 | CHAP. V. Romance of travel |  |
5. CHAP. V.
“Take a lesson in flattery from Percie, Mr. Tyrell,
and be satisfied with your bliss in my society without
asking for explanations. I would fain have the
use of my tongue (to swallow) for ten minutes, and
I see you making up your mouth for a question.
who fries, boils and stews in a kitchen with a river
for a chimney.”
“Precisely what I was going to ask you. I was
wondering how you cook without smoking your
snow-white roof.”
“Yes, the river is a good slave, and steals wood
as well. We have only to cut it by moonlight and
commit it to the current.”
“The kitchen is down stream, then?”
“Down stream; and down stream lives jolly Perdicaris
the cook, who having lost his nose in a sea-fight,
is reconciled to forswear sunshine and mankind,
and cook rice for pirates.”
“Is it true then that Yvain held command on the
sea?”
“No, not Yvain, but Tranchcœur—his equal in
command over this honest confederacy. By the
way, he his your countryman, Mr. Tyrell, though he
fights under a nom de guerre. You are very likely
to see him, too, for his bark is at Trieste, and he is
the only human being besides myself (and my company
here) who can come and go at will in this
robber's paradise. He is a lover of mine, parbleu!
and since Yvain's death, heaven knows what fancy
he may bring hither in his hot brain! I have armed
Percie for the hazard?”
The thin nostrils of my friend from Cranbourne
abruptly alluded to, and there was that in his face
which would have proved, against all the nurses'
oaths in christendom, that the spirit of a gentleman's
blood ran warm through his heart. Signor Tranchcœur
must be gentle in his suit, I said to myself
or he will find what virtue lies in a hair-trigger!
Percie had forgot to eat since the mention of the
pirate's name, and sat with folded arms and his right
hand on his pistol.
A black slave brought in an omellette souffleé, as
light and delicate as the chef-d'œuvre of an artiste in
the Palais Royal. Iminild spoke to him in Greek,
as he knelt and placed it before her.
“I have a presentiment,” she said, looking at me
as the slave disappeared, “that Tranchcœur will
be here presently. I have ordered another omelette
on the strength of the feeling, for he is fond of it,
and may be soothed by the attention.”
“You fear him, then?”
“Not if I were alone, for he is as gentle as a woman
when he has no rival near him—but I doubt
his relish of Percie. Have you dined?”
“Quite.”
“Then come and look at my garden, and have a
peep at old Perdicaris. Stay here, Percie, and finish
your grapes, mon-mignon! I have a word to say
to Mr. Tyrell.”
We walked across the platform, and passing between
two of the sparry columns forming its boundary,
entered upon a low passage which led to a large
opening, resembling singularly a garden of low
shrubs turned by some magic to sparkling marble.
Two or three hundred of these stalagmite cones,
formed by the dripping of calcareous water from
the roof, (as those on the roof were formed by the
same fluid which hardened and pondered,) stood
about in the spacious area, every shrub having an
answering cone on the roof, like the reflection of the
same marble garden in a mirror. One side of this
singular apartment was used as a treasury for the
spoils of the band, and on the points of the white
cones hung pitchers and altar lamps of silver, gold
drinking-cups, and chains, and plate and jewellery
of every age and description. Farther on were piled,
in unthrifty confusion, heaps of velvets and silks, fine
broadcloths, French gloves, shoes and slippers,
brocades of Genoa, pieces of English linen, damask
curtains still fastened to their cornices, a harp and
mandolin, cases of damaged bons-bons, two or three
richly-bound books, and, (last and most valuable in
my eyes,) a minature bureau, evidently the plunder
of some antiquary's treasure, containing in its little
drawers antique gold coins of India, carefully dated
and arranged, with a list of its contents half-torn
from the lid.
“You should hear Tranchcœur's sermons on
these pretty texts,” said the countess, trying to thrust
open a bale of Brusa silk with her Turkish slipper.
“He will beat off the top of a stalagmite with his
sabre-hilt, and sit down and talk over his spoils and
the adventures they recall, till morning dawns.”
“And how is that discovered in this sunless
cave?”
“By the perfume. The river brings news of it,
and fills the cavern with the sun's first kisses. Those
violets `kiss and tell,' Mr. Tyrell! Apropos des
bottes, let us look into the kitchen.”
We turned to the right, keeping on the same level,
and a few steps brought us to the brow of a considerable
descent forming the lower edge of the carpeted
platform, but separated from it by a wall of close
stalactites. At the bottom of the descent ran the
river, but just along the brink, forming a considerable
crescent, extended a flat rock, occupied by all the
varied implements of a kitchen, and lighted by the
glare of two or three different fires blazing against
the perpendicular limit of the cave. The smoke of
these followed the inclination of the wall, and was
swept entirely down with the current of the river.
At the nearest fire stood Perdicaris, a fat, long-haired
and sinister-looking rascal, his noseless face glowing
with the heat, and at his side waited, with a silver
dish, the Nubian slave who had been sent for
Tranchcœur's omelette.
“One of the most bloody fights of my friend the
rover,” said Iminild, “was with an armed slaver,
from whom he took these six pages of mine. They
have reason enough to comprehend an order, but
too little to dream of liberty. They are as contented
as tortoises, ici-bas.”
“Is there no egress hence but by the iron door?”
“None that I know of, unless one could swim up
this swift river like a salmon. You may have surmised
by this time, that we monopolize an unexplored
part of the great cave of Adelsberg. Common
report says it extends ten miles under ground,
but common report has never burrowed as far as
this, and I doubt whether there is any communication.
Father Krakenpate's clock conceals an entrance,
discovered first by robbers, and handed
down by tradition, heaven knows how long. But—
hark! Tranchcœur, by heaven! my heart foreboded
it!”
