed to receive an electric shock. He moved mechanically to the front; when I desired Lascelles, who acted as our adjutant, to read the brief proceedings. So flagrant were his crimes that to have yielded him one privilege as an officer, was not even to be thought of, and he was treated in every respect as a private soldier.

Oliver read the proceedings and sentence first in English, and then in Italian; Navarro listened with dogged silence, knowing well that entreaties were useless if made to the stern military tribunal before which he found himself so suddenly arraigned. His lip quivered, and his brow blanched, when the last words "to be shot," fell upon his ear, and he gave me a dull inquiring stare, as I folded the paper and thrust it into my sabretache.

Though my glance was firm and my voice never quavered, I felt for the poor wretch, undeserving as he was. He hovered on the brink of eternity, and my lips were to utter the command which would at once send him into the presence of his Creator.

_Mine_--there was something terrible in the idea: I paused for a moment; a beam of hope lightened his gloomy eyes and brow. The place was so still that one might have heard a pin fall: but delay was cruel.

"Unhappy man!" said I, "you have heard the opinion and sentence of the court. The latter must be carried into execution in twenty minutes, and it would be well to employ that little time in pure repentance, and in solemn prayer."

"O, omnipotente!" he exclaimed, raising up his eyes and fettered hands; "in twenty minutes, can so many years of sin and enormity be repented of? O, San Giovanni, thou whose most holy order I have outraged! O, San Marco the glorious! Eufemio the martyred! and thou, sweetest Madonna! intercede for me with One whom I am unworthy to address?" Deeply touched with his tone, I turned to Santugo: but he was too much used to hear such pious ejaculations on every frivolous occasion to care a straw about them; and leaning on his sabre he surveyed the culprit with a stern glance of distrust and contempt.

"Down on your knees, villain!" he exclaimed, "and pray with a will; for I fear you are standing on the brink of eternal damnation!"

"O, horror!" cried Navarro; and losing all self-possession, he sank on his knees, and began to repeat his paternoster with great devotion.

"I regret that we have here no priest of the Catholic church to attend you in this terrible hour;" said I, "but yonder is a good and worthy soldier who has once been in holy orders, and if his prayers----"

"Away!" cried Navarro, as Gask took a Bible from his havresack, and laying his grenadier cap aside, advanced towards him. "Better a Turk than a Jew; but in such an hour as this, better the devil than a heretic! Away, accursed! I spit upon you! I will trust rather to my own prayers than thy intercessions----"

"I presume not to intercede," said poor Gask, meekly, as he closed the Bible; "I am but a humble soldier, though I have seen better days; and I am a sinner, doubtless, though never committing sin wilfully. I entreat your permission to accompany you in prayer, to soothe your last moments, in such wise that through the blessed mercy of the Lord of Hosts----"

"Ghieu, setanasso!" screamed the assassin, quite beside himself; "away, heretic! Better the most ribald monk of Pistoja than such as thee!"

"Fall back, Gask; the man is frantic," said I. "Tell off a section with their arms loaded; desire the pioneers to dig a grave in the cardinal's bastion, and their corporal to bind up the prisoner's eyes."

Gask saluted and retired to obey; while the prisoner, covering his face with his fettered hands, appeared to be engaged in the deepest prayer. The men of the 62nd evinced considerable repugnance to become his executioners: such a duty being always reserved as a punishment for bad or disorderly soldiers; and there was not one among them who could be deemed to come under either of these denominations. A whisper circulated through the ranks, and I knew that I was imposing an unpleasant duty upon good men. The visconte divined my dilemma.

"Dundas," said he, "as Italians, let ours be the task to punish this wretch: whom I blush to acknowledge a countryman! Giacomo, take twenty of our corps, and shoot him through the back: but unbind his hands, that he may tell over his beads once more before he dies."

