University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE VINE-DRESSER'S TREACHERY.

While the events we have described were
transpiring under the observation of Tomaso
and his daughter, as well as the soldier, Valentine,
other characters of our story were involved
in a train of circumstances that rapidly hurried
them towards the denouement of their different
perplexities. The Easter festival, for which
preparations had gone on during many weeks, at
last opened its day of innocent enjoyment for
the quiet dwellers in Val d'Orazio, and with its
advent ripened to completion the nefarious plot
which Berthold, the vine-dresser, had laid against
the orphan Bianca.

Rising at the first peep of day from their beds
of corn-husks, the good villagers busied themselves
in getting ready for the first duty of the
festal day, a procession of youths and maidens
to the little chapel, there to celebrate by a solemn
mass the advancing season of light and
sunshine, toil and its genial fruits. Bianca,
earnestly entreated by her worthy aunt to take
part, at least, in this pious custom, had at length
consented, and betimes in the morning awaited
in the quiet cottage the coming of some neighboring
village maidens, her youthful companions,
but not, indeed, her compeers, being no rivals
at all in the charms which had made her the
favorite of the valley gallants.

Bianca was very beautiful, indeed, that fine
spring morning, as she sat with her aunt Agata
near the little window of their dwelling, which
looked out upon the mountain pass. The lantern
still occupied its position, and nightly was
it tended by the young maiden, its rays continuing
to illumine the outward gloom. Agata acquiesced
in the desire of her niece to keep up
the old custom of lighting the beacon; “for,”
said the kind dame, “perhaps some poor wanderer
in a storm may be led to a shelter by our
lamp.” But Agata did not know that Bianca,
whenever she trimmed the watch-light, thought
of a wanderer whom she did not name, but
whose image was ever present to her gentle
heart.

Bianca was very beautiful that morning, and
so Agata thought and said; yet was the maiden
pale, and only a faint smile answered her aunt's
praises. “Perhaps she has been dreaming of
our poor departed Nicolo,” soliloquized Agata;
but, in truth, Bianca was thinking at this time
more of the living than of the dead.

Yet was she indeed beautiful, in her close
brown boddice and half mourning jacket, from
which a snowy robe, gift of the lost guide, depended
to her pretty feet. She wore no ribbons
nor ornaments, save a simple lace border about
her neck, and a coronal of early spring buds
circling her white forehead. The long lashes

drooped over her fine blue eyes, which now
sought the floor, and now were lifted to gaze
from the window toward the mountain-pass with
a longing look as though they sought some coming
friend. Alas! would he ever come again?

But she was still so beautiful; and thus
thought Berthold, the vine-dresser, as, approaching
the cottage, he paused at a point whence he
could observe Bianca through the casement.
Berthold himself seemed attired for participation
in the approaching fete. A blue velvet
jacket, with silver plated buttons, and breeches
trimmed with yellow ribbens, gave an unusual
jaunty appearance to the young man; and his
customary gloomy countenance seemed to have
yielded somewhat to the enlivening influence of
the occasion. He paused but a brief period to
observe Bianca, and then advancing, knocked at
the cottage-door. Agata opened it, and admitted
him.

Bianca started as she recognized the brother
of him whose memory dwelt always with her,
and at this moment filled her mind. A faint
smile of welcome illumined her features, as extending
her hand, she invited the vine-dresser to
be seated.

“Are not the poor villagers to be gratified with
your presence?” Berthold asked, as he responded
to the maiden's salutation. “As I just now
came through the street, I heard many hope that
you would join the chapel procession.”

“I shall go,” simply replied Bianca.

But Agate, taking up the discource, said
hastily:

“Yes, indeed, master Berthold, my sweet
child shall take part in the duty, though she
says it is out of affection for me, her poor aunt.
Nevertheless, she is fair enough to grace it at
any time.”

