University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
REPENTANCE.

A wonderful alteration had taken place in
the looks and feelings of Il capitano Tomaso,
whilome surnamed Spaventevole, or the “The
Terrible.” Whether the spectacle of his comrades
hurled so swiftly and unready into eternity,
and the subsequent night of suffering
which he had passed, had been powerful to uproot
the deep-grown evil of his past associations,
or whether this sudden change was but the result
of years of potent effort on the part of his
daughter, during which many gentle influences,
persuasions and prayers had been apparently
wasted by Francesca, but now seemed crowned
with blessed success at the last; or whether, indeed,
it was not both these causes combined
which stirred the long-dormant better heart of
the brigand, and laid it open to the merciful entrance
of the “dove which beareth healing on
its wings,” need not be sought out by the reader;
suffice it that the man was now broken in spirit,
and imbued with the contriteness that presages
true repentance.

The mental affliction of Tomaso had been severe,
and its traces were strongly marked in his
haggard cheeks and sunken eyes; but, nevertheless,
the wildness of look were no longer visible,
and his mouth exhibited not the muscular
tension that had before united its hard corners.

Beside his bed knelt the Padre Ambrosio, his
hands clasped, while with closed eyes, he re
peated fervently the prayers of the church. At
a little distance, Francesca, likewise now kneeling,
joining with her low-toned voice in the response
of the priest which implored mercy upon
sinful humanity. She had removed the disguise
in which she had visited the priest's house, and
now appeared in her own neat attire.

Tomaso's lips moved, but without sound, in
concert with the padre's supplications. The
brigand lay upon his back, his fingers joined
over his breast, grasping firmly the ivory crucifix
that had depended at the head of the couch.
A smile of hope was blent in his features with
the shadow of remorseful thought, as he recollected
the ruined lifetime he had passed.

Thus the good padre knelt and prayed, and
the repentant robber listened, and his daughter
united her soul in deep devotion, when the door
of the apartment was rudely opened, and
another figure appeared upon the threshold. It
was that of Bacco, the innkeeper, just awakened
from a stupor in which he had been plunged
during the entire day, the effect of enormous
potations of strong wine that he had drank on
receiving intelligence of the sudden fate which
had overtaken his sons. The ostinello's usually
sluggish face presented now a dark and threatening
expression, as it protruded into the room,
whilst, clinging with one hand to the door, he
steadied his reeling frame, almost falling from

intoxication—for though the brutal sensibility of
the man had returned, he was still under the influence
of the poison which had overpowered
him. He had evidently been aroused to recollection
but a short time since, and stimulated by
some uncertain evil purpose, had staggered to
the apartment of Tomaso, without knowledge of
the padre's presence or the scene that was transpiring.

This apartment was one occupied, during
many years, by the girl, Francesca, who there
remained in retirement and comparative security,
while her father, with his band, carried on
their trade of rapine, making their dwelling
in secret caverns far away in the fastnesses of
the mountains. The osteria, seldom the resort
of honest travellers, — inasmuch as the near
neighborhood of Val d'Orazio obviated any necessity
for such persons to stay their journey in
so lonely a spot,—was used by the brigands of
the hill, with whom Bacco and his family were
leagued, as a place of rendezvous prior to or
succeeding the marauding expeditions, whilst the
different classes of smugglers who travelled the
mule-path and its many intersecting defiles, in
pursuance of their vocation, looked upon the
secluded tavern, to whose suspicious character
they were no strangers, as a sung resting-place,
at all times, and often a safe shelter for themselves
and goods, during the violent tempests
that sometimes continued for days to rage furiously
in the rocky passes.

Francesca, protected by her father's influence
and authority among his wild associates, had
been accustomed to consider the inn of Bacco
as her home, since much of her existence from
childhood had been passed in the neighborhood,
and of late years she had resided wholly within
its walls, sometimes assisting the dame Brigita
in her domestic efforts, sometimes occupying
herself in embroidering her father's clothes, or
adorning with the needle her own simple garb,
but oftener absenting herself from the hostel, to
wander in the most inaccessible portion of the
hills, seeking some lonely cove, or silent nook,
where for hours she might dream and sorrow,
unseen by mortal eye. For one dark cloud
hung evermore over the maiden's heart—the
thought of her beloved father's lawless career,
mingled with the memory of a solemn vow
which, when yet a child, she had made on recovering
from an almost fatal sickness. This
was to endeavor by every means to wean her
outlawed parent from his wild habits of life, and
direct his footsteps to the paths of peace and
honor.

