6. CHAPTER VI.
FRANCESCA.
Berthold the vine-dresser still remained in
the small room where had taken place his interview
with the brigand leader, and here, in
scarcely the lapse of a minute after the departure
of the father, whom she had followed to the
door, Francesca joined the young man.
She advanced slowly after crossing the threshold,
whilst Berthold who had resumed his stool
at the table, and was puffing the fine cigar bestowed
on him by his late companion, held out
his arms as if to receive an expected embrace.
But the flashing eyes of the young girl gave
little token of fondness, as likewise assuredly did
not the first words she uttered:
“Well—you are here again, with your wicked
information!”
“Sweet Francesca—for whose sake do I bring
news to your father?” asked the vine-dresser,
subduing his usually coarse voice to an intonation,
which was really musical. As he spoke,
he attempted to possess himself of the small,
delicately-moulded hand of the girl, but she repulsed
the motion at once.
“Not for mine—not for my sake, nor my love,
either,” cried the brigand's child, suddenly
breaking forth in an angry tone, though her voice
was still low. “It is your own selfishness and
evil purposes, not love of me, that brought you
here to night.”
“I swear it is my love for you, Francesca, and
nought else;” returned Berthold, with more
feeling than his usual demeanor evinced the
possession of. “I would risk life and salvation
for you, if you would but treat me as a man, and
not as a dog.”
“False, Berthold—you speak not the truth!
Long ago I bade you bring no more tidings to
my father, to lead him out on such errands as
as he undertakes to-night. I have said that it
was base and treacherous in you thus to decoy
the travellers who confided in your character of
an honest mountain guide. Once I thought you
too brave and noble to be guilty of such acts—
but now, Berthold, you make me—hate you!”
As the young girl uttered these words in an
agitated voice, the tears gushed suddenly from
her eyes, across which she dashed her small
hand, as if ashamed of the weakness.
“Hate me, Francesca! O, do not say you
hate me!” cried the vine-dresser, now clasping
her hand in his, and drawing her nigh in spite of
her efforts to prevent him. “I swear to you I
will obey you in whatsoever you command me;
I will be your slave, your dog, if you will but
smile upon me and let me be near you. If it is
treachery for me to serve your father in my vocation
as guide, then bid me leave the village at
once, and join the band—”
“Join the band—O, no, no! Would rather
you would take my father far away from these
mountains and his unhallowed calling! Berthold!
Berthold! have I not told you I am
weary of violence, and rapine, and—”
“Not murder, Francesca!” interrupted the
young man, as he divined what word trembled
upon the girl's lips. “You father, though he
be called Tomaso the Terrible, is not renowned
for deeds of blood. He has not many grievous
sins to answer for!”
“If he has one, it is too much, Berthold! If
he has ever stained his hands with the blood of
his fellow-man, life is scarce long enough for
fitting repentance. O, Berthold, if you really
loved me, you would take my father from these
fearful mountains, where daily and nightly his
life is in constant peril.”
“What would you have me do, Francesca?”
cried the youth. “He will not listen to advice
from me.”
“That is because he trusts you not—because
he despises you, as a spy and a traitor, in spite
of what he gains from your assistance! O, unhappy
that I am, to love one so unworthy even
of a robber's confidence!”
She wept anew at these words, and her bosom
heaved violently beneath the thin muslin over
which was laced her simple boddice. Berthold
looked on her beautiful face with a mingled expression
of passion and fear. He felt that the
girl loved him, but that she likewise regarded
him with no sentiments of true respect. The
latter reflection chafed his gloomy temper.
“Well, well—what is, is!” he muttered, releasing
his hold of Francesea's hand, and mood
ily turning his head. “If I am to be despised
by father and daughter—if I'm fit neither to be
brigand nor guide, then let the fiend make me
what he will, I care not.”
“Shame! shame on you for a man, Berthold!”
cried the daughter of Tomaso, fixing her brilliant
gaze upon the eyes which sought to avoid
them, while the tears streaming over her flushed
cheeks, lent new interest to the loveliness of her
face. “Shame that I should love you, if you
see no path for manhood but the robber's or the
spy's.”
“In the name of all the saints, what would
you have of me?” exclaimed the vine-dresser,
breaking out into a sudden mood of violence.
“Shall I turn soldier, and go to the wars?”
“Ay, that were in the spirit of a man, Berthold!
That were worthy of him whom Francesca
loves!”
“And be killed by a musket-ball in the first
battle, while Francesca remains safe at home, to
smile on new lovers!”
The brigand's daughter was about to reply to
this sneering remark, when she observed the
thin form of the hostess Brigita appear at the
door. Without another word, then, she turned
away from the table and left the vine-dresser to
his reflections.
What the burden of these may be, must be
developed in another chapter; for, soon after
the departure of Francesca, Berthold himself
rose, and hardly exchanging a word with Bacco,
who gave him egress, set out from the hostel,
retracing his steps to the hut in Val d'Orazio.