“You may well say that,” rejoined Berthold;
“and I doubt not the town will say likewise;
but,” he continued, addressing Bianca in a lowor
tone, “will you favor me with your attention
for a moment? I have something to reveal to
you.”

The young maiden's cheeks flushed quickly
an the thought that perhaps Berthold might have
received news of his brother darted through her
mind. The vine-dresser apparently noticed her
agitation, for he remarked immediately, raising
his voice:

“The air is balmy this morning, and the villagers
are already busy with their preparations.
Perhaps even now they may be in sight to summon
their favorite maiden.”

Saying this, he rose, and opening the door of
the cottage, stepped beyond the threshold, casting
at the same time a glance of meaning at
Bianca, who thereupon followed him, apparently
in response to his last remark. When, however,
she stood beside the vine-dresser outside of the
cottage, before Agata could join them, Berthold
said in a whisper:

“Valentine has returned.”

Agata—as at this moment she reached the
two—could not but notice the sudden change
which came over her niece. The maiden's face
was as colorless as marble, and her limbs tottered
so that she would have fallen to the ground
had not the vine-dresser suddenly interposed
with his strong arm to sustain her.

“You are ill—you are faint, Bianca,” said the
latter, in a tone of deep sympathy.

“My child! what is the matter?” cried Agata
filled with apprehension.

“Nothing—nothing, aunt; it is but a sudden
weakness. Go, dear Agata—bring me, I pray,
some water, and I will be well in a moment.”

The good woman went back hastily into the
cottage, and Bianca turned toward Berthold with
an appealing look that demanded what her lips
could not ask.

“He has returned, but fears to enter the village,
lest the people may again arrest him; but
he prays to see you once more.”

“O, Berthold! where is he?”

“He lies concealed in one of the passes above
the mule-path. `Could you but see him there,'
he said.”

“He said so!—Valentine! Did he doubt
that I would come?”

“He but implored it.”

“Berthold, conduct me—I am ready to go
with you at once!”

“After the procession,” returned the vine-dresser,
in a hurried whisper, as Agata re-appeared
in the door.

Bianca nodded in token that she understood
him, and then drank the water which her aunt
had brought from the cottage. At this moment
a joyous troop of young maidens came into
view, advancing from the village street, and this
gave Berthold a pretext for exchanging a few
other low words with Bianca, in which he bade
her await him outside of the chapel, after the
procession should have entered. Then, bidding
farewell, he turned from the cottage, saluting

the group of maidens as he passed them with so
jaunty an air that more than one coquettishly
looked after him, and said: “Can that, indeed,
be old Monna Barbara's son? And is he Bianca's
favorite? Well, we shall find out something
by-and-by!”

Agata, meantime, was bustling to arrange her
darling for the procession, insisting that she
should wear an ancient string of Roman pearls,
long treasured by the simple aunt, and moreover
arguing that a gay ribbon or two would
not be out of place upon the maiden's sombre
jacket; but Bianca chose to appear in the modest
attire which she had chosen, and throwing
over her forehead a long, white veil, which
drooped gracefully from her gathered black hair,
she went slowly out to meet her companions,
who on their part, each casting back her veil,
testified their delight by embracing one after
another the village favorite, bestowing many
resounding kisses on her fair cheek, which, had
they reached the ears of Berthold, might have
caused that envious fellow much chagrin.

Very soon the band of maidens, proceeding
up the rocky street, were joined by other white-veiled
girls, emerging from cottages on either
side, and presently the young villagers began to
mingle with them. Then came a half-dozen
rustic musicians, with their simple hag-pipes,
sounding merry notes that were answered from
the rocks by a hundred musical echoes. These
took their station at the head of the little cottage,
where likewise walked, in their pilgrim-garb,
three devout villagers who had just returned
from a winter's journey to the virgin's
shrine at Loretto. Swarthy young fellows from
the higher Alps, in the dress of shepherds;
ruddy-faced hunters, and smiling-visaged youths
from neighboring hamlets, vied with the denizens
of Val d'Orazio in their attire and close
devotion to the fairer sex. With slouched hats
thrown carelessly back from their open foreheads,
with many-hued jackets of coarse velvet,
bedecked with ribbons and huge silver buckles,
heirlooms of many a generation, clasping rosettes
in their broad-toed shoes, the joyous gallants of
the Easter feast made, as may be imagined, a
very goodly display, as they walked in procession
beside the fresh young damsels, who, in
dress and coquetry were not a whit behind
their rustic beaux.

