Chapter XXXV: A Final Choice

"So oft the doing of God's Will
Our foolish wills undoeth!
And yet what idle dream breaks ill
Which Morning Light subdueth?
And who would murmur and misdoubt
When God's great Sunrise finds him out?"
E. B. BROWNING.

"And so, after all, you have overcome the British prejudice and have only managed to lose your fortune!" exclaimed Enrico Ritter, looking his friend in the face with a critical air. "It seems that you have got back your health again, too. Upon my word, I think knight-errantry is a profitable calling, always supposing you haven't a cantankerous relative to cut you off with a shilling. I shall think of taking to it myself soon."

Carlo had landed at Naples late on the previous evening, and now, after the mid-day breakfast with the Ritter household and a long talk with his old friend, was making his way back to the Palazzo Forti in the cool of the afternoon. He was in the best of spirits, and had just been giving Enrico the account of all that had passed during the last few weeks.

"You still set up for being an egoist, I see," he replied with a laugh.

"Well, every man must have his theory of the universe," said Enrico, with a mischievous side-glance at his friend. "Ah! by-the-bye, you should shake your fist at that house over there on the right; it belongs to the Little Sisters of the Poor, and ate up all your money."

"I should have been glad enough of some of it in America," said Carlo, with a smile. "However, no doubt our poor Neapolitans wanted it quite as badly. Oh, wait! how fast you walk! Let us stop and see the view from this terrace just for half a minute--dear old Capri again, how natural it looks! You would laugh if you knew how homesick I have been over in the New World."

"I must make a note of that," said Enrico. "In my future knight-errantry I'll take good care to keep in Italy."

And so, with laughter and friendly teasing, they walked through the busy streets until they came in sight of the dingy old palazzo, at the door of which an ostler was holding a beautiful cream-colored horse.

"Come in and see Anita," said Carlo; "she will have had her _siesta_ by this time."

And Enrico, though he detested Madame Merlino, consented to go in to please his friend, and made himself very amiable to her while Carlo opened a telegram which had arrived for him during his absence.

The message was sent from Pozzuoli by Captain Britton, and was to this effect,--

"We hope you will dine with us to-night. I have ordered a horse to be sent round for you. Do not fail us."

"Nita, should you mind if I went to Cassa Bella?" he asked. "The Captain seems to want me over there, for he has even taken the trouble to send a horse for me. I will be back, of course, to-night."

"If that was the horse we saw waiting outside you will get there in no time," said Enrico; "it beats your old Arab."

But this Carlo would not allow, and amid much lively discussion as to his old favorite, he nodded a farewell to Nita and Gigi, and ran downstairs, his heart beating fast at the prospect of seeing Francesca again so soon.

"_Auf wiedersehn!_" said Enrico, as he watched his friend ride away. And the bright look and gesture in response kept recurring to him as he walked back to his office.

"What in the world is that fellow made of!" he said to himself. "He is forever upsetting all my calculations and disturbing my pet theories. He even seems to have roused up that heartless, insipid Anita; for the first time I actually saw a kind of likeness between them. One could at least tell that they were brother and sister."

To be once again on the familiar road to Pozzuoli made Carlo's heart glow within him. Every tree, every house, seemed like an old friend; his eye noted each slight change wrought during the three years of absence, while his mind recalled the past with little but a tender remembrance of the bygone happiness. As he drew near to the grotto of Posilipo he instinctively slackened his pace a little, glancing up with eyes full of glad recognition at the lovely hillside, with its tangled growth of birch, and pine, and cactus, clustering about the place which is supposed to be the tomb of Virgil.

It was at this moment that a close carriage drove quickly past him; he would have taken no particular notice of it had he not, with his keen and practised observation, noted even in the brief moment of passing the remarkably fine eyes of one of the occupants. Where had he seen them before? Both the eyes and the searching glance seemed familiar to him, and racking his memory he at length brought back a mental picture of a water-seller's stall, and of a young man of strong and sinewy frame, who had arrested his attention last night by a certain picturesqueness of attitude as he stood watching the crowd glass in hand; for an instant they had looked full at each other, and the piercing glance of the stranger had lingered in his memory, and he had thought to himself as he passed on that even in Italy one did not often encounter such splendid eyes.