Giacomo selected his marksmen, and drew them up opposite a high wall, before which Navarro knelt about thirty paces from them. As the Calabrians loaded, two pioneers with a shovel and pickaxe approached; and on seeing them the prisoner seemed seized with a frenzy. Suddenly he sprang up and fled towards a parapet wall with the fleetness of a hare, and a scene of the utmost confusion ensued: shot after shot was fired at him, but missed. It was madness to hope to escape from Scylla, filled as it was with armed men, enclosed on three sides by the surging sea, on the fourth by steep cliffs, and girdled by lofty towers and bastions. Frantic with desperation and terror, the miserable Navarro rushed up the platform of one of the gun-batteries, and swung himself over the parapet; escaping a shower of balls aimed at him by the half-disciplined Calabri, who had all rushed in disorder to the walls: destruction dogged him close. Beneath, the cliff descended sheer to the sea three hundred feet below; above, the parapet bristled with weapons, and was lined with hostile faces. Chilled with a sudden horror, when the dash of the foaming sea and the hollow boom of those tremendous caverns by which the rock is pierced, rang in his ears, he became stunned; and closing his eyes, clung to a straggling vine or some creeping plants, with all the stern tenacity that love of life and fear of death inspire: never shall I forget the expression of his face when I looked over the parapet upon him. It was ghastly as that of a corpse: his short black hair bristled and quivered on his scalp; his deep dark eyes glared with terror, hatred, and ferocity, till they resembled those of a snake; and every muscle of his face was contracted and distorted. He swung in agony over the beetling cliff, on which he endeavoured in vain to obtain a footing; but its face receded from him, and he hung like a mason's plummet.

"Giacomo," said the visconte, "end his misery."

The Calabrian levelled his musket over the breast-work, and his aiming eye, as it glanced along the smooth barrel, met the fixed and agonized glance of Navarro. He fired; the ramparts round us, and the rocks and caves beneath gave back the reverberated report like thunder: the ball had passed through the brain of Navarro, who vanished from the cliff, and was seen no more.

So perished this unhappy traitor.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*DIANORA--THE FORFEITED HAND.*

The exciting affair with Navarro was scarcely over, before we became involved in another; which, though of a different description, caused me no little anxiety: of this, my gay friend, Oliver Lascelles, was the hero.

Oliver was a handsome, good-humoured, light-hearted, curly-headed, thoughtless, young fellow; heir to one of the finest estates in Essex, with a venerable Elizabethan manor-house and deer park, a stud of horses and a kennel of hounds. He was a good shot, and a sure stroke at billiards; could push his horse wherever the hounds went, and, when hunting, was never known to crane in his life: he would spur, slapdash over everything; and he always led the field. However, these were but the least of his good qualities: he possessed others that were of a better order. Oliver was, every inch, an English gentleman and soldier; possessing a refined taste, and more solid acquirements than such as are necessary merely to enable a man to acquit himself in fashionable or military life: for, in truth, a very "shallow fellow" may pass muster, at times, in the ball room, on parade, or in the hunting-field.

About this time, when Regnier's advance kept us all on the alert, Oliver, as if he had not wherewithal to occupy his thoughts, contrived to fall in love; and, to all appearance, so earnestly, that I was not long in discovering and rallying him about it. People are very prone to fall in love in that land of bright eyes: the little god Cupid is still "king of gods and men," in sunny Ausonia; where love seems to be the principal occupation of the inhabitants.

Though the advanced posts of the enemy were now pretty close to us on all sides, our fiery spark, Lascelles, went forth every evening, to visit his inamorata; who dwelt in the neighbourhood of Fiumara, which had now become a French cantonment. I have elsewhere alluded to his artistic talent: he had now conceived a violent fancy for delineating Italian girls in all the glory of ruddy and dimpled cheeks, dark eyes, braided hair, and very scanty petticoats. His apartments were strewed with such sketches; and Bianca rallied him smartly on finding that the same pretty face was traceable in every drawing: Oliver had evidently one vivid and particular idea ever uppermost in his mind. He had a rival, too,--a devil of a fellow,--who contrived to infuse an unusual quantum of mystery into this love affair: all the perils of which I will relate to the reader, while our friends, the French, are labouring at the Seminara road, in order to bring up their train of cannon.

"Where away so fast, Oliver?" asked I, as he was hurrying past me, one evening, about dusk, muffled in his cloak.

"Only a little way from the castle," he responded, somewhat impatiently.

"Southward, eh?"

"Ah--yes."

"To Fiumara?"

"Why--yes."

"Take care, Oliver, my boy! The French 101st, a thousand strong, are cantoned there; and the end of this nightly visiting may be a few years unpleasant captivity in Verdun or Bitche."

"Tush!" said he, impatiently; "I have my sword and pistols."

"So much the worse; they may only provoke the wrath of your captors. 'T is a pity your fair one, Signora Montecino (that's her name, I believe) lives in so dangerous a vicinity."

"I am only going to visit the bishop of Nicastro."

"A shallow excuse, Oliver: you are not a man to relish the old bishop's society. By-the-bye, his niece is very pretty; is she not?"

"Rather," said he, drily.

"So much so, that you think her face cannot be delineated too often?"

"Stay, Claude; no quizzing: I won't stand it."

