University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
NICOLO'S PARTING—THE ACCUSATION.

Bianca had watched throughout the long
night at the cottage casement, her bosom swelling
with anxiety, and here eyes dimmed with
tears. Solemn indeed was such a night vigil,
with only the yellow moon and the great mountain-peaks
of eternal snow looking coldly down
upon her devotion. But the long hours passed
away, and yet the straining gaze of the maiden
discerned no human form upon the lonesome
mountain path. At length, near the daybreak,
when the low beams of the setting moon slanted
feebly over the high glaciers, Bianca fancied she
could discover a slow-moving object descending
toward the valley. At first she could distinguish
no figure, but as the form drew near the opening,
and entered into the light reflected from the cottage
lantern, she recognized at once her lover,
Valentine, and her quick instinct as readily informed
her that the burden he bore was her
grand-father. She needed no more, but darting
from the cottage, ran rapidly to meet them.

“My father! O, Valentine—my father!”

“Hush! let us reach the house! He is,
thank heaven, only fainting!”

Old Nicolo was borne as soon as possible to
the couch which he had pressed, man and boy,
for sixty years. For many minutes after, he
exhibited no sign of life, other than the low
moanings Valentine had heard before. But,
when, after repeated applications of warm cloths,
and the genial temperature of the room had
diffused a little life through his frame, the flask
of spirit was once more applied to his lips, the
aged hunter appeared to revive. His eyes slowly
opened, and he rested their feeble glance alternately
upon Bianca and Valentine.

“My father! O speak to me—to your
Bianca!”

A smile stole very faintly over the old man's
features. At that moment returning consciousness
was recalling all the events of the night,
slowly and dimly, but yet with sad distinctness.
Valentine's hand was clasping his, and he pressed
it feebly, as his gaze was fixed for a moment
on the youth. Then he murmured:

“The traveller—”

“Alas!” was all that Valentine could reply.

A shadow fell on the old guide's brow, as he
seemed to divine all the significance of that single
exclamation.

“But you are saved, dear father—you are—”

Again the eyelids of the aged hunter drooped,
and a deadly paleness succeeded to the faint flush
which had for a few moments overspread his
countenance. Bianca fell on her knees beside
the bed, and clasping her grand-father's hand
called his name in a tone of anguish.

But Nicolo's eyes opened once more, and now
entire recognition appeared in their glance. The
smile stole gently over his features, and the
gaze again sought the faces of those beside him.
It sat fondly on Bianca—kindly, gratefully on
Valentine.

Then again the low moan was heard, and the
next moment all was over with Nicolo the hunter.

Morning broke over the village of Val d'Orazio,
and the sun arose grandly, gilding the lofty
summits crowned with ice, and the fields below
mantled with unbroken snow.

Morning glimmered through the window of
Nicolo's desolate cottage, casting its first gray
beams on the ashen face of death. The sun,
that had been wont to steal joyously into that
casement, falling upon the happy brow of the
early-risen hunter, and playing, as if in gladness,
with the lovely face of Bianca, as she made ready
the morning meal, now seemed as if loth to enter
with his garish beams into that house of sorrow.
But his rays stirred not the mourners at
that couch where reposed all that remained of
Nicolo. Kneeling side by side, their hands clasping
the cold fingers of the dead, Valentine and
Bianca heeded not the approach of day, till the
broad light fell around them, and warned them
that life was yet in the world, life with its duties,
and its realities.

Bianca's tears were dry, for the strong heart
of a woman was in her breast, and as she rose
with Valentine from beside the corpse, she felt
that, at least for a season, she must seal that
fountain whose overflow can alone relieve the
spirit bowed by sorrow. The woe must lie for
a time heavy within her breast, until the form of
him whom she had long regarded as a father,
should be laid forever in the grassy churchyard,
whither she might then steal silently, and weep
in secret over his grave. But now she must
nerve her maiden's heart for the last duties which
the living owe to the departed.

Therefore no tear was in the maiden's eye, as
she spoke calmly to Valentine upon the course
necessary to pursue in reference to the sudden
death of Nicolo. Many she well know would
mourn her grand-father's fate; many with whom
for half a century he had held almost daily intercourse.
Far and near, through all the valley
and mountain routes within a score of leagues,
Nicolo's name had been long familiar to the inhabitants
as a trusty guide and bold mountaineer.
And during all his life, perhaps, the
good man had made no enemy, save only those
unhappy natures who are enemies to aught that
is good.

It was, however, at first, and above all things
necessary, that the padre should be advised of
the death of his parishioner, and that explanation
should be immediately made to him concerning
the sudden demise of Nicolo, in order that the
misfortune of the old guide's departure from this
world without the consolation of the viaticum
might be no bar to his being laid in ground
blessed by the priest; likewise that proper measures
should be taken to the end that prayers for
the deceased should at once be offered up in the
village chapel. These pious commissions Valentine
at once took upon himself to perform,
and then, after a sorrowful embrace of Bianca, as
they stood beside the cold remains of her grandsire,
he departed from the cottage, just as the
full light of the arisen sun was streaming through
the valley pass, which he had traversed so lately
with the form of him who was now no more.