For years Francesca had devoted herself to
the good work, but seldom with a promise of
success—for Tomaso was growing daily older
in life and crime, and habits had become with
him indeed a second nature. Nevertheless,
often as he contemplated or returned from his
frequent expeditions, the maiden sought, by
gentlest words and tenderest entreaties, to turn
his feelings in the direction of her own, to make
him sensible of all that he might accomplish and
enjoy in nobler pursuits, and to gain his promise
of a change ere yet it should be too late.

But until now her efforts had been fruitless,
opposed as they had ever been by the influence
of old associations and her father's daily intercourse
with the outlawed men who called him
leader. With these wild beings, Francesca
shrank from intercourse, and they stood in too
much awe of their captain ever to attempt unbidden
familiarity. One person alone of those
who visited the osteria, had the maiden ever
looked with a feeling akin to that which she
bore her father—this person was the vine-dresser,
Berthold.

Berthold had, a year previous to the time of
which we write, encountered Francesca in one
of her lonely wanderings, on an occasion when,
seeking shelter from a sudden storm, she had
imissed her way in a labyrinth of rocky defile far
n the mountain's bosom. The young man, albeit
his moody nature was seldom attracted by
female beauty, could not but be struck with the
grace and loveliness of the strange maiden,
who, as he well knew, was no dweller in the
neighboring Val d'Orazio. He conducted her
safely to the osteria of the mule-path where he
had often before been a transient caller, in his
mountain excursions; and it was not long before,
after several succeeding visits, he began to
awaken a tender interest in Francesca's breast,
which he returned as strongly as his rude nature
was capable of doing. Some months, however,
elapsed before Berthold became aware of the relation
in which the young girl stood to Tomaso,
whose profession he very well knew; and when
he did learn the fact, it was only to avail himself
of it by soon instituting a close connection
between himself and the brigand captain, in
which, probably actuated by a share of the
plunder,—but, to do him justice, still more by
his affection for Francesca, — the vine-dresser
took upon himself the part of a decoy or spy, to

give information to the robbers of such travellers
as passing through the Alpine districts,
might offer to these lawless men an opportunity
of sudden assault and pillage.

Strong as was the love which had begun to
develop itself in the passionate nature of Francesca,
it received a sudden shock when she became
aware of the dishonorable office Berthold
had accepted. Her first impulse was to banish
him at once from her presence, even though her
heart should break in the effort; but when the
vine-dresser, with words of earnest devotion, declared
to her that nought but his love for her inspired
him, that he might gain her father's favor,
and an opportunity for more frequent interviews,
the woman's heart of his hearer almost forgot
its better instincts, and she half pardoned Berthold
even while she condemned. But, alas!
subsequent incidents began slowly to disclose
before the maiden's purer vision, much in the
character of him she loved to fill her with the
saddest forebodings. Violence, selfishness and
malignity began at times to thrust their serpent-heads
out from the rosy garland with which her
trusting fancy had crowned the forehead of her
lover. The affection which she could not check
became a pain instead of a joy, and she had
reached a state of mind when she dreaded,
whilst anxiously looking for, each interview with
the vine-dresser, when that terrible event that
ended forever her father's connection with his
robber band, terminated likewise in Francesca,
the struggle of her duty with her feelings.

Therefore, if since her return with Padre Ambrosio,
the thought of Berthold mingled with
her prayers, it was in supplication that the God
who protected her would mercifully change the
heart of him she had loved, and would give her
meanwhile strength to bear the wreck of all her
earthly hopes, and to devote herself henceforth
to the saving of her father's soul. Therefore
she implored of Divine Goodness a fortitude
that would enable her to wrest for this sacred
purpose, all earthly passion from her heart.

But while the maiden thus prayed, the fierce
eyes of Bacco glared upon her from the threshold,
and a hoarse oath broke from the innkeeper's
lips, as his drunken senses became half
aware of the unusual exercises that engrossed
her attention.

“Ho! ho!” laughed the ruffian, savagely,
staggering forward a pace. “Captain Tomaso,
bold comrade, what dost thou with the priest?
Pretty Francesca, where got ye this shaven-head
for a lover?”