"She has a brother, or cousin, a sad fellow--an outlawed guerilla, or something of that sort; who has served under Francatripa, and is stained with a thousand nameless atrocities. And do you know what people say about the pretty signorina herself?"

"What say they?" he asked, sternly.

"That she is a nearer relation of the good padre bishop than he cares to have generally known: priests' nieces----"

"D----n their impudence! only yourself, Claude--Capt. Dundas, I must request----"

"O, yes; I understand all that: ha! ha!"

"No man in the service----"

"What! do you really love this girl, Oliver?"

"Yes; on my honour, I do."

"Very possibly: but--I speak as an old friend--you do not mean seriously?"

He started, and coloured deeply.

"I know not," he muttered, hurriedly: "and yet, Claude, I cannot be so base as to think of her otherwise than as a man of honour ought to do. Her relationship to the old padre is, to say the best of it, somewhat dubious: but then, she is so good-tempered and ladylike--so gentle, so beautiful, and winning--that I cannot, for the soul of me, help loving her; and I pledged----"

"Pledged! Maladetto! as they say here, are you engaged to her?"

"Why, I did not make a particular--that is to say, not quite an engagement--pshaw! what am I talking here about?"

"I see! Ah, Oliver, you are evidently very deeply dipped with her: you cannot steal a march upon me. Let me advise you, Lascelles, to be cautious in your affair with this young lady. Your family, your fortune, all entitle you----"

"Thanks, Dundas! I don't require this tutor-like advice," said he, putting his foot in the stirrup of his roan-horse, with a dash of hauteur in his manner.

"At Fiumara, the French keep a sharp look out," I urged.

"Be it so," said he: "thither I go at all risks."

"You are not acting wisely."

"Granted--one never does so in love."

"Be cautious, Oliver! I would be loth to lose you; and I find it will be necessary to 'come the senior over you,' as the mess say, and order that no officer or soldier shall go beyond one mile from camp or quarters."

"Do so to-morrow," he added, laughing; "but, meanwhile, ere the order is issued, I shall ride so far as Fiumara to-night. What is the parole?"

"_Maida_--countersign _Italy_."

"Thank you: I do not wish to be fired on by the blundering Calabri," he replied; little imagining he would never require the watch-word. "Adieu! by midnight I will return."

Breaking away, he leaped on his horse, and dashing through the arched portal of the castle, rode down the hill through Scylla at a furious gallop.

I was under considerable apprehension for my rash friend's safety. Midnight passed: slowly the hours of morning rolled on. Day was breaking, and the peaks of Milia were burnished by the yet unrisen sun, when I visited the posts to inquire for Lascelles. He had not returned; and as he had never before been absent so long in such a dangerous neighbourhood, I became very uneasy: deeply I regretted that, even at the risk of unpleasant words, I had not exerted my authority as commanding officer, and compelled him to stay within the castle. The bugle sounded for morning parade at the usual hour; but Oliver Lascelles was not forthcoming: his place in the ranks was vacant.

On the advance of the French, the old bishop, before mentioned, had retired from the city of Nicastro; abandoning to them his residence--the ancient castle, famous as the place where Henry, of Naples, expiated his rebellion. Retiring to his little paternal villa, near Fiumara, he lived in retirement, unmolested by the French; who almost depopulated the surrounding country by their tyranny, extortions, and wanton outrage. On the side of a hill, at the base of which ran a deep and rapid stream, its banks covered with orange and citron trees, stood the bishop's villa. It faced the straits of Messina: high rocks and a thick wood of pines hid it from the view of the foe at Fiumara; otherwise their forage parties would assuredly have paid it a visit.

On the evening I last saw Oliver, a young lady was visible at an open window of this mansion. She was alone, and seated in a reclining posture on an ottoman, upon which lay her guitar: her hair, half-braided, half-disordered, rolled in natural ringlets of the deepest black over a neck of the purest white--so pure, so transparent, that the blue veins beneath were distinctly visible. She was not tall, but of a full and beautifully rounded form; and though her features were not regular, yet their expression was very captivating and piquant. Her eyes were dark and brilliant, her lips full and pouting, her cheeks flushed and dimpled.

Notwithstanding the season of the year, the air was close and still; the sun had set, and the sky wore a warm and fiery tinge; but the hills and wood were of a dark bronze hue.

Dianora Montecino listened impatiently. She awaited the coming of Oliver: but he came not. She often surveyed her figure in a mirror which hung opposite, and a calm smile lighted up her pretty face: it was one of complacent but innocent admiration of her own attractions. Her hair being in partial disorder, languidly, with her delicate fingers, she endeavoured to adjust it; then pausing, she sighed, and after again consulting the friendly mirror, with a pardonable coquetry, she allowed the flowing tresses to remain free.