Entering the lofty archway of the grotto he passed on into the dark tunnel, which seemed to him more than ever like the long nave of some vast cathedral, the lights gleaming at intervals making the surrounding gloom only more apparent. He smiled a little to himself at the recollection of sundry boyish terrors never confessed to any living creature and never given way to; he remembered how, now and then on his way home from Naples, there had been times when the horrible feeling of an unknown "something" waiting to spring out upon him from the darkness had set his heart beating fast, and had made him resort in desperation to a Paternoster; and he acknowledged to himself that there was perhaps some slight excuse for those past terrors, since, after all, the grotto was an eerie place, and the road, even at this hour in the afternoon, lonely enough.

But recollections of old times began to give place to the absorbing consciousness that he was on his way to Francesca, and as he left the dimly-lighted tunnel behind him and emerged into the dust and the afternoon sunshine, he fell into a happy reverie. He was to see her again, and she was his, and the trouble was all over, and the separation ended, and life was so bright that already those weary years seemed to him like a dream and the glad anticipation like a return to real waking existence.

She would be waiting for him at the gate of Casa Bella, and they would go once more to the old belvedere where he had first told her of his love; he would make her stand once more under the datura tree where she had stood long ago when the trouble was just beginning to darken on the horizon, and he should see her now again as he had seen her so often in his dreams, with the creamy flowers drooping down over her dusky hair and her eyes shining into his.

He smiled to himself with the rapture of the thought, and touched up his horse, grudging every moment that kept him from his love.

He had ridden about two miles beyond the grotto and had nearly reached the cross road which leads towards Agnano, when he was roused from his dream of happiness by his horse shying violently at the sudden apparition of a man rushing across the road. All his attention was needed to quiet the animal, and it was only when he found himself surrounded by four formidable-looking ruffians that he realized another danger. There was just time for him to give his horse a smart stroke over the shoulder which made it bound forward, but the effort was useless, for one of his assailants instantly caught the reins in a firm grip and the next moment he was dragged from his seat. With all his might he struggled to free himself, but it was only for a minute or two that he could even keep his footing; a hand held his throat so tightly that to cry out for help was impossible, to breathe at all difficult, and, though he fought gallantly, and by adroitness and agility rather than strength, managed to give his captors some trouble, it was inevitable that he should succumb. Bruised, shaken, half choked by the relentless grip on his throat, he at length felt his strength overborne, and struggling to the end, was forced down on the dusty road. Then came a moment's breathing space, for the hand at his throat relaxed its hold and another and a coarser hand was substituted for it. One of the men broke the silence, speaking in a low, hurried voice,--

"Now then, Lionbruno, the blow--quick!"

To move was impossible. Three powerful men held him down in the dust, a fourth was apparently told off to murder him. He had time for only two thoughts--Comerio's vengeance and Francesca's grief; and the pang of this last thought was so terrible that the prompt blow on the head which put an end to consciousness was, perhaps, more merciful than preparation or delay.

When he came to himself he remembered nothing that had passed, but awoke to a consciousness of intense physical misery. He gasped for breath and became aware that his mouth was tightly bandaged; there was, moreover, a covering over his face--perhaps a shroud! and in the horror of that thought he instinctively tried to raise his hand and make feeling supply the place of sight, but he found that his arms were tightly strapped to his sides. Restored still further to life by the mere astonishment and dismay, he perceived that he was in a carriage which was being driven rapidly along a rather rough road, his head ached terribly and felt heavy and confused, and he was sinking back into a sort of stupor and vaguely wondering how long he should have to bear the pain of the jolting vehicle, when the silence was broken by a voice near him.

"_Per Dio!_ who would have thought such a small made man would have given us so much trouble!"

"He fought so well that our courteous Lionbruno was in fifty minds about knocking him on the head," said another speaker, sarcastically.

"_Accidente!_" broke in a much younger voice; "nothing of the sort, I tell you. Comerio has had to pay a good price for his pretty prima donna, but he has not given us a lira too much for this business,--it was a risky thing in full daylight. _Sacramento!_ the fellow is coming to himself!"

