University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
THE MEETING ON THE CAUSEWAY.

Francesca and her father, while the vicissitudes
of the changing fight of Milessimo were
taking place beneath their observation, had leisure
to reflect on their past and present situation.
For the mind of the latter, the quietude and
repose of a few weeks' sojourn among the
goatherds of the mountains, after his departure
from the albergo of Bacco, had operated a great
change, it is true—rendered more enduring,
doubtless, by the constant presence and gentle
influence of his daughter, who, striving to forget
her own sorrows, devoted herself with single-hearted
purpose to the pious task she had
undertaken. Nevertheless, the breaking up of
long-fixed habits, and the emancipation of a nature
like that of Tomaso's, from the dominion
of old associations, required the exercise of no
ordinary skill and discretion in his young counsellor—for
the brigand's memory, recurring at
one time to deeds of rapine, seemed to close
against his soul the gate of repentance, filling
him with dismay and despair; at other seasons
recalling the wild independence of his position
as a bandit-chief, for many years, was constantly
warring against the better spirit that had been
awakened so lately, promising peace to his closing
life.

Francesca, however, faltered not in watchful
kindness, by turns inspiring and soothing her
wretched parent, with all the tender arts that a
daughter's solicitude, joined with the pious resolution
that actuated her, could render effective.
At times, the poor girl, in the enthusiasm of
what she believed her peculiar mission, nourished
the hope that the iron energy and determination
which, in spite of present physical weakness,
still formed the chief ingredient in Tomaso's
character, might yet be employed in the
cause of that religion which the brigand's past
career had mocked and slighted; in effect that
her father, renewed in heart and body, might
yet be permitted to dedicate his remaining years
to the service of the church which had pardoned
his past trangressions. Cherishing a hope
like this, Francesca strove steadily to banish the
recollection of her hapless affection for one
whom she was forced to believe possessed no
feelings kindred with her own higher emotions,
and more than ever resolved to wean her
thoughts from the world, in striving for her father's
moral welfare.

Tomaso, surveying the battle through the
rapid changes that continually took place, felt
at times a wild longing to mingle in the fray;
and often he started up, as if about to leave the
sheltered position which they occupied, when
the restraining arm of Francesca wound rapidly
around him, and a reaction of sudden weakness

reminded him that he was still an invalid. The
daughter marked these evidences of her father's
secret agitation with much despondency, but she
ceased not, nevertheless, in her endeavors to direct
his thoughts to other things.

“These armies, my father—these foolish men,
fighting for they know not what—it makes me
sad to look upon them.”

“Ah, Francesca, they combat for glory!”

“Ah, is it glory, my father, to shed blood and
feel that every soldier who falls leaves friends
behind him to grieve evermore for his loss! O,
were I amid yonder battle, and you awaiting
here for my return—say, dear father, if I should
be slain—”

“Madonna shield thee, my child!—what sayest
thou? To lose thee, Francesca, were death
indeed to me!”

“And could I survive thy loss, dear father?”
murmured the maiden, leaning her cheek upon
the brigand's hard bosom, as she sat beside
him. “O, let us no more think of violence or
battle! Let us hasten on our journey to the
quiet valleys of Savoy. There, my father—
there we may both be happy.”

As Francesca uttered these words, tears fell
fast over her pale cheeks upon Tomaso's hand.
A moisture gathered also in the captain's eyes,
as he drew his daughter closer to his breast.

“It shall be as thou desirest, my child,” he
said, in a changed voice. “Let us, in God's
name, go on; and if He indeed make thee an
instrument to save thy poor father from perdition,
glory be to His name. I will not harden my
heart against His mercy.”

Saying this, Tomaso kissed the girl's forehead,
as if to seal his promise.

Francesca was overjoyed, for this resolution
of her father was expressed more decidedly than
any of his former ones, and she knew the old
brigand's firmness of character gave to this declaration
the solemnity of an oath. She returned
his embrace with fondness, and murmured
in a low tone of voice:

“The virgin be thanked for this. My prayers
are indeed answered.”

At this juncture, while father and daughter
were renewing pledges of mutual confidence,
and exchanging their hopes for the future, a series
of events involved them suddenly as actors
in the drama that was transpiring around them.

The pass, a defile, from which they had entered
upon the wider causeway leading to the plain,
and whence they had made a slight deviation
to reach the overshelving rock that now concealed
them, was one which penetrated far up,
and through the centre of the rocky ranges, back
to the Val d'Orazio. A portion of this defile,
comprising a section of the route they had lately
traversed, could be discerned by Francesca and
her father from the sheltered position they now
occupied, which latter likewise afforded them, as
we have seen, a view of the entire field of battle
beneath.

Down this pass, crossing an opening in the
rocky wall, through which Francesca could obtain
a full view of their persons, the maiden
now beheld two riders advancing almost toward
the causeway. A single glance sufficed to assure
her that one of these was Berthold the vine-dresser,
and a sensation of mingled terror and
pleasure agitated her bosom for a moment, but
as briefly gave place to feelings of another character.