"He always prefers me in dishabille. That seems strange: and yet I think I really look better so. But truly, Signor Oliver, you tarry long to-night."

The last flush of sunlight vanished from the hills of Milia (or Mylae), and now rose the bright moon, shedding its softer light over land and sea; tinging the straits with silver lustre, and revealing the Sicilian feluccas, with their striped latteen sails, and other picturesque vessels, which the sombre shadows of evening had for a time obscured. At the base of the hills the river wound between rocks and thickets, its surface reflecting the innumerable stars that studded the serene blue sky. A beautiful fountain beneath the terrace threw up its jet of water like a ceaseless shower of diamonds; the air was laden with the perfume of the earliest flowers of an Italian spring, and not a breath of wind was abroad to stir their closed petals, then filled with fragrant dew. Intently the young girl hearkened for the tramp of her lover's horse; but he came not: she heard only the tumultuous beating of her own heart, and the monotonous plash of the water falling from the bronze Triton's mouth into the marble basin below.

A step was heard softly on the gravel walk:

"At last he comes!" she said, pouting; while joy and hope sparkled in her dark and liquid eyes: a man leaped over the balustrade of the terrace. "Dear Oliver, you have come at last: but stay! I owe you a scolding, signor mio!"

"'T is not Oliver," replied the stranger, with a husky, but somewhat sad tone of voice; and he stood before her. Dianora's first impulse was to call for assistance; but the voice of the stranger again arrested her.

"For God's sake, signora, do not summon any one! You have nothing to fear from me--indeed you have not."

"Giosue, is it only you?" said the young lady, with a tone of undisguised reproach and vexation. There was a pause.

The unwelcome visitor was a young man about six-and-twenty, whose dress announced his occupation and rank in life to be somewhat dubious; but his air, though constrained in the presence of Dianora, had a dash of gallant and graceful recklessness in it. He wore the brigand garb, which had then become a kind of uniform adopted by all desperadoes; he had a carbine in his hand, and a knife and four long iron pistols were stuck in a yellow silk sash. A loose velvet jacket, knee breeches, and gaiters crossed with red leather straps, displayed to advantage his fine athletic figure; and round his open neck hung a little bag containing a charm, which he supposed rendered him bullet-proof. A large, shapeless, and battered Calabrian hat, with a royalist red riband flaunting from it, shaded his face; which was fringed with a black and untrimmed beard, and presented a kind of savage beauty: though squalid through want, and fierce in its expression; being marked with the lines of the worst passions. The young girl regarded him with a glance expressive equally of timidity and pity.

"Dianora--Dianora!" said he, reproachfully, but mildly; "there was a time when you were not wont to pronounce my name in such a tone. Alas! sweet cousin--like myself, its very sound seems changed."

"Poor Giosue!" she began.

"Was not expected here to-night," said he, bitterly. "No; you await another. Cattivo! I know it."

He regarded her gloomily; his fierce dark eyes sparkling in the twilight like those of a basilisk; and she, who but a moment before had been all eagerness for the arrival of Oliver Lascelles, now mentally implored Heaven that he might not come that night, for something dreadful would certainly ensue.

"Dianora," said the young man, "is it true what they tell me--that you love this stranger?"

"As I never can love thee, Giosue," replied the girl, with timid energy.

"Malediction! Have you forgotten how you once swore your hand should be mine?"

"True, Giosue; but you were not then what you have since become."

"Hear me, false one! I swear by God and his blessed saints, that the hand you promised me shall never be the prize of another. No! Maladetto! I will slay you rather!" He laughed bitterly, and spoke in a hoarse tone. "You despise me, Dianora. I am now a penniless outlaw. May our uncle, the hard-hearted bishop, whose miserly cruelty has driven me to despair----"

"O most ungrateful and unkind, Giosue! say rather your own wild and intractable spirit has occasioned your destruction----"

"And the loss of your love, Dianora?"

"Indeed, Giosue, I never could have loved you as--you would wish to be loved: but I have pitied you, wept for you, prayed for you----"

"Bless you, dear girl," replied the young man, with intense sadness; "you are very good and amiable; but I feel that love for you is making me mad!"

"Now, leave me, Giosue. Should the bishop find you here----"

"Say rather he whom you expect!" he exclaimed, bitterly and jealously. "Ha! false and fickle one! within sound of my whistle are those who in a moment would bear you off to yonder mountains in spite of all opposition, and leave in flames this villa of our dog of an uncle. But no, signora; I must have your love freely, or not at all."

