University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
PADRE AMBROSIO'S VISITOR.

Great was the sensation awakened in Val
d'Orazio, and indeed through all the valley districts,
when the rumored murder of the guide,
Nicolo, and a traveller in his company, by the
son of Monna Barbara, became known. The old
guide's long residence in this region, his many
virtues and spotless character, had rendered
him much beloved, and his sudden fate was
deeply deplored by old and young. Of course, in proportion to the praises and regrets uttered
regarding the dead, the maledictions pronounced
upon the unhappy young man, who was charged
with his assassination, were not few nor feeble.
Indeed, before a day had elapsed after the arrest
of Valentine, the swift tongues of evil report
had coupled his name with all that could be
imagined hostile to man and God. He was
magnified into a demon by those who had never
heard his name before, and even his youthful
friends in the village, who had always professed
friendship for him at the merry meetings and
fairs, now scrupled not to talk of the “bad
blood” which could not but be expected in the
son of one so well known for her evil practices
as the witch-woman, who gathered herbs at midnight,
wherewith, doubtless, to concoct poison
for the whole valley.

Thus poor Monna Barbara's supernatural reputation
began to receive new eclat, and even her
elder son, Berthold, though he had so well acted
his part at the examination of Nicolo's body,
came in for a share of the suspicions and abuse
of the more ignorant peasantry, many of whom,
indeed, remembered his strong arm and stout
cudgel that had in former time been somewhat
too familiar with the rabble assailants of his
mother; but Berthold's demeanor on the arrest
of his brother was so subdued and law-abiding,
and his struggle between natural feeling and
stern duty so apparent and meritorious in a
young man, that the good padre and leading
men of Val d'Orazio threw the sacred mantle of
their official countenance over the vine-dresser,
and he walked abroad without a stain.

In the meantime Valentine had been removed
from the cottage of Nicolo, after being obliged
to confront the cold body, and laying his hand
upon its bosom to solemnly protest his innocence,—at
which ceremony, on the present occasion,
much to the astonishment of the gaping
peasants, no new efflux of blood took place from
the wounded side,—and conveyed, under strong
guard, to the cellar of the priest's house, which
being the oldest and strongest stone building in
the hamlet, was chosen as a proper place of confinement
for so dangerous a criminal. Here he
was safely immured, still tightly bound with
cords, after being adjured by the padre to turn

his meditations to the author of heavenly mercy,
as it was more than probable that the dispensers
of justice in his case would not be likely to take
earthly mercy into account. This was good advice,
doubtless, on the part of the priest, but
Valentine, in the state of mind which the consciousness
of his own guiltlessness, joined with
the cruel accusations against him, had thrown
him, was little likely to profit by it. Nevertheless,
in volunteering such counsel, the padre
deemed himself acquitted of his immediate duty;
so, bestowing his benediction upon the two
mountaineers who had been deputed as a guard
over the criminal, outside the cellar, our worthy
village priest proceeded to the more comfortable
upper portion of his snug little parsonage.

The good pastor was a little man, with short,
thick limbs and portly frontal proportions. His
round head was set upon broad shoulders. His
face, amply clothed with firm flesh, rubicund
with health and good living, attested both the
philosophy of its owner and the liberality of his
parishioners. Altogether, Padre Ambrosio was
a model village priest.

He mounted with slow steps the few easy
stairs that conducted to his “library,”—as he
called it, though a very few books found place
on shelf or table,—where a cheerful fire simmered
cozily on the polished hearth; and there, as
he ensconces himself in a large cushioned chair,
we will leave the worthy padre for a brief space,
whilst we recount the incidents which had just
awakened suspicion as to the guilt of our unhappy
friend Valentine, in the cellar beneath.

It will be recollected that the lover of Bianca
had parted from the young maiden in the early
morning, with the intention of proceeding to the
priest's house, to acquaint him with the sudden
fate of his old parishioner; but on leaving Nicolo's
cottage, the youth had just directed his
steps towards his own home, where he found
Berthold just arisen, and Monna Barbara engaged
in preparing the morning repast. Almost
the first rejoinder of the elder brother to the sad
intelligence brought by Valentine, was a rough
denial of belief in its truth, and an intimation
that the youth had dealt foully with the old
guide. An altercation, in the angry style which
Berthold's brutality generally provoked, followed
immediately, in the height of which several villagers,
passing the cottage, were attracted to
overhear the quarrel. Their appearance only
gave looser rein to Berthold's wicked temper,
and redoubling his accusations, he called on
Monna Barbara to bear witness to the threat
which Valentine had uttered the night before in
reply to Nicolo's slighting rebuke of the youth's
pretensions to Bianca's favor. The unhappy
mother was forced by the villagers to reply, and
so deep an impression was made upon the minds
of the latter that they resolved at once to detain
the younger brother a prisoner for examination
by the padre and magistrate. Valentine readily
surrendered himself into the hands of two
mountaineers, who volunteered to guard him
till the padre could be sent for; and leaving
these with their charge in the hut, the rest of the
party repaired at once to the cottage of Nicolo.
The scene which there took place is known to
the reader, so by his leave we will return to the
library in which we left the village priest.