The mention of Comerio's name had brought back everything to Carlo's remembrance, and the intolerable words which followed filled him with an anguish which, for the time, made the physical pain non-existent. He started forward, found his feet unfettered, and began to writhe and struggle in a vain effort to free his arms. Instantly strong hands forced him down again, and heavy boots kicked his shins into unwilling stillness.

"Be so good as to use your common-sense, signor!" said the young voice at his elbow. "You are our prisoner, and wholly at our mercy. Your life is in no danger at present, but if you resist we shall put an end to you to save ourselves trouble."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried another voice, stifling a laugh. "Lionbruno is such an orator that we shall soon have him as a Deputy, and then he can travel free of cost!"

There was a little more stifled laughter, then silence again, broken only by the sound of the horses' hoofs and the rumbling of the wheels.

Terrible thoughts rushed through Carlo's mind. He saw Anita at the mercy of Comerio, her husband away, Sardoni out of reach, himself altogether powerless. The intolerable realization of his own helplessness almost maddened him, and his brain, still confused by the stunning blow, refused to be controlled. If he could have seen with his eyes--if he could have asked one question--if he could have freed his arms from the cords which bound them,--the horrible suspense and anxiety would have been more bearable; but he was, as his captor had said, wholly at the mercy of others, and the perception of this made him beside himself. It was the same struggle magnified a thousand-fold which he had passed through at the time of his illness--for a man the hardest struggle possible,--to endure an unnatural and undeserved restraint, to be altogether helpless while conscious of strength, and know that for that strength there is a terrible demand. Such burning wrath consumed him, such uncontrollable resentment, that it was, perhaps, well for him that action was impossible, or with the blind impulse of a confused brain and a despairing heart he might have done some rash deed which, in a cooler moment, he would bitterly repent.

At length the carriage stopped, and Carlo was dragged out. The rough handling made him tingle from head to foot, and with all his might he resisted, for he knew that at present he stood on a road where there was at least a possibility of meeting with help, and to what these brigands were hurrying him he had no idea.

"No use, signor!" said the voice at his side. "We are four to one, and you only make matters worse for yourself."

Something in the tone of the speaker appealed to Carlo. His blood cooled a little, and he allowed himself to be led through what he felt sure must be a thick wood, for he could hear the rustle of leaves as they forced their way on, and could feel boughs brushing against him. As to the distance they walked, he could not form the slightest idea. It seemed to him as if the journey would never end, and his assailants were evidently in a hurry, for, spite of the rough, uneven ground, they went at a sharp pace, and when exhaustion made him hang back a little, he found himself impatiently urged on by Lionbruno, who, throughout the walk, grasped his arm, while the men who brought up the rear pushed, kicked, and hustled him at every opportunity.

At last he was so worn out that it was all he could do to drag one foot after the other, the craving for air and light became more and more keen, and had it not been for the iron grasp in which he was held he would have fallen to the ground. A sort of dull comfort in the thought that it must sooner or later end was his only relief,--and presently the way became clearer, he heard other voices, and felt other men approaching him. Some one tore off the bandages which had kept him blind and dumb for so long, and then, dazzled and confused, he looked round.

He found himself in a domed building, which seemed to him a smaller edition of the old Roman bath at Baja, known as the Temple of Mercury. It was lighted only by two torches, which, however, shed a pretty strong light on the strange group beneath. Half-a-dozen rough, ill-clad men were clustered together close to a stone bench, on which was seated the leader of the gang, a powerful-looking man, whose rugged face and uncompromising mouth instantly checked all the hope that rose in Carlo's heart when he found himself capable once more of seeing and speaking.

Brancaleone was not at all the ferocious and cruel-looking brigand chief of his boyish fancies; he was much more like an officer of the martinet type, but his face was as hard as a rock, and he was evidently a person from whom no quarter was to be expected.

"Successful, you see, in my first enterprise, _padre mio!_" said the young fellow who had been addressed as Lionbruno. Carlo looked at him, and saw that he could not have been more than eighteen at the outside. Undoubtedly he was the same picturesque figure whom he had noticed yesterday by the water-seller's stall; and now, as he stood beside the chief, bowing respectfully yet speaking with the freedom of a son, the likeness between the two faces was quite noticeable. In twenty years time, if he lived the same lawless life, the young face would be probably an exact reproduction of the old.