Bianca knelt a few moments by the couch,
murmuring a simple but beautiful prayer, which
affection for her grand-father had made a daily
orison. But, alas! it implored protection
through the day, and a safe return to his home
at night, for him whose cold form would soon be
borne away from that home, to return no more
forever.

The maiden rose again, but Valentine was no
longer at her side, and the sense of loneliness
came terribly over her. Nicolo had been her
friend and protector since childhood; for her
parents were taken ere she could well articulate
their names, and thereupon Bianca had been
accustomed to look upon the old hunter as uniting
in his gentle solicitude the care of both
father and mother. True she had one more relative,
a sister of Nicolo, who dwelt in the next
valley, where she had been left a widow many
years before, remaining in possession of a little
cottage and plat of ground which afforded her a
scant but secure subsistence. The hunter,
though on kindly terms with his relative, had not
opposed her often-reiterated desire to continue in
occupation of the little property left by her husband;
and therefore the good Agata had never
become an inmate of her brother's more commodious
cottage in the Val d'Orazio. Consesequently
Bianca, though she often visited her
aunt, was not accustomed to regard her with the
affectionate interest which she felt for old
Nicolo.

But now, with the consciousness of her unprotected
situation, the thought of Agata mingled in
Bianca's mind with that of Valentine; and the
maiden resolved, as soon as the latter should
return, to engage the services of one of the villagers
to convey intelligence of Nicolo's death to
his only sister. This assisted somewhat to
soothe the feeling of abandonment which Bianca
experienced, and she awaited in calmness the
return of her lover.

In the meantime, as well as she was able, she
disposed the couch on which Nicolo lay, crossed
the old hunter's hands over his heart, and placed
within the rigid fingers a small wooden crucifix
which was usually hung over his head. There
were no flowers now in the little garden plat outside
the cottage, or Bianca would soon have
decked the couch with fragrant emblems of immortal
bloom; but she sprinkled over it in pious
reverence, some water which the priest had lately
“blessed” for Nicolo, and lit a short piece of
“holy candle” carefully preserved since the last
candlemass day, when it was brought from the
village church. This she placed at Nicolo's
head, where its faint rays, mingling with the sunbeams,
might fall upon his reverend brow.

As Bianca thus occupied herself, she heard
the sound of voices at the cottage door, and immediately
after a quick knock. She hastened to
admit the visitors, and discovered that a crowd
of villagers were gathered around the little
paling that half-enclosed the house. The foremost
of these, and the one who had knocked,
was Berthold, and close after him came Monna
Barbara. Several neighbors followed hard behind,
to gain admittance.

There was strong sympathy visible in the
countenances of the neighbors, coupled with a
strange expression, as of mingled horror and indignation.
Berthold the vine-dresser advanced
toward the couch, and in so doing, his glance
fell upon the sable mantle of the lost traveller,
which hung across a table near the wall. At
this sight, he exchanged a look with the neighbor
who entered behind him, and immediately a
murmur ran through the group at the door.
Bianca gazed anxiously at the vine-dresser, startled
at his singular demeanor.

Many people now entered the room, and
thronged about the bedside. But the maiden
grew more alarmed, as she noticed the silence
which they preserved, and the mysterious glances
passing from one to another. At length one
spoke—it was a peasant who occupied the cottage
nearest on the road to the hamlet:

“Poor Nicolo!” he said, and then, “It was a
foul deed!”

“I will not believe he is guilty!” exclaimed
the old woman, Barbara, as if in response.
“God will prove him innocent!”

The neighbor only answered by pointing to
the cloak which lay upon the table.

“Who is guilty? Of what deed speak ye?”
cried Bianca, rushing forward, her heart sinking
with the prescience of some new calamity about
to fall upon it.

“Alas! alas!” murmured Berthold, hiding his
face, as he turned away.

“Poor youth! he is stricken with shame and
sorrow!” whispered one of the peasants to a
companion. “His own brother!”

“In the name of heaven of what are ye speaking?”
cried Bianca, wildly, looking from one
pale face to another among the group. “What
would ye say?”

“That your poor grandsire has been—murdered!”
returned a peasant, with horror depicted
strongly on his visage.

“Murdered! 'tis false! murdered? By
whom?”

“O, wretched Valentine!” murmured Berthold,
in a broken voice, his face still buried in
his hands.

“Valentine!” exclaimed Bianca, in a voice
startlingly clear, whose tones thrilled through
the strong men present—“Valentine!” she
echoed, raising her hands to her forehead, as if
to shut out a fearful sight.