Thus the morning procession of the first spring
festival wound its way through the hamlet, pausing
at the house of Signore Leoni to greet the
worthy borghigiano with a clear blast of the
pipes, and again halting at the padre's snug
dwelling, to be joined by the good Ambrosio
himself, who taking his place beside the Loretto
pilgrims, gave his kind benediction to all as he
led the way towards the chapel of the hills.

Berthold, the vine-dresser, had not again approached
Bianca, though he walked in another
part of the procession, carrying a large wooden
cross, decked with blue and white ribbons, and
twined with a portion of the vine-branches that
grew over the hut in which he dwelt. He moved
with a demure air at the rear of all, apparently
much impressed with the solemnity of the rite in
which he assisted; and the honest peasants,
standing at their doors, as they beheld Monna
Barbara's son so seemingly devout in his demeanor,
forgot their prejudices against the reputed
witch-mother, and united in commendation of
the young man's religious character.

Berthold, however, took little heed of them or
their thoughts, for his eyes were constantly peering
forward to where Bianca walked, and his
mind was revolving the many wicked schemes
which, long plotted in its darkness, were now
about to be brought to the light of execution.
The maiden, on her part, as she pursued her
way in the procession, at a short distance from
Padre Ambrosio and beside a brother of one of
her female companions, was occupied more with
the thought of Valentine, whom she believed
awaited her coming in the mountains, than by
any less worldly reflections, though her companion,
a handsome young hunter, doubtless attributed
her absent mood to very sober meditations.
Vainly did this good youth venture during
the route, numberless whispered compliments
and attempts to draw the valley beauty
into converse. She walked silently beside him,
taking, apparently, little heed of all his soft sayings,
until at length the procession reached its
destination at the chapel of the hills.

Padre Ambrosio ascending to the altar with the
white-robed boys, who were to assist in the ceremony
of mass, commenced the opening litany
prayer for the occasion, and the pious villagers
knelt reverently around to bear their part in the
responses; but ere the solemn service had commenced,
Bianca, gliding quietly away, joined
the vine-dresser, who awaited her without the
porch. A single word was spoken, and then the
two hurried from the chapel down a rocky pathway,
which led from the main street, penetrating
the hills to a point at which it intersected the
lonely mule-path.

But the maiden's movement did not altogether
escape notice. The young hunter, who had
walked beside her in the procession, and who
had long been a zealous aspirant for the smiles
of Nicolo's grandchild, perceived her departure
from the chapel, and impressed, perhaps, with a
feeling of jealousy, took the opportunity for himself
to steal away from the ceremony. Reaching
the pathway, the youth caught a glimpse of Bianca
and her companion hurrying toward the
hills, and in a moment resolved to follow them.

It was not difficult for one who knew every
foot of the mountains around, to strike out immediately
into another devious defile, by which
he might intercept the obvious route of the fugitives.
He diverged therefore from the direct
path they had taken, and struck across a higher
ledge that conducted to the mule-path.

The morning was now quite advanced, and
the sum-beams fell brightly upon the rocks, down
which dashed numberless rivulets from the melting
snows above. Pietro—for that was the hunter's
name—kept on his way, without heeding
any obstacles, leaping at one moment over a
deep chasm, at another skirting some narrow
shelf, whilst grasping a higher cliff for support.
Thus he proceeded for more than a mile, toward
the inner range of hills, occasionally obtaining
glimpses from his more elevated route, of the
two who traversed the mule-path.