"A moment ago you threatened----"

"Peace! Attempt not to stir until you have heard me. This cursed English lieutenant (ha! malediction! you see I know him), if he comes hither to-night may get a reception such as he little expects." He uttered a ferocious laugh, and struck with his hand the weapons which garnished his girdle. They clattered, and the heart of Dianora trembled between fear and indignation; for nothing rouses a young girl's spirit so much as hearing her lover spoken of lightly.

"Cospetto! let this baby-faced teniente beware," continued Giosue; "or, by the blessed Trinity! I will put a brace of bullets through his brain."

"Wretch!" exclaimed the trembling Dianora, "begone, lest I spit upon you! O Giosue! are you indeed become so ruffianly? Have brigandism and outrage hardened you thus?"

He laughed sternly, and said, "You do expect him to-night, then?"

"What is that to you?" she replied, pettishly. "Cousin, I will love whom I please."

"You shall not love him."

Dianora, who was now angry in downright earnest, began to sing, and thrum the strings of her mandolin.

"Me non segni il biondo Dio,
Me con Fille unisca amore--"

"Dianora!" exclaimed the young man, in a voice half mournful and half ferocious. "By the memory of other days, I conjure you to hear me! Think how, as children--as orphans--we lived, and played, and grew together--hear me!" His voice grew thick; but the irritated girl continued her song.

"E poi sfoghi il suo rigore
Fato rio, nemico ciel."

"Cruel that thou art: thy wish will never be realized!" he exclaimed, fiercely. Still she continued:--

"Che il desio non mi tormenta,
O----"

"Maledictions on you! Is it thus you treat me?"

Dianora laughed: he gazed intently upon her with fierce glistening eyes; his white lips were compressed with stern resolution, though agitation made them quiver--and that quivering was visible even in the moonlight.

"Dianora," said he, "for this time I will leave you; but when again we meet--_tremble_! Fury! I am not to be treated like a child!"

"Do not be so passionate, signor cousin. Madonna mia! You are quite the Horazio of Matteo Aliman's novel!"

"Beware," he responded, with a dark and inexplicable scowl, "that your hand--the hand pledged as mine--is not bestowed upon your lover as Clarinia's was. Farewell, fickle and cruel Dianora! Misfortune and love are turning my brain."

"Say rather wine, dice, and debauchery."

"Diavolessa!" he exclaimed, in accents of rage; and springing over the terrace, disappeared.

Dianora resumed her guitar; but she could sing no more: her assumed nonchalance quite deserted her. The instrument fell on the floor, and covering her face with her white hands she wept bitterly: for Giosue's threats and Oliver's absence terrified her.

The calm moon looked down on the dark forests and the snaky windings of the river, on whose glassy bosom here and there a red glow marked the watch-fires of the distant French picquets. No one was ascending the mountain side. In the villa, in the valley below, and on the hills around it, the most intense silence prevailed. Eagerly Dianora listened. Anon there rang through the welkin a shrill whistle--the whistle of Giosue; a faint cry succeeded: it rose from the river side, and floated tremulously upward through the still air. Another, and another followed: they were cries for succour! Her brain reeled--she sank upon her knees, and raised her hands to Heaven--her heart beat wildly--she panted rather than breathed. "O, God!" thought she; "if Oliver encounter the wild comrades of Giosue, what have I not to dread?"

Appalled by her own vivid and fearful thoughts, she sat as if spell-bound, listening for other sounds, in an agony of suspense; but none other arose from the dark wooded dell than the murmur of the river, as its waters rolled on their way to the ocean.

"Joy--joy--he comes at last!" she exclaimed, as the hoofs of a galloping horse rang on the narrow and rocky pathway, which wound between thickets of orange and citron trees up the mountain side. "Dear and blessed Lady of Burello, how I thank thee that he came not sooner! Three paters and three aves will I say.--I see him now: 'tis he! How bravely he reins up his roan English horse, with its high head and flowing mane! There is the dark cloak, and the little cap, beneath which his brown hair curls so crisply. Oh, well should I know him among a thousand!"

With all the frankness and ardour of an Italian girl she rushed upon the terrace, and, waving her hand over the balustrade, said playfully, "You have come at last, Signor mio. Fi! I owe you a severe lecture: approach, and receive it penitently."

At that moment, the horseman rode close to the wall of the terrace, and threw an arm around her. Overcome by her recent agitation, Dianora sank upon his breast, murmuring, in tender accents, "Oliver--dear Oliver."