For some minutes after depositing his portly
figure in the arm-chair, the padre remained alone,
until a knock at the door of the apartment interrupted
whatever reveries he might be disposed
to indulge in. In answer to his summons to enter,
the door was softly unclosed, presenting the
figure of a good-featured little woman, who exercised
in his bachelor establishment the triple
vocation of cook, porter, and casiera, or housekeeper.

“Well, Veronica, what is wanted with me?”

“A strange lad at the gate is begging hard to
see your reverence,” replied the casiera. “I
bade him come when your reverence had dined,
for the virgin knows, not a morsel has your
reverence had since morning; but the youth was
so pleading that—”

“Well, well, good Veronica, I suppose we
must admit the lad.” So said the priest, desirous
of interrupting the housekeeper's garrulity.
“But I thought no youth in the village was unknown
to thee, Veronica?”

“Your reverence speaks truth; but this lad is
no villager—nor has he a look like any that I
know,” uttered Veronica, with a puzzled expression
upon her countenance.

“Well, we may soon know his errand—therefore
admit him at once.”

The casiera departed, and in a few seconds
re-appeared in company with a graceful figure,
whose light footsteps scarcely sounded as they
approached. His face was much shaded by a
mountaineer's felt hat, which slouched upon
a finely turned shoulder, half exposed, by the
shifting of a cloak, in which the youth was
wrapped, somewhat back from his compact
frame, that was attired in a jerkin of embroidered

velvet. The good padre half arose from
his arm-chair, so dignified, yet easy, was his visitor's
demeanor, as the housekeeper ushered him
into the apartment, and then at a glance from
her master, respectfully retired, closing the door
behind her.

“My son, what is thy errand with me?”

For a moment after this question, the stranger
remained standing in the middle of the
room, as if undecided what reply to make to
the mild interrogation of the priest. Then, apparently
with a sudden impulse, he drew near
and knelt at the padre's feet, saying at the same
instant, in a voice of remarkable sweetness:

“Father, I have a secret to reveal.”

“Wouldst thou be shriven, my son? If so,
the confessional were more fitting place.”

“Not that—not now,” returned the youth,
hurriedly. “Tell me, holy sir, is there a young
man in this village accused of a terrible crime
of murder?”

“Truly, there is, my son. One who, till now,
has been in good repute among his fellows; but
the crafty are discovered at the last, and—”

“He is innocent—this young man! He has
committed no crime!” interrupted the visitor, in
a quick rejoinder.

“What wouldst thou say, my son? No
crime! Who then did slay the worthy guide,
Nicolo, that last night was full of life as myself?
And the stranger who trusted the unhappy
youth—”

“Father, they were not murdered—it was the
avalanche which overwhelmed them.”

“Nay, my son, that is but the assertion of the
accused, supported by no testimony. But the
avalanche could not have dealt a murderous
stab at poor Nicolo's breast—nor left the traveller's
rich garments in the youth's hands—nor
miraculously spared him alone of all the three.”

“Alas! alas! father, if you would hear the
truth!”

“Speak, then, my son! Gladly would I listen
to aught that might cast a shadow of doubt
upon the young man's guilt.”

“O, I entreat you, believe me!” cried the
strange youth. “Last night there were more
human beings hurried to eternity than those you
deem murdered. Last night, a band of outlawed
men descended to the Huguenots' Altar,
from the mountains, to rob the traveller of whom
you speak. Following closely upon their destined
victims, they shared his sudden fate—all
were overwhelmed by the fearful avalanche!”

“What tale is this, my son?”

“But one escaped—the leader of the outlawed
men, who, snatched from death by the mercy
of Heaven, beheld his companions swept to
their awful doom. He, moreover, saw the traveller
and the two guides buried likewise in the
dreadful snows.”

“Who is this man? Let him come hither.”

“Alas! he is outlawed—a robber!” cried the
youth, sinking his head upon his breast. “He
dare not enter a village lest the laws should
claim him!”

“To what am I listening?” exclaimed the
padre, hastily rising from his seat, leaving his
suppliant kneeling upon the floor. “This is
doubtless some idle story. What! is not the
deadly wound sufficient? And did not the vine-dresser—did
not his own brother first proclaim
the youth's guilt?”