The brigand's daughter shrank fearfully from
the innkeeper's brutal gaze encountering her
startled look, and the captain himself half
started from his pillow, a gleam of the old light
darting from his eyes; but Padre Ambrosio,
casting but a glance at the intruder, reclosed his
eyes, and pressing his clasped hands against
those of Tomaso, in gentle rebuke, continued in
a louder tone than he had before used to pour
forth his prayer for the repentant man. The
solemn litany proceeded, the priest's voice filling
the apartment, the maiden's low but distinct
accents uttering the fervent responses.

It was a singular scene, as disclosed in the
light of a single lamp which cast its faint rays
upon the pale features of Tomaso, the quiet
countenance of the priest, and Francesca's beautiful
though agitated face. It was strange to
hear those clear-toned orisons arising, to behold
the kneeling figures, the remorseful man of
crime clasping his ivory crucifix, and then to
mark the rough form of the oste Bacco, his
stolid lineaments lit with a dubious expression
of mingled fierceness, fear and hesitation. Such
a picture might. Salvator have sketched to inspire
after ages with strange speculations as to
its mysterious significance.

“What, ho! Tomaso!”

No answer returned the innkeeper's hoarse exclamation.
The prayer still went on—the priest
took no note of the interruption.

“I'll have no preaching in my house!—dost
hear me, girl?” cried the ruffian, with another
oath; and reeling forward he grasped roughly
the shoulder of Francesca.

Tomaso at this movement, which he was the
first to behold, strove to raise himself, but was
pressed back by the priest's hand.

“My son, compose thyself!” whispered the
unmoved padre, and then slowly turning his
head, he fixed his gaze upon the innkeeper.
Bacco seemed about to speak again; but the
priest rising calmly, took from the captain's
hand the crucifix, and lifted it suddenly above
his head.

“Wretched man!” spoke the padre, in a tone
of sternness, before which the drunken Bacco
appeared to recoil at once, “wouldst thou insult
thy God?”

Saying this, he advanced towards the innkeeper,
still elevating the sacred emblem on
which the awful scene of Christ's martyrdom
was carved in the white ivory.

Bacco's sodden intellect, brutalized by intoxication,

was no proof against the severe look and
stern voice of Padre Ambrosio. At once all
the terrors of the church which, brigand and
sinner as he was, he yet, in common with his
countrymen, invested with awful powers, seemed
arrayed against him. The words of the priest,
as the latter lifted the cross, alarmed the superstition
of his nature. He shrieked rather than
cried out, at the same instant sinking on his
knees, and trembling throughout his massive
frame:

“Pardon! pardon! holy father!”

“Rather should I pronounce anathema upon
thee, child of perdition!” returned the priest,
perceiving the terror which his words had created;
“rather should I curse thee, who comest
hither to disturb the sacrament of God!—the
confession of a repentant sinner. Hence!
avaunt! ere the malediction of the church be
hurled against thee!”

The padre fixed his unmoving gaze upon the
wretched innkeeper, who quailed before its intensity,
and grovelling for a moment at the feet
of his rebuker, turned away and dragged himself
to the door and over the threshold.

“Remain thou there!” then said the priest,
“whilst I implore pardon for thy crime!”

Bacco, now appearing to have recovered in a
measure from his drunken insanity, obeyed the
stern command like a child who dreads its parent's
wrath. Padre Ambrosio then kneeling in
the middle of the apartment, between the crouching
innkeeper and Francesca, resumed his prayer
to Heaven, mingling with his appeal in behalf of
Tomaso, a supplication for the wretched man
who had just been stricken like a weed to the
earth—an evidence of the mysterious power and
authority wielded by that church of which the
village pastor was but the humblest instrument.

The prayer concluded, and absolution extended
to the repentant Tomaso, Padre Ambrosio
rose to depart from the osteria, not however before
Bacco had humbly entreated him to offer
prayers for the repose of his two sons, swept to
a terrible fate by the last night's catastrophe.
The priest, with a few words of solemn warning
to the man himself, promised his intercessions,
and then taking leave of Francesca, prepared
for his homeward walk.

And as the good padre took his way from the
lonely hostel, and ascended the mule-path towards
the rude bridge leading to Val d'Orazio,
he murmured to himself in a low voice:

“This innocent youth must not be sacrificed!
It is all true which the maiden spoke, and the
young man must be saved.”