Bianca, in the meantime, confiding in her
treacherous guide, followed him in silence—for
Berthold, conscious of his own baseness, felt
little disposed to conversation, besides being occupied
with his own speculations regarding the
ultimate success of his wicked plot; and the
maiden herself, agitated with the hope of meeting
him whom she devotedly loved, scarcely
brooked the obstacles of the distance that still
separated her from what she believed was his
place of concealment. Thus the innocent girl
was led onward till they arrived at a point in
the mule-path where several dim defiles brouched
in various directions through the rocky country.
Here the vine-dresser paused suddenly.

“In yonder pass,” he said, pointing upward,
and turning his eyes as he spoke from the maiden's
trusting gaze, “Valentine is securely hidden;
but he cannot yet expect us, or he would
certainly have met us. Remain here a moment,
Bianca, while I ascend that dangerous ledge.”

Saying this, the traitor sprang from the mule-path,
and ascending a steep defile, was in an instant
after lost to view.

Bianca, trembling half with terror, half with
anticipation of meeting the long-absent Valentine,
remained for a few moments patiently
awaiting the appearance of Berthold; but as
some time elapsed, her fears began to increase,
and a sense of peril to herself for the first time
came over her mind. The foreboding was
changed to alarm, when presently, instead of the
vine-dresser or his brother, a tall and richly-dressed
man appeared suddenly before her,
emerging from the rocks, behind which her late
companion had vanished. Surveying the stranger
as he advanced, the poor maiden recognized,
with increased affright, the face of one whom
she had once or twice beheld during Nicolo's
lifetime, and against whom the good guide had
warned her oftentimes to beware of, as a bad
and dangerous man.

It was, indeed, as the reader doubtless suspects,
no other than the Marquis Roberto, lord
of much of the surrounding domain, and feared
alike by old and young on account of his wicked
passions and reckless mode of life. Scarcely
would it be thought, however, that so graceful a
gentleman as now approached the maiden, with
a winning smile upon his lip, and his richly
broidered hat extended as in deprecation of his
appearance, could be the wicked nobleman of
whom rumor said so many evil things. He
placed his gloved hand upon his heart as he
paused, and bowing to Bianca, spoke in a low
and encouraging tone:

“Fear nothing, lady—I am your friend!”

The young girl, terrified, but unable to speak,
retracted a step, with an undefined idea of flight;
and it was not until Lord Roberto, still smiling
blandly, approached still nearer to her that she
became suddenly impressed with a suspicion of
Berthold's treachery in conducting her hither.
A thousand fears then possessed her soul, and
gaining strength in the conviction of her danger,
she shrieked aloud, and essayed to fly along the
rocky pass; but the marquis, but half confident
of his prize, had anticipated this movement, and
as she turned to escape, another figure sprang
from behind the rocks, and the next moment a
heavy cloak was thrown about the maiden's form,
enveloping her nice, and stifling the wild cry that
had broken from her lips.

“Quick! the mule?” cried Lord Roberto, and
as the servant, who had cast the mantle over Bianca,
now raised her slight form in his brawny
arms, Berthold, the vine-dresser, appeared at the
pass, leading a mule, saddled for immediate

flight. In another instant the hapless girl was
lifted to the back of the beast, and the servant
seated himself behind her; the marquis at the
same time led forward a horse, which he immediately
mounted.

“Now, good friend, farewell! We shall take
care of her!” whispered he to the treacherous
vine-dresser, who held the bridle of the mule.
At this crisis, Berthold's wicked plot seemed
completely successful.

