University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE BRIGAND'S DAUGHTER.

The morning hours wore away; the sunbeams,
after slanting for a brief space, through
the eastward-looking defiles and gorges of the
mountains, withdrawing themselves wholly from
the lower vales, to dwell upon the broad plateaux,
or linger, courtier-like, during all the day,
around the summits of higher Alpine chains.

There was not a sign of life visible about the
osteria of Bacco the innkeeper. The doors remained
close, the windows barred within, and no
form appeared before the rude porch, during the
long hours from daybreak till the sun no longer
shone into the glen. Thus, lonesome and silent,
the mule-path remained till near the middle of
the day, at which time the figure of a man approached
the hostel from the direction of Val
d'Orazio. He paused, in astonishment, as he
remarked the untenanted appearance of the inn,
disclosing, as he looked upwards, the face of
Berthold the vine-dresser.

A couple of well-delivered knocks at the
solidly bound door, failed to arouse the inmates;
but at the third summons the window-shutter
was unbarred, and the beautiful face of Francesca
appeared in the opening.

“In the devil's name,” began Berthold,
roughly, as he beheld the shutters unclosing, but
the sudden apparition of Francesca caused him
to leave unsaid the rest of the sentence; for not
only was the vinedresser startled at seeing the
maiden's face, but its expression, and her manner
as she looked forth, struck the young man
as strangely altered from her usual demeanor.

“Berthold, there is sorrow in this dwelling!”
spake Francesca, slowly, and in low tones. “Go
hence, I pray you, for Bacco keeps no open
house this day.”

“What mean you, Francesca?” cried the
vinedresser, terrified, he knew not why, at the
girl's words. “Is he—dead? Is Brigita—”

“Go hence, Berthold. I must return to my
father. To-morrow come hither, and you shall
know what has happened.”

“The captain, then, is in the house. Why
may I not speak with him, Francesca?”

“Come you here to betray more travellers to
their destruction?” cried the maiden, with sudden
vehemence. “Away, Berthold—away!”

“You have heard, then—you know the traveller's
fate—the murder of Nicolo, and—”

“What is that you would say?” cried Francesca,
starting. “Whose murder? It is false!
My father has committed none!”

“Nay, nay, Francesca—it is not your father—
it is my poor brother who is accused.”

“Your brother! The gentle Valentine! Of
what?”

Berthold felt a pang shoot through him, as
the word “gentle” fell from Francesca's lips,
applied to his hapless brother. It was thus the
world had distinguished between them. The
gloomy youth felt that, triumph as he might
over the innocent Valentine, he could never win
the esteem with which all had hitherto regarded
him whom they now accused of crime. But
envy gave bitterness to his next words.

“The gentle Valentine has proved himself
cruel. He has murdered a fellow-guide and a
traveller.”

“Berthold!” spoke the maiden; and her
steady look, fixed upon the vine-dresser's countenance,
made the guilty man tremble in spite of
his habitual control of emotion. “Berthold!”
she repeated. “Beware how you condemn the
innocent! Nicolo the guide, the traveller of
whom you speak—nay, your brother himself,
were all buried by the avalanche which destroyed
the sons of Bacco.”

“The sons of Bacco! What say you? And
the Captain Tomaso, and the band!”

“My father alone lives of all who went with
him last night, at your ill-omened bidding.
Hasten—if, as you say, your brother is accused
of murder—hasten and reveal the truth. No
human hand destroyed the traveller. It was the
act of God alone!”

The eyes of Francesca, raised upward as she
spoke—her attitude and solemn tone—conspired
to produce a strange effect upon the vinedresser.
His voice in rejoinder exhibited less of confidence—but
assumed a more earnest accent.

“How know you this, Francesca? How did
the Captain Tomaso escape?”

“He was saved by a miracle, entangled in the
knotted branches of a mountain tree, which held
him firmly while the avalanche rushed past. All
were swept away before his eyes—all the comrades—”

“But he saw not the traveller—the guides?”

“He saw the avalanche overwhelm all, and
when the mercy of Heaven had preserved him
from the fearful fate, he returned to this house,
praised be the good God—no longer the captain
of a robber band. You have heard the truth—
haste to your brother!”

“Francesca,” returned Berthold, calmly,
“what you say may be true. But my brother
is in the hands of the law, accused of a double
murder. Who will bear testimony to his innocence?
Who will swear that the avalanche
caused these deaths?”

“My father beheld it.”

“But the Captain Tomaso dare not testify,
even were the testimony of an outlaw admitted.
Your father's life would be forfeit, should he
venture within the village. Is it not so?”

“It is true—too true!” murmured the brigand's
daughter. “But your brother—they will
not, dare not condemn him—”

“All things are against poor Valentine!”
rejoined the dissembling Berthold. “I fear
there is no hope of saving him!”

“He shall be saved!” exclaimed Francesca.
“O, Heaven is just, and will not permit the
innocent to suffer! What says your brother to
the charge?”

“Alas, there is but his single word against all
suspicions,” answered the vinedresser. “It is
in vain, I fear, to hope!”

“Berthold!” suddenly exclaimed the maiden,
who had been for some time regarding the
demeanor of her lover with a scrutinizing look,
“I fear me there is some wicked scheme at work
against your brother. God will discover, if there
be guilty ones who seek his death. But, hasten
you, and say what you have heard. Speak of it
as a rumor—as a dream, if you will! But bid
the unjust villagers beware how they bear false
accusations against the innocent! Hasten, and
return hither to-morrow. Then I will speak
more with you!”

With these words, Francesca, bestowing no
glance of affection upon him for whom she had
the night before avowed her love, hastily closed
the shutter, and Berthold the next instant heard
the wooden bolt replaced in its socket. He
lingered a moment, as in hesitation, and then,
turning away, muttered savagely:

“This girl thinks she may use me as a puppet.
She is repentant, too, forsooth—the brigand's
daughter! But Valentine! How shall his innocence
be made to appear? Not through my
means, or may the fiend seize us both!”

Striding back toward Val d'Orazio, the
gloomy vinedresser thus gave utterance to his
evil thoughts.