I sprang after the countess, who, with her last
exclamation, darted between two of the glittering
columns separating us from the platform, and my
first glance convinced me that her fullest anticipations
of the pirate's jealousy were more than realised.
Percie stood with his back to a tall pillar on the
farther side, with his pistol levelled, calm and
unmoveable as a stalactite; and, with his sabre
man in a sailor's press, was arrested by Iminild
in the act of rushing on him. “Stop! or you die,
Tranchcœur!” said the countess, in a tone of trifling
command. He is my guest!”
“He is my prisoner, madame!” was the answer
as the pirate changed his position to one of perfect
repose and shot his sabre into his sheath, as if a brief
delay could make little difference.
“We shall see that,” said the countess, once more'
with as soft a voice as was ever heard in a lady's
boudoir; and stepping to the edge of the platform'
she touched with her slipper a suspended gong,
which sent through the cavern a shrill reveberation
heard clearly over the rushing music of the river.
In an instant the click of forty muskets from the
other side fell on our ears; and, at a wave of her
hand, the butts rattled on the rocks, and all was still
again.
“I have not trusted myself within your reach,
Monsieur Tranchcœur,” said Iminild, flinging herself
carelessly on an ottoman, and motioning to Percie
to keep his stand, “without a score or two of
my free riders from Mount Semering to regulate
your conscience. I am mistress here, sir! You
may sit down!”
Tranchcœur had assumed an air of the most gentlemanly
tranquillity, and motioning to one of the
smoking in the countess's presence, and filled the
enamelled bowl with Shiraz tobacco.
“You heard of Yvain's death?” she remarked
after a moment passing her hand over her eyes.
“Yes, at Venice.”
“With his dying words, he gave me and mine in
charge to this Englishman. Mr. Tyrell, Monsieur
Tranchcœur.”
The pirate bowed.
“Have you been long from England?” he asked
with an accent and voice that even in that brief
question, savoured of the nonchalant English of the
West End.
“Two years!” I answered.
“I should have supposed much longer from your
chivalry in St. Etienne, Mr. Tyrell. My countrymen
generally are less hasty. Your valet there,” he
continued, looking sneeringly at Percie, “seems as
quick on the trigger as his master.”
Percie turned on his heel, and walked to the edge
of the platform as if uneasy at the remark, and Iminild
rose to her feet.
“Look you, Tranchcœur! I'll have none of your
sneers. That youth is as well-born and better bred
than yourself, and with his consent, shall have the
authority of the holy church ere long to protect my
property and me. Will you aid me in this, Mr.
Tyrell?”
“Willingly, countess!”
“Then, Tranchcœur, farewell! I have withdrawn
from the common stock Yvain's gold and jewels,
and I trust to your sense of honour to render me at
Venice whatever else of his private property may
be concealed in the island.”
“Iminild!” cried the pirate, springing to his feet,
“I did not think to show a weakness before this
stranger, but I implore you to delay!”
His bosom heaved with strong emotion as he
spoke, and the colour fled from his bronzed features
as if he were struck with a mortal sickness.
“I cannot lose you, Iminild! I have loved you
too long. You must—”
She motioned to Percie to pass on.
“By heaven, you shall!” he cried, in a voice suddenly
become hoarse with passion; and reckless of
consequences, he leaped across the heaps of cushions,
and, seizing Percie by the throat, flung him with
terrible and headlong violence into the river.
A scream from Iminild, and the report of a musket
from the other side, rang at the same instant
through the cavern, and as I rushed forward to
seize the pistol which he had struck from Percie's
hand, his half-drawn sabre slid back powerless into
the sheath, and Tranchcœur dropped heavily on his
knee.
“I am peppered, Mr. Tyrell!” he said, waving me
boy, if you care for him! A curse on her German
wolves!”
Percie met me on the bridge, supporting Iminild,
who hung on his neck, smothering him with kisses.
“Where is that dog of a pirate?” she cried, suddenly
snatching her ataghan from the sheath and
flying across the platform. “Tranchcœur!”
Her hand was arrested by the deadly pallor and
helpless attitude of the wounded man, and the weapon
dropped as she stood over him.
“I think it is not mortal,” he said, groaning as he
pressed his hand to his side, “but take your boy
out of my sight! Iminild!”
“Well, Tranchcœur!”
“I have not done well—but you know my nature
—and my love! Forgive me, and farewell! Send
Bertram to stanch his blood—I get faint! A little
wine, Iminild!”
He ook the massive flagon from her hand, and
drank a long draught, and then drawing to him a
cloak which lay near, he covered his head and dropped
on his side as if to sleep.
Iminild knelt beside him and tore open the shirt
beneath his jacket, and while she busied herself in
stanching the blood, Perdicaris, apparently well prepared
for such accidents, arrived with a surgeon's
probe, and, on examination of the wound, assured
her hands in the flagon of wine, she threw a cloak
over the wet and shivering Percie, and, silent with
horror at the scene behind us, we made our way
over the bridge, and in a short time, to my infinite
relief, stood in the broad moonlight on the portico
of Myneer Krakenpate.
My carriage was soon loaded with the baggage
and treasure of the countess, and with the same
swift horses that had brought us from Planina, we
regained the post-road, and sped on toward Venice
by the Friuli. We arrived on the following night
at the fair city so beloved of romance, and with
what haste I might, I procured a priest and married
the Countess Iminild to gentleman Percie.
As she possessed now a natural guardian, and a
sufficient means of life, I felt released from my death
vow to Yvain, and bidding farewell to the “happy
couple,” I resumed my quiet habit of travel, and
three days after my arrival at Venice, was on the
road to Padua by the Brenta.
| CHAP. V. Romance of travel | |