But at the moment when the marquis, reining
his steed, and catching the bridle of the mule on
which his servant held Bianca, was about to
gallop from the mule-path toward his hunting-lodge,
a new actor appeared upon the scene.
Pietro, the hunter, tracking the route which Berthold
had taken, reached the opening of the
pass just as Lord Roberto and his ruffiian servant
were spurring from the mule-path, leaving
the vine-dresser to retrace his steps to Val d'
Orazio. The youth needed but a glance to divine
the situation of affairs. Hastily drawing
the hunting-knife that he wore in his girdle, he
leaped boldly from the rock which he had reached,
and throwing himself upon the servant who
sustained Bianca in his arms, drove the heavy
blade of his weapon into his side. The man
fell headlong from his mule, and Pietro, catching
in his arms the fainting Bianca, turned to
defend her against the other abductors.

Berthold, ever crafty and watchful, had caught
the first movement of Pietro, as the latter sprang
from the rocks. The hunter, as he was aware,
must have recognized him, and the fact of complicating
in this nefarious action, he knew would
seal his ruin should it ever be discovered to the
villagers of Val d'Orazio. Perhaps it was this
reflection, as much as any determined courage,
which caused him, immediately upon the servant's
fall, to rush forward and grapple with
Pietro ere the Marquis Roberto had recovered
from the shock occasioned by the young hunter's
desperate assault upon his servant.

Bianca, insensible and still enveloped in the
thick folds of the cloak, sank upon the pathway,
for the vine-dresser's fierce onset obliged Pietro
to put forth his entire strength in order to protect
himself. But he was young and used to
violent exertion, his sinewy limbs well knit, and
his spirit brave as that of a lion; consequently
Berthold found as soon as they closed together,
that the hunter was no feeble opponent.

Both combatants were armed with hunting-knives,
which in the first grapple they strove to
use upon one another. Pietro, ere he relin
quished his hold of Bianca, received a slight
wound in his left arm; but the vine-dresser was
repaid for the blow by a return stroke which divided
his slouched hat, and nearly stunned him
by the force with which it was dealt upon his
forehead. He shouted aloud to Roberto:

“Kill him!—stab this tiger, or he will ruin us
all!”

The marquis had by this time dismounted from
his horse and approached Bianca. He turned at
Berthold's wild appeal, and discharged a pistol
at the hunter, who perceiving the attempt, avoided
it by a desperate effort of his strength, which
threw his body forward upon the vine-dresser.
At this moment a shrill whistle rang through the
defile, and two men clad in hunting garb, appeared
far up on the rocks at the mouth of the
pass. Pietro, clutching with both hands the
throat of his antagonist, looked up for an instant
and recognized two of his mountain comrades,
who, hastening to the feast of Val d'Orazio, had
at this juncture reached the mule-path. He uttered
a loud shout of joy, and half released his
panting foe, who, profiting by the opportunity,
struck a fierce blow with his weapon at the
young man's bosom. AT the same time Lord
Roberto fired a second pistol with a truer aim,
for its bullet entered the shoulder of Pietro, who
fell heavily to the earth.

“Away now, or we are lost!” cried the vine-dresser,
staggering to his feet. “The valley
may be aroused ere we can escape!”

“And leave my fair prize? No, good Berthold!”
cried the marquis, as he lifted Bianca
in his arms, while the cloak which had enveloped
her fell to the ground.

“The girl is dead!” exclaimed the vine-dresser,
turning pale, as the countenance of the maiden,
ghastly white, was revealed in the sunlight.

“Thou liest!” muttered Lord Roberto, wrathfully.
“Mount yonder mule and follow; for
by the fiend himself, I will secure this girl,
though all Val d'Orazio rise to oppose me!”

With these words Roberto sprang upon his
horse, and clasping the still insensible form of
Bianca before him, spurred with desperate speed
adown the mule-path, towards the lower passes.
Berthold needed no further stimulus to flight,
for the two strange hunters, leaping from rock
to rock in their hurried descent, had now nearly
reached the nearest defile. He leaped at once
upon the mule, from whose saddle Pietro had
stricken Roberto's servant, and pressing the animal's
sides, urged him rapidly down the path, in
the direction taken by the marquis.