Berthold bestrode a mule, which he guided
with one hand, while the other assisted to sustain
upon his companion's horse a figure concealed
by a dark mantle, but which Francesca
divined at once to be a female. The cavalier
who held this figure before him, was one whose
face was known to the brigand's daughter, as
she had often seen him from a distance when,
wandering through the hills, she had paused to
watch the hunting train of Lord Roberto skirting
the forest's edge, or ranging over the broader
passes.

Not unknown to her either was the evil reputation
of the libertine marquis; and now as she
recognized him, evidently in the prosecution of
some wicked enterprise, in which Berthold was
his assistant, the poor maiden's heart encountered
a new shock, in the confirmation which it
thus received of all her sad impressions concerning
her late lover. She gazed steadfastly
at the advancing riders, her eyes dilated, her
mouth compressed, and her breast heaving with
excitement. Tomaso, reclining upon the rock,
whilst the maiden stood beside him, noticed her
sudden agitation.

“What seest, Francesca? Art frightened,
my child?”

“Look, father! Know you those travellers
descending the pass?” whispered the girl, assisting
the still feeble brigand to gain a more
elevated position.

“Surely, the one is Berthold, the other Marquis
Roberto—”

“And they have yet another with them, my
father. Seest thou not?”

“Ha! the marquis is at his wild tricks, I
doubt not. A goodly brace—the vine-dresser
and the lord!”

Francesca felt another pang shoot through her
heart as she thought of her ill-omened love for
one whose character her father evidently well
understood; but she had not long to dwell upon
this reflection, for the two riders had now descended
quite to the outlet of the pass, and halting
on the wider ridge which sloped towards the
plain, surveyed in astonishment the panorama
of battle suddenly disclosed to them.

“Father, I must learn what these men do purpose,”
cried Francesca, preparing to descend the
rock.

“Nay, nay, Francesca—what hast thou to do
with these?”

“Fear not—they will not discover me,” answered
the maiden, stepping lightly around the
jutting base of the cliff, where her quick eye had
before descried a narrow fissure, which conducting
near to the point where the group had halted,
would enable her to approach unseen within
hearing distance. Quick as her determination
she glided from her father's side, and moved
noiselessly to the extremity of the fissure, and
there, effectually hidden from observation by a
mass of tangled brush that sprouted from the
interstice, found herself within a couple of yards
of the mule bestridden by her unworthy lover.

Lord Roberto, as he checked his horse, had
lifted the mantle that enveloped Bianca's form,
and the brigand's daughter beheld reclining
upon the noble's breast, the face of a maiden
younger than herself, and beautiful as that of an
angel; but it was deathly pale, and the bloodless
lips were half apart, revealing the small
white teeth set as if in death.

In truth, Bianca, wrapped in a swoon, from
which she had partially awakened during three
hours' ride from the mule-path, where she had
been betrayed—awakened only to relapse, after
a choking effort to cry out, stifled by the rude
hand of her abductor.

At the instant when Francesca looked from
her hiding place, Bianca's pale and lovely features,
supported on the breast of the reckless
marquis, were turned full towards her, and
though she recognized them not, a feeling of womanly
sympathy immediately filled her bosom;
but at this instant, Berthold's voice struck
harshly upon her ear.

“My lord, we cannot proceed—the Frenchmen
fill yonder plain, and—”

“Peace!—we sleep not till we reach Milan.”

“But will your lordship risk the life of—”

“She'll not die, good fellow! Take you heed
that we break not our necks over these confounded
precipices, or encounter any of yonder vagabond
soldiery, and I'll insure our safe conduct
otherwise.”

“By Saint Jeronimo! I must not return to
Val d'Orazio,” returned Berthold.

“Be faithful, Berthold, and you shall not regret
this business. It is true that yonder meddlesome
hunter was settled for.”

“Ay, my lord, he will tell no tales! I fear
only that the others recognized us—or your
lordship's poor servant, who Pietro slew.”

“Tut,” answered Roberto; “that fellow was
new in my service, and if he be known or not,
it cannot hurt me; but let us at once descend,
and as these rocks are better known to you, Berthold,
go forward with the mule, and show me
some quiet defile by which we may skirt yonder
plain. I have no mind to be stabbed by these
sans culottes Frenchmen, who have brought their
republican doctrines into our goodly Italy.
Away, friend, let us hasten!”

Berthold, turning the head of his mule, prepared
to follow Lord Roberto's directions; but
an obstacle suddenly interposed. A female
form descended the rocky wall on which they
were halting, and placed itself in the vine-dresser's
pathway. He recognized Francesca, the
daughter of Tomaso.

“Berthold!” exclaimed the maiden, in a tone
rendered shrill by her excited feelings; “Berthold,
what new work of darkness is this?
Whither would you bear this poor girl?”

The vine-dresser startled by Francesca's sudden
appearance, and her first address, could utter
no word in reply, while Lord Roberto began
to survey curiously the rare beauty of the maiden,
illumined by the eloquent animation that
flushed her face with rich blood. Thus, for an
instant, the group remained — the brigand's
daughter standing before the mule, her form
towering in proud loveliness as she fixed her
dark eyes upon the trembling vine-dresser; the
marquis, almost forgetful of the pale, insensible
woman he held, in gazing at the dark resplendent
creature who had so strangely burst upon
them; and Berthold, himself, grasping nervously
the mane of his mule, while he began to frame
a language meet for his deceptive thoughts.