"The curses of the whole calendar upon thee and Oliver too! Ha! you greet not him contemptuously with an old scrap of Metastasio. Burning hell! traitress, I recall your biting taunts, and will revenge me even as Horazio did. Lo! the hand you pledged unto me shall yet be mine."

A smothered cry burst from Dianora.--Instead of the handsome and flushed face of Oliver Lascelles, a livid and unearthly visage, distorted by the most vindictive passions, was close to her cheek; two ferocious eyes glared upon her, and the strong arm of Giosue was around her.

"Never again wilt thou scorn a lover, Dianora Montecino; and dear will _that_ taunt cost thee which dictates my revenge."

His long keen acciaro gleamed in the moonlight, as he grasped her beautiful hand with the grasp of a tiger--instantly the sharp knife descended upon the slender wrist!

* * * * *

Let me throw a veil over the horrors that ensued.

The French sentinels on the windings of the lonely river, the wolf in the distant woods and the eagle on the rocks of Battaglia, must have been alike startled by the agonizing shrieks of Dianora. Fearful they were; but of short duration. A moan succeeded--a moan of terrible import. Then rang the hoofs of a horse as if spurred madly down the steep roadway. A turn of the dell hid the wild horseman, and then all became still.

Her right hand severed at the wrist, her nose cut off, and her face seamed with the most frightful gashes, Dianora was found by the alarmed household of the bishop, stretched on the marble terrace, bleeding and senseless--mutilated--dying. She was borne away: convulsions succeeded, and that night the unhappy Dianora died.

She expired in the arms of the venerable bishop, whose grief and horror rendered him almost distracted.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*THE MONASTERY.*

To return to Scylla.--The hour of parade passed: Lascelles had not yet returned, and I could no longer withstand my anxiety for his safety. Accompanied by my intelligent countryman, Gask, a bugler, and twenty soldiers in light marching order, each with sixty rounds of ammunition, I departed in the direction of Fiumara, on the almost hopeless errand of endeavouring to discover him. I now reproached myself bitterly, and really thought I had been much to blame in not restricting my rash friend, even at the chance of a quarrel: it could not have been of long duration.

Leaving Scylla as quietly as possible, we marched towards Fiumara by the most lonely and unfrequented route, through gorges and thickets, expecting every instant to hear the musket of our advanced file discharged, as a signal that a patrol of French cavalry, or some such interruption, was in sight.

It was a beautiful morning: the rays of the bright sun streamed aslant between the peaks of Mylae, and the white dewy vapour curled from the dells like a gauze screen, mellowing the dark green of the pine thickets and the blue of the gleaming ocean, which shone at times between the openings of the high and broken shore. The morning hymn to the Virgin, and the tolling of the matin bell, floated through the still air from the dark old walls of St. Battaglia; a monastery perched on a rock, by the base of which the pathway wound. On we hurried; and soon Fiumara, its houses shining in the sun, the red smoky fires of the French camp, and their chain of out-picquets near the river, appeared before us.

At the bottom of the hill on which the Villa of Montecino was situated, just as we were striking into the narrow path that wound up its wooded side, our advanced file, (who was about fifty paces in front), halted, and waved his hand.

"Keep together, men! fix bayonets!--look to your priming--forward!" I exclaimed, and we rushed towards him. There was no immediate cause for alarm; but on a level spot of green sward we discovered sufficient evidence that some deed of violence and atrocity had been perpetrated, and I trembled for my poor friend Oliver! On the grass lay his gilded gorget, with its white silk ribbon rent in two; near it lay a buff military glove, covered with blood; a little further on we found his riding switch, with his crest graven on its gold embossed head. All around, the trampled state of the grass, the marks of feet (some of which had evidently been shoeless), the deep indents of horse-hoofs, and, worst of all, a pool of coagulated blood on the pathway, led us to anticipate some terrible catastrophe. Loud and deep were the threats and execrations of the soldiers.

At an accelerated pace we pushed up the hill towards the house of Montecino, passing on our left the mouldering ruins of a castelletto, or little fortalice; the broken ramparts of which were almost hidden under heavy masses of dark green ivy and luxuriant weeds.

Entering the bishop's disordered mansion without ceremony, I halted the soldiers in the vestibule, and desired a servant, who appeared, to conduct me to her master. The woman vouchsafed me no other reply than a motion to follow her: she was very pale, and her eyes were red from recent weeping. Opening a door, she ushered me into a little darkened oratory; where, on a bier before the altar surrounded by tapers, shedding "a dim, religious light," lay the sad remains of the hapless Dianora. They were covered with a white shroud; and so completely, that I beheld not the frightful ravages committed by the knife of the assassin. Beside the body--his white vestments soiled with blood, his thin grey hairs dishevelled, his aspect wild and haggard--knelt Piero Montecino, the aged Bishop of Nicastro; his attenuated hands clasped and holding a crucifix, on which, at times, he bowed down his reverend head. His wonted spiritual resignation, priestly dignity, and stateliness of aspect were gone: his spirit was crushed and broken. How changed was his whole appearance since the day when, with Bianca, I stood before the altar in the church of his bishoprick!