Brancaleone turned his haughty gaze upon the prisoner.

"Your name, signor?" he inquired.

"I am Carlo Poerio Donati," he replied. "For what purpose have you brought me here? If money is your object, I am as poor as any man in Naples."

The chief did not answer, but ordered one of the banditti to search the prisoner. The man obeyed, and handed the contents of Carlo's pockets to the leader, who at once singled out the watch and chain and handed them to Lionbruno.

"This is your share, my son; you have done well," he remarked.

The rest of the things he pushed collectively towards the three men who had helped in the capture; they snatched eagerly at the purse, and grumbled much to find so little money in it.

Meanwhile Carlo stood motionless. Sometimes it seemed to him that the whole scene must be some wild imagination of his own brain. Had he, perhaps, been so overwrought by the hurrying griefs and joys of the past few weeks that his mind had become deranged? Or was he asleep, and was it all a dream arising out of some confused recollections of the struggling he had witnessed in the panic, and fantastically blended with the gipsy camp scene in Carmen! A horrible giddiness seized him--the result, probably, of the blow he had received and the exhausting walk which had followed. He staggered a little, but recovered himself, and once more turned to the chief with the same question,--

"For what purpose have you brought me here?"

"You bear a name, signor, that I once revered," said the chief, coldly; "and for the sake of that I will answer you, though I am not usually questioned by my prisoners. You come here to replenish my purse. There are those who were willing to pay well for my son's little escapade, and your stay here will be quite free of cost to yourself."

"I will double the sum if you will release me at once!" exclaimed Carlo.

But the chief shook his head.

"In the words of the proverb, signor, '_E meglio aver oggi un uovo che dimani una gallina_,' nor do I ever turn from my word. Rocco, make haste with the irons!"

Again that horrible giddy confusion rose in Carlo's brain; he was very dimly aware of what happened during the next few minutes; but the paroxysm passed, and he found that they were leading him through a catacomb, and that Lionbruno, torch in hand, headed the procession. The passage ended in a sort of rude cell, which showed signs of habitation, and here his guards left him, with Lionbruno only as sentinel. He noticed that his arms had been unstrapped, but that there was a chain round his waist to which one foot and one hand were attached, and the weight of iron was so great that he could only move with difficulty. He remembered that Poerio himself had worn such fetters for years, and again the dream-like feeling crept over him. He could hardly persuade himself that he was actually Carlo Donati, the singer, living in the peaceful days of King Humbert.

Meanwhile, the son of the chief was regarding the first prisoner for whose capture he was responsible with something like embarrassment. He had expected on the part of his victim an abject terror, a piteous appeal for mercy, which would effectually have steeled his heart against him, which would have genuinely pleased his pride, and made opportunities for cruelty delightful. But now that he had got his wish, and with exceptional coolness and daring had kidnapped his man in broad daylight and within a few miles of Naples, he found, much to his disgust, that, far from feeling himself a hero, he had a vague sense of discomfort and shame for which he could not in the least account.

"You still feel the effects of the blow, signor?" he inquired, pushing together with his foot the shavings which had accumulated about a carpenter's bench that stood in a corner of the cell. "You had better lie down and rest." He made a gesture towards the pile of shavings, wondering greatly at himself as he did so.

Carlo, however, took no heed of the suggestion; instead, he drew nearer to his jailer.

"I am your prisoner," he said, gravely, "and wholly at your mercy, as you reminded me just now; but we are fellow-men. Do not keep me any longer in the dark! Tell me what Comerio means to do!"

"What is that to us?" replied Lionbruno. "For the present our share of the work is done, and for the rest who cares? In any case Brancaleone will get his money. As for your fate, I don't care a fig about it one way or the other!"

"You are more of a man and less of a brute than you would have me think," replied Carlo; "but it is not of my fate I ask. Tell me what Comerio means to do! I know that he is at the bottom of this plot; I should have known it even had I not heard your words in the carriage!"