“Francesca!” he commenced, striving the
while to discover by some sign in the maiden's
countenance, if she yet felt toward him the love
that she had once confessed; but Tomaso's
daughter turned not her calm look from his
changing features, nor relaxed its sorrowing
but cold expression; then yielding to the natural
dictates of his brutal nature, he changed his
demeanor at once, and cried, in a sneering tone:
“Art jealous, my pretty bandit's child? Faith,
thy Berthold is true to thee, spite of new faces.
Where is Tomaso, sweetheart?”

The withering glance which shot from Francesca's
eyes at this audacious speech from him
for whom she had still cherished a yearning affection,
forced Berthold to drop his bold gaze to
the ground. Nevertheless, his evil nature had
displayed itself, and he continued, with a sneering
laugh:

“Better mount with me, sweet Francesca!
Many a time have you said you loved me.
Come away, for I doubt not my Lord Roberto
is willing.”

“Leave not so fair a sweetheart behind, worthy
Berthold,” laughed the marquis. “'Twere
shame, indeed, for so gallant a vine-dresser to do
thus!”

“Are you indeed lost, lost, Berthold!” cried
Francesca, in a voice so full of sorrow that its
tones would have moved any hearers save the
two heartless ones before her; but he to whom
the appeal was addressed, answered with a
gloomy scowl:

“Come, by the fiend! Francesca, thou hast
provoked me long enough! No more will I be
trifled with by thee! I know not wherefore thou
art here, or in what company; but by San Geronimo!
I'll not leave thee behind, my sweetheart!”

As he said this, Berthold pressed the mule to
one side, and bending from the saddle threw his
strong arm around Francesca's waist, lifting her
from the ground to a seat before him as easily
as a child would raise its doll. At the same
moment, Bianca, suddenly awakening from the
deep swoon in which she had been plunged,
raised a feeble cry of terror, as she became half
conscious of her situation. It was responded to
by Francesca with a shriek that echoed loudly
through the surrounding hills.

Tomaso, awaiting his daughter at a few yards
distance, heard those cries directly beneath the
rock that concealed him from those upon the
causeway, at the same time that it intervened
to prevent his witnessing Francesca's interview
with Berthold. Tomaso heard, distinguishing
his daughter's voice, and quick as thought the
old brigand flame burned up within him. It
was but a second that the shriek vibrated upon
his brain when, forgetting his pain and weakness,
forgetting aught but that Francesca was in
peril, the old captain sprang around the jutting
rock, and reached the causeway just as Lord
Roberto, having wound his cloak closely about
Bianca's head, to silence her once more, was
spurring his steed to descend the broader road.
Dasbing furiously against the marquis at first,
Tomaso, the next moment, caught sight of Berthold
clasping Francesca tightly in his arms,
while bowing over the mule's neck, he prepared
to urge the animal to a headlong flight toward
the plain.

The plain itself, at this crisis, presented a singular
appearance. While two compact columns
of the French army, attacking the town of Dego
at different parts, had succeeded in silencing
the main batteries, and driving the Austrian
centre, the greater portion of the republican
troops were scattered in brigades and squadrons
over a large area, extending deep into the hills,
through the lower defiles. These detached
forces were now reuniting as rapidly as possible,
though several were in actual conflict with portions
of the enemy's troops retreating toward
the Bormida.

Tomaso beholding the desperate design of the
vine-dresser, seized the bridle of the mule, and
strove to stay his career. The old man's limbs,
albeit enfeebled by his late sickness, were yet
tough, and his grasp was tenacious enough to
swerve the mule aside as Berthold urged him
forward; but the captain's hand sought in vain
for the weapons which of old ever hung at his
belt—his trusty dagger and a brace of heavy
pistols. They were no longer there, and the
brigand, with a return of his ancient passion,
muttered an oath as he endeavored to seize the
dress of Francesca, while at the same time he
retained the mule by an iron grasp of the
bridle.

Berthold saw his personal danger, and recollected
his late companion's character. At once
he knew that it was life or death between him
and Tomaso; and with a darker scowl blackening

his sullen visage, he drew his hunting-knife,
yet red with Pietro's blood, and struck at the father's
breast. Tomaso, staggering under the
blow, released his hold of the bridle, and the
mule, with her double burthen, clattered down
the causeway, following the strong steed that
bore the marquis and Bianca.

The road leading to the plain wound between
perpendicular walls of rock for a hundred yards,
and then opened abruptly upon a broad plat
form, from which a series of hillocks and slight
elevations sloped to the field of battle on either
side of the river. The vine-dresser, grasping in
his arms with fierce determination the shrieking
Francesca, who, in spite of her struggles, found
herself completely powerless, in her captor's
embrace, soon came up with Lord Roberto, and
hastily crying, “Turn to the left—yonder is a
safe pass leading from the plains,” dashed forward,
and led the descent.