“Berthold?” asked the visitor, hurriedly.

“Ay, Berthold, brother to the accused—the
first to give information of the wretched young
man's threats against Nicolo's life but a few
hours previous to the deed.”

“It is not so! No, no, it surely cannot be,”
cried the stranger, rising quickly to his feet.
“Berthold could not act so wickedly—he would
not do so foul a thing. Father! father!” he
continued in great agitation, following the padre,
who had moved across the room, “I pray you,
condemn not the innocent! I swear to you, on
my eternal soul, and as we shall both meet at
the judgment seat, that what I have said is true,
that the avalanche was alone the cause of death
last night—the avalanche that spared but my
father's life!”

“Thy father, my son! Who, then, art thou?”
cried the priest, suddenly grasping the youth's
hand, and drawing him nearer to himself. The
action caused the slouched mountain hat, which
the visitor had not removed since its entrance,
to fall on one side, and the lad made a sudden
movement to replace it over his forehead; but
the padre said instantly, on remarking for the
first time the rudeness: “Remove thy covering,
youth. Is this meet respect for me?”

The visitor made a hasty motion to obey, and
lifted the hat from his head; but in doing so, he
exposed beneath the thick curls which shaded
his entire brow, a long braid of hair that had
become disengaged, and now fell low upon his
shoulders. Padre Ambrosio's placid face grew
very dark.

“What mummery is this?” he cried, sternly.

“O, forgive, forgive, holy father!” exclaimed
the youth, sinking prostrate upon the floor, and
permitting the false locks that had concealed the
braided hair beneath, to fall entirely off, disclosing
the beautiful face of Francesca, the brigand's
daughter.

Padre Ambrosio started back a pace, and letting
drop the maiden's hand, regarded her with
a look of mingled surprise and alarm. Possibly,
the good priest imagined for a moment that
the evil one was assailing him in the guise of
that dangerous temptation—a lovely woman.
But it was only for an instant that he looked
upon her in doubt, for as she lifted to his own a
countenance full of deep grief, but with a holy
purity in every lineament, while the pleading expression
of her look attested the earnest truth
which animated her heart, the worthy father felt
a strong feeling of pity awakening in his breast
mingled with a desire to penetrate the mystery
of both her appearance and her errand. Long
as he had exercised in that quiet valley the gentle
duties of his pastor's office, and intimately as
he was acquainted with the peasantry for many
leagues around, he remembered not to have beheld
any face resembling that now raised so devoutly
to his own; and he judged at once that
there was much in the young girl's situation that
demanded the sympathy, perhaps the assistance,
of one in his position. Nevertheless, the padre
was not a man to lend too credulous an attention
to appearances alone, and therefore a degree of
caution was mixed with the tenderness of his
reply to the passionate adjuration that had been
uttered by the discovered female.

“I fear me, daughter,” he said, in a low
voice, “that the thoughtlessness of an earthly
love has prompted thee to this imprudent step.
Who, and what thou art, and why the interest
thou showest in the fate of him who is accused
of grievous crime, must be revealed to me, as to
one who claims the right of knowing the sorrows
of those who seek relief at his hands. If
thou hast erred, daughter, but mock me not; if
love for man has made thee forget the modesty
of thy sex, and urged thee to attempt deception,
put forth now, I charge thee, in a servant of
God, and open thy heart to me, albeit it be false
and sinful.”

Thus adjuring her, the padre took both the
hands of Francesca within his own, and gazed
with a benign look into her face. Tears gushed
at once from the maiden's eyes, tears that relieved
her overcharged feelings. She bowed her
forehead upon the priest's hands as he resumed
his seat in the arm-chair, and then commenced a
recital of events and experiences in the past,
such as she had never before poured forth to any
living being. Broken by many sobs, but listened
to with close attention by the padre, whose features,
as the confession proceeded, exhibited a
multitude of emotions, the story of Francesca,
the brigand's child, from her infancy to the
dread night just passed, went on till the early
shadows of a winter's eve began to darken in
the room, and the fire which had been brightly
burning died out upon the hearth.

And when that strange relation was over, and
Francesca's voice no longer audible, the good
father, reverently raising his eyes to Heaven,
murmured a short but earnest prayer, and then,
after laying his hands solemnly upon the maiden's
head, arose from his chair, and going to the
door, called quickly to Veronica, bidding her
hasten and bring to him his heavy cloak and
staff. And in an hour afterwards, Padre Ambrosio
and the seeming youth had passed
through the little hamlet of Val d'Orazio, and
were wending together the lonesome mule-path,
leading to the osteria of Bacco and Brigita.