"So you did hear them? And that was what made you fight again for your freedom? Take my advice, signor, and do not ask too many questions. _Corpo di Bacco!_ Must you, then, hear all? Well, in two days' time you will have your limbs freed from those irons, or, if not, why, your soul will be freed from your body, which comes to the same thing in the end!"

"Can you not speak plainly? Do you mean that my life depends on Comerio's whim?"

"Not on Comerio at all, but on your sister. Look here, it is all as orderly as a ceremony on a _festa_! Comerio goes to her to-night, wins her consent to leave the country with him, and exchanges a white handkerchief with our Neapolitan agent, who on Wednesday night will pass it on to us, and from that moment you are a free man once more. Or, on the other hand, Madame Merlino refuses her lover's suggestion definitely, Comerio disappears from the scene, having dropped a red handkerchief with our agent, and on Thursday you look your last on this world. That is the matter in a nutshell, signor."

Carlo's heart gave a bound, then a cold chill ran through him; he had indeed grown pretty well accustomed to the idea of possible violence at the hands of Comerio; he knew the Corsican's nature too well to expect him to behave, for instance, like an Englishman or an American; but, although he had never been lacking in courage, it appalled him to think that for two days and two nights he must wait in this dismal cell, and at the end of the time be murdered in cold blood. Yet what was the other alternative? Either Anita must live in sin, or he must die--there was no escape from the dilemma! To desire his own life meant that he desired her moral death; to pray for his own safe-keeping meant that he prayed for her ruin. And yet he clung to life with the strong natural instinct of a healthy man. Only a few weeks ago all had been hard and dreary for him; but now, with Francesca his own once more, with the prospect of fame sweetened by her loving sympathy, with health and vigor, and all the ardent desires of youth, how was it possible for him to be willing to be done to death in this dismal catacomb?

After all, under the circumstances, would it be such a sin on Anita's part? Was not Merlino ill-tempered enough to excuse such a step? Were not his own notions about marriage old-fashioned, as Sardoni had always declared? Thoughts such as these just glanced through his mind, yet gave him but a momentary struggle, because the life he had lived for the last three years made him on this point practically invulnerable. The real anguish lay in the temptation to put Francesca above everything--above his conscience, above his sense of honor and duty. How could he desire that which must condemn her to grief and loneliness, which must cause her the most cruel of shocks and blight her whole life? It was the old, old story of the innocent suffering for the guilty, of the strong bearing the burden of the weak, and his mind revolted from the thought of sorrow visiting the woman he loved best; he turned in horror from the apparent injustice of the law of life.

But while he lay there face downwards on the heap of shavings in dumb, hopeless anguish, there came to him all at once the strangest consciousness that, although he was chained, fettered, and guarded,--a most helpless prisoner, not even knowing where his underground cell could be, yet that in his keeping lay Anita's fate. He knew, as he knew the fact of his own existence, that if he could not bring his will to accept this thought of being murdered, neither would she allow herself to be saved from wrong-doing at the expense of his life. At this very moment she, too, was probably wrestling with deadly temptation. Her love for him so lately awakened would impel her to save him at all costs, while Comerio's power over her would be increased tenfold by this devilish scheme which had been so cunningly laid. Clearly the Corsican was determined to win her, while, for the time, Carlo had staggered under the blow dealt him by his enemy, and was pausing, as men must, to look the evil in the face, to count the cost as they are distinctly told to do, that so they may be ready for the worst.

Anita was even now making her final choice. Whatever the scientific or spiritual explanation of the matter might be, he knew that there was between them some direct power of influence, some will-force, which made her decision depend on his actual readiness for sacrifice. It was clearly impossible that she should be saved by a figment of the imagination--a mere belief in his readiness. He must definitely desire that she might be saved from Comerio, cost him what it would, before she could be so influenced by his devotion as to choose what was really right. It must be a living fact, not a hazy illusion, which would save his sister.

And yet how could he desire that which would bring bitter grief to Francesca, disappointment to all his hopes of work in the world, a sudden end to his career? It would not even be a beautiful and glorious death like his father's or his grandfather's, but a miserable end like some animal in a slaughter-house, a horrible degrading death in a den of robbers without a single friend to comfort him, without one farewell to those he loved! And with that the tears started to his eyes, for he saw once more the carriage just outside the arsenal gates, he remembered how Francesca had smiled at him for the last time when he parted from her on leaving the yacht, and recalled the bright hope which had thrilled in her voice as she spoke that "_A rivederci!_"

"My God!" he cried, "how can I be willing to die! It is more than man can bear!"