“O, listen not! believe them not!” cried Monna
Barbara, struggling forward to the side of
Bianca. “He is innocent—Valentine is
innocent!”

“I do not believe them!” murmured the
maiden, in tones grown suddenly calm, while
the clairvoyant light of confiding affection shone
from her truthful eyes. “No!” she continued,
sinking by the couch of Nicolo, and closing her
hands devoutly, whilst her gaze was lifted toward
heaven—“O sanctified spirit! thou knowest
that Valentine could never raise his arm
against thy beloved life! Thou knowest that
Valentine is innocent!”

“Thank God—thank God!” cried Monna
Barbara, who seemed to recognize in this invocation
of the young maiden a sufficient refutation
of all suspicion against her son. But the stern

voice of an aged peasant near her rejoined
solemnly:

“Where, then, is the traveller whom the young
man led into the mountains? Did not many
among us behold yonder mantle worn by the
stranger who last night passed through the
village?”

A murmur of assent from many present answered
the old man's adjuration.

“But my grand-father died here, in Valentine's
arms,” exclaimed Bianca. “Nicolo recognized
him kindly with his last glance.”

“O, unhappy youth! Did he then receive
the last breath of his victim?” cried the aged
peasant, with a look of horror.

“It is false! ye are all mad!” cried Monna
Barbara, breaking forth violently, her wrinkled
hands flung upward in wild agitation. “Valentine
would harm no living thing.”

“Stay, wretched mother!” said the peasant.
“Answer me, if what I speak be true. Did not
your wicked son threaten Nicolo's life ere he sat
out on this ill omened journey? Speak, young
man!” he continued, turning to Berthold—for
Monna Barbara replied not—“Did not your
brother swear to revenge himself on him who
now lies there?”

“Spare me!” murmured Berthold, wildly.

“Answer me, on your soul I charge you!”

“He threatened not vengeance—he but—”

“His words, young man?”

“He but said when Nicolo answered him,”
spoke the crafty vine-dresser, with well-counterfeited
reluctance. “He but said, `The time will
come when you shall repent your words!' ”

A long silence followed this reply, which was
broken by Bianca; when she had recovered in a
measure from a sort of stupor into which the reiterated
charges against her lover had thrown her
senses. “It was Valentine,” she said, looking
around at the horror-stricken faces of the peasants—“It
was he that you accuse, who rescued
Nicolo from the avalanche which crushed him—
who brought him to his home—who received his
last sigh, and prayed with me when his spirit
had departed!”

“Let us examine the body!” said the old
peasant, abruptly, as Bianca ceased speaking.
“Perchance the marks of violence are upon it!”

This proposition was at once assented to by
looks of satisfaction, and the aged peasant, gently
taking Bianca's hand, led her from the couch to
another part of the room, whither Monna Barbara
slowly followed her.

The garb which Nicolo wore was still damp
from the snow that had encrusted it, though his
outer jerkin had been removed by Valentine
when the old hunter was laid upon his bed.
The vest and shirt had been opened at the
breast, to enable the young man to rub the chilled
flesh, and bathe it with spirits from his flask.
All other portions of the guide's attire remained
as he had himself donned them on the previous
day.

But, what was the horror of the old peasant
on unlacing the thongs which fastened the leathern
vest to the leggins of like fabric which formed
Nicolo's nether garments, to discover dark
stains upon the brown linen—at the same instant
that another villager, withdrawing his hand hastily
from the old guide's naked side, held it up
in the broad sunlight, disclosing the fingers crimson
with blood.

Bianca, who had anxiously watched the movements
of those around the couch, uttered a loud
shriek as she beheld the gory hand raised aloft,
as in solemn confirmation of her lover's crime.
Monna Barbara screamed also, and attempted
to rush forward, but was withheld by Berthold,
who, with face paler than that of the corpse, regarded
the action of the villager.

“Mother! what think ye of your Valentine
now?” hissed the malignant brother, in a hoarse
whisper.

“Let her come forward!” exclaimed the old
peasant, who seemed to take the lead of the rest,
and who had noticed the motion of Berthold, in
restraining Monna Barbara. “Let her approach!
Here is the murderer's mark!”

As he spoke, he laid bare the hunter's side,
discovering a small, uneven wound, clotted with
extravasated blood, which had evidently been
inflicted by a blunt iron weapon, and, lacerating
some interior artery, had caused an inward
hemorrhage, resulting in the sufferer's death.

“The blow was dealt with a hunter's staff!”
resumed the peasant. “It was an assassin's
stroke!”

The old man turned to Bianca, as he uttered
these words; but the maiden heard them not.
She lay prostrate upon the floor, stricken insensible
by the cruel thought of her lover's guilt,
apparently so terribly made manifest.

At this moment, a new group entered the cottage,
among which was the padre of the village
and the youth Valentine; but the latter was
bound with cords, and guarded by the sturdy
mountaineers.