"O, Dianora! my daughter--my child!" he exclaimed, in accents of the deepest grief: "O, madonna, have mercy upon me! Holy Trinity, have mercy upon me! Dianora, my blessed one! Saint Euphemio, pray for her! Saint Magdalene, pray for her! Sweet lady of Burello!--beatified Rosalia!--thrice blessed lady of Loretto, mother of mercy! hear me, and pray for her!" Heavy sobs succeeded.

The touching tones of his voice, and the passionate fervour of his devout appeals, deeply moved me. So intense was his sorrow, that it almost warranted the suspicion of a nearer relationship to Dianora than his vows and character as a Catholic churchman permitted; but no such ungenerous thought occurred to me then: my heart felt only the deepest and most sincere compassion for the bereaved old man. He was so besotted with woe, that I saw it was next to impossible to obtain from him the least intelligence or advice; and, withdrawing softly, I left the villa immediately.

When descending the hill towards the spot where we had found the relics of our missing comrade, we met a peasant, who, with a long ox-goad, was urging a pair of lazy buffaloes towards Scylla. I desired my soldiers to bring him before me, in the desperate hope of obtaining some information concerning poor Lascelles; and, strange to say, we could not have had a luckier rencontre, or better intelligencer.

"Hollo, Signor Campagnuolo!" said I to the cattle driver; "from whence have you come this morning--Fiumara, eh?"

"No, Signor."

"Where, then?"

"From the monastery of Battaglia, down the mountains yonder," he answered somewhat reservedly; and, endeavouring to pass, he added, "a holy day to you, Signor."

"Any movement taking place among the French lately?--are any of their patrols out?"

"I have not heard, excellency; but a fugitive, chased by a party of them, took refuge at the monastery this morning, and is said to have confessed to the Padre Abate a horrible crime."

"Ha! and is he now in the sanctuary?" I demanded, eagerly.

"Prostrate on the steps of the altar: his penitence is great. Madonna intercede for him!"

"Thanks," said I, permitting the uneasy rustic to pass on his way. "Advance, soldiers--trail arms--forward, double quick! We have got on the right scent at last, perhaps; and there is not a moment to be lost."

With right good will the soldiers moved forward towards the monastery; their arms glancing and pouches clanking as they rushed down the steep hill side. The place of our destination, a confused mass of irregular buildings, stood near the river before-mentioned, about a mile distant. It was a monastery of great antiquity; a high wall of grey stone girdled it round, and above that rose its campanile, a square tower, surmounted by a flat tiled roof. From the outer wall, the rocks on which the edifice was perched sloped precipitously down on all sides; especially towards the south, where they descended in one unbroken line to the deep dark waters of the still but rapid stream, which wound through a chasm below.

As we began to ascend the steep and devious path cut in the hard volcanic rock, and leading directly to the monastery, we saw the monks appearing and disappearing like black crows on their high outer wall; and the arched gateway was hurriedly closed: the fathers were evidently in a state of consternation, and making all fast; fearing that we might disregard the immunities of the holy sanctuary. All the friars had vanished by the time we reached the iron-studded door in the outer wall; over which the evergreen, ivy, and long rank grass were waving in profusion.

We knocked loudly. No answer was given.

"Sound!" said I, to the bugle-boy; and a loud blast from his instrument made the old walls, the echoing chapel, the bosky woods and splintered rocks ring far and near. Still the summons was unheeded, and the impatient soldiers thundered at the gateway with the butts of their muskets. The reverend fathers no doubt suspected our purpose.

"What want ye?" said an old vinegar-visaged friar, appearing on the top of the wall, which he had surmounted by the assistance of a ladder.

"Are you all asleep within there?" I answered, angrily. "We want a fugitive, to whom you have given refuge. Call you this civility, padre? and to us whose swords are drawn in the cause of your country."

"Beware, Signori Inglesi! dare you violate the rights of the blessed sanctuary?"

"You will soon learn whether we will not, you old scarecrow!" I replied, with increased impatience. "Aprite la porta, Signor Canonico, or by Heaven! we will beat it down in a twinkling!"