Choking with emotion, and with a craving for air, he raised himself a little, turning his face instinctively towards the light.

Apparently Lionbruno added to his character of brigand the more peaceful callings of carpenter and carver, and by some curious irony of fate his carvings were almost all of them ecclesiastical; in this secret retreat of banditti were to be found delicately-carved alms-boxes, destined for some rich cathedral or church; beautifully designed rosaries, which might some day find a home in the private oratory of a wealthy noble; and crosses by the dozen, because for them the market was always good. Carlo was so much accustomed to observe things carefully, that he instinctively took in all these little details, spite of his grievous trouble. Lionbruno had set up a couple of torches in a carved sconce, had lighted a small lamp with a tin reflector, and, seated on a stool beneath it, was working with apparent laziness, but with wonderful effect, on a crucifix. For some minutes Carlo watched in silence the carving of one of the pierced hands, then a flood of light suddenly overpowered his darkness. Was it more than a man could bear, this that had come to him?

He could not submit, no healthy human nature could submit, to objectless pain or needless sacrifice; but could not he, too, seek only to do God's will and quietly take the consequences, facing world, and flesh, and devil, as the Divine Man had done in the strength of dauntless faith?

Yes, he felt that it was possible. There was in the very depths of his being something upon which he could at will fall back, a strength infinitely greater than this craving for the joys of life, and love, and freedom; stronger, too, than that side of his love for Francesca, which made him tremble at the thought of her grief and loneliness.

Carlo was no theologian, probably he could not have put into many-syllabled terms his own firm belief, but he had the insight of a pure heart and the vigor of one who has always tried to conquer his own weaknesses. In a very simple and literal way he believed that God was his Father, not in name only, but in very truth. He knew that he, in common with every human being, had it in his power to live as a son or as an alien; and he knew, by that most sure proof, the experience of daily life, that he could only overcome the cravings of selfishness, by a constant effort to come into closer union with that life-giving Spirit to whom he was truly akin, that so his spirit might not starve, but grow and develop.

The confusion, caused by physical weakness, and the shock of finding himself at the mercy of the merciless, began to fade, as he realized the strength of that wisdom, and love, and peace, which reigns above all the sin of the world, and which is, in truth, "taking it away" by the eternal power of love and sacrifice. He felt a sort of surprise that only a few minutes ago the struggle within him had been so desperate, the revolt against his fate so vehement. After all, what did it matter if, for a time, evil seemed to triumph and might seemed to conquer right? Had it not always seemed to be so since the beginning of the world? And yet had not good steadily advanced, triumphing through apparent defeat? Above all the anguish of his grief, and pain, and loss, there came to him, as there had often come during those three years, a wonderful happiness, the pure delight of realizing the perfect will of God, and with his whole heart trying to do it.

Looked at through this other atmosphere, the future seemed less formidable to meet, though not one whit less important. A wave of horror passed over him as he realized what might be happening at that very moment, and all thought of self died within him, as in terrible reaction, he passed from the vision of perfect Purity and Love to the thought of impurity and sin. In an agony he prayed, willing now to die a thousand deaths rather than that Anita should sink into this black abyss, this hellish contradiction to all love and light.

It mattered nothing to him that many would consider his adhesion to Christ's law as to marriage mere old-fashioned prejudice; it mattered nothing to him that the worldly-wise would say he was throwing away his life for the sake of keeping his sister from the infringement of a conventional law. He knew that it was not so. For since it is the pure in heart who see God, it is also the pure in heart who intuitively shrink from evil, and realize without analyzing the hatefulness of impurity.

So the night hours passed by, and he prayed unceasingly for Nita's safety.

It was not till morning that the thought of his own position returned to him.

"This must be Tuesday," he reflected, as he rose from his rough bed. "To-morrow I shall die."

But the thought had lost its bitterness, for, after all, death would mean victory.