"Patience, capitano--patience, until I confer with the reverend Superior."

"Be quick, then! We must see instantly this rascal who has obtained sanctuary. The enemy are so near, that we have not a moment to lose."

The monk disappeared. I directed Gask, with six soldiers, to watch the walls, and capture or wound any man attempting to escape; but not to kill--if possible. I was most anxious to learn with certainty the fate of Lascelles: whether he had been assassinated; or was lying perishing and mutilated in some solitary place; or had been delivered up to the French. Indeed, I should have been relieved from a load of anxiety, and felt overjoyed to learn that his fate was only the last. Gask was as well aware as I how jealous the continental monks were of the ancient right of sanctuary, and he knew that they would rather favour the escape of the vilest criminal than deliver him up to offended justice. Of their obstinacy in this respect, I know of several instances: one I will mention in particular. It occurred at Malta.

A soldier of ours, when passing one day through a street of Valetta, was run against and thrown down by a provoking brute of a pig. Exasperated at having his gay uniform soiled by the dusty street, he gave the grunting porker a hearty kick; upon which the villainous macellajo, to whom it belonged, drew his poniard and stabbed him to the heart. The poor soldier fell dead on the pavement; the murderer fled to the great church of St. John, and obtained sanctuary. Respecting the popular prejudices of the Maltese (who regard with the greatest veneration that sacred edifice, which contains the sepulchres of innumerable brave knights of the Isle,) the general commanding permitted the hot-blooded ruffian to remain some time in sanctuary, before he applied to the bishop for the exertion of his authority to have him delivered up to the civil magistrates. The prelate delayed, equivocated; and the reverend fathers, foreseeing the violation of their famous place of refuge, facilitated the escape of the assassin, and so defeated the ends of justice.

I was determined that the priests of St. Battaglia should not cheat me so in this affair; and, after desiring Gask with his party to keep on the alert, I was about to have the door blown to pieces by a volley of musketry, when the bars were withdrawn, and it slowly revolved on its creaking hinges. The soldiers were about to rush in; but the sight they beheld arrested them: all paused, mute, and turned inquiringly to me for instructions.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED.*

The portal of the edifice slowly unfolded, disclosing the whole array of priests, who, clad in their floating vestments, advanced chaunting from the oratory, with tapers burning, censers smoking, and two emblazoned banners waving: one of white silk, bearing a large crimson cross, surmounted by the sacred charge of St. Peter--the keys of heaven; the other, the symbolical banner of St. Battaglia, surrounded by all the imaginary odour and glory of sanctity. The spectacle was very imposing: the tapers of scented wax, and the silver censers filled with lavender flowers, diffused through the air a fragrant perfume; while the pale curling smoke that encircled the gilded crosses and elevated images rendered--

"----Indistinct the pageant proud,
As fancy forms of midnight cloud,
When flings the moon upon her shroud
A wavering tinge of flame."

The misty vapour, the flickering lights, and the flowing garments of the fathers; the dark walls of the old cloisters which rang to the solemn and sonorous chaunt of twenty male voices; the distant organ swelling aloud, and then dying away in the hollow recesses of the arched oratory, together produced a striking effect. The abbot, an aged priest of venerable aspect, with a beard white as the new fallen snow (then an unusual appendage to a canon's chin), appeared at their head. They halted beneath the ivy-crowned archway; the chaunt ceased, the soldiers drew back, and all were silent: save the magnificent strains of the organ reverberating in the vaulted chapel and the rustle of the consecrated standards, all was still. The abbot, who no doubt expected that this religious display would impress us with a feeling of awe, then addressed me.

"Your purpose, signor?" he asked, mildly, but firmly.

"Reverend abate," I responded, lowering my sword respectfully, "I demand the person, of a vile assassin, whom I have learned, from unquestionable authority, you have concealed within these walls!"

"He whom you seek is under the protection of God. Know, signor, that he who puts forth a hand in anger against one who seeketh and findeth sanctuary in the church, is guilty of the most atrocious sacrilege!"

"On my own head be the guilt of the sacrilege, Padre Abate. Excuse us: the French are in your immediate vicinity, and we run the imminent risk of being all taken prisoners. One of our comrades, a young officer of distinction, is missing; and a frightful assassination has been committed at the villa Montecino: we have every reason to believe that your favoured fugitive is implicated in both these mysterious occurrences. I cannot parley with you, reverend signor: I demand an interview with the criminal; and if he is not instantly brought forth, I have to acquaint you that I will search the monastery by force; and, if need be, drag him from the very altar at the point of the bayonet!"

Ere the indignant abbot could reply--