22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE VINE-DRESSER'S FLIGHT.
While the scene was transpiring which we
have described as taking place between Monna
Barbara and her newly-discovered kindred, the
rescued Bianca had unclosed her eyes once
more, and recalling her faculties, happily oblivious
through the greater portion of the dangers
through which she had been hurried since her
betrayal by the vine-dresser, recognized in time
on whose breast she now reclined—not the hateful
abductor, Lord Roberto, but her own true
and long-wept lover, Valentine. The joy of
such a meeting had nearly deprived the poor
maiden of her consciousness once more; but the
young soldier's warm embrace, and the kiss of
ardent affection which he imprinted upon her
lip, were too real and earnest to bewilder her.
She clung convulsively to his breast, as if her
happiness might be insecure, and in doing so,
her eyes fell upon the insensible form of the
Marquis Roberto, lying prostrate at a few paces
distant, his cheeks pale, and lips closed as if in
death. She shuddered at the spectacle, and laid
her face upon Valentine's bosom.
“Fear not, my Bianca! No one shall harm
thee now, my beloved!” cried the young soldier,
tenderly clasping the trembling form which he
sustained.
“Alas! is he dead?” murmured the maiden.
“Nay, I doubt me that a fall from his horse
could have slain him, though 'twas an ugly rock
that received his lordly head as he fell,” answered
Valentine. “But, dear Bianca, what means
all this? My mother here, and Berthold, and—
In Heaven's name, dear one, speak of thyself!”
he added, in an anxious tone.
Bianca raised her gaze to her lover's agitated
countenance, and seemed about to reply; but at
this moment the shrill voice of Monna Barbara
startled them both, drawing their regards to the
other group, and they beheld the crone's shrivelled
arm extended toward the mountain top.
It was now apparent to what purpose the hunters
of Val d'Orazio had dispersed in the beginning
of their pursuit of Berthold, and were now
converging from every point. The path through
which the fugitive had desperately directed his
flight, was one which for a few hundred ascending
yards presented ample breadth and foothold
for a mule, but beyond this distance began to
wind, becoming narrower and more perilous as
its altitude increased, until at length it conducted
to the lofty rock already noticed as springing
from the centre of the mural wall. Here all
pathway vanished, and nothing, save the foot of
a mountaineer, or that of a chamois-goat, might
essay to climb the almost perpendicular steeps,
rising one above another, and disclosing a track,
if track it could be called, so precarious as would
terrify any but a desperate man from attempting
its passage.
Notwithstanding the dangers of the ascent,
however, those whose looks followed the direction
of Monna Barbara's arm, could distinguish
the figure of a man slowly toiling up the ridges
of the central rock, pausing ever and anon as if
checked by some obstacle, or faint from weariness.
This figure, which they knew at once to
be the wretched Berthold, had already gained a
point which apparently bade defiance to a pursuit
on the part of any one less desperate than
him who sought escape, and such seemed to be
the opinion of the Alpine hunters, who halting
half way down the white-ridged rock, appeared
now to consult regarding the safety of ascending
further.
This was the position of things as Monna
Barbara, gasping with stifled utterance the
words, “There! there!” attracted the gaze of
those near her to the form of her felon son as he
appeared in full view, clinging to the jagged
point of a rock that overhung a dizzy precipice,
whilst his feet unsupported by a hunter's staff,
so indispensable to security in Alpine districts,
strove to maintain their precarious hold upon
the slippery ledge which they had reached.
Three hundred feet below the ledge, the mountain-men
of Val d'Orazio were crowded together,
gazing up, apparently appalled at the daring
progress of the fugitive.
For a few moments it seemed that the bold
energy of Berthold were to be crowned with
success. Slowly, inch by inch as it were, he
seemed to creep across the face of the rock, ascending
transversely from side to side. Above
him, perhaps not higher than fifteen feet, was a
platform, or wide ledge, which once gained
would afford him a resting-place, and doubtless
enable him to discover some pass or outlet by
which he might pass from the central rock into
the otherwise inaccessible interior of the great
range that it hid from view. This apparently
seemed to have occurred to the fugitive on attempting
his perilons ascent, and he now, as
was evident, depended upon gaining the platform
as the last hope of escape.
To the hunters at the base of the shaft-like
eminence, this platform above appeared as a
white marble capstone to the great column. It
was in fact a huge and compact mass of ice that
had gathered, unmelted, through many seasons,
and now overlapped the cliff beneath like a glittering
cornice. Berthold as he glared upward,
could discern a wide gap in this glacier, which
he judged to denote a fissure that would assist
him in his progress, perhaps discover to him a
path by which he might descend upon the inner
range, and he felt a ray of hope succeeding to
the dogged desperation with which he had hitherto
prosecuted the ascent; but this ray was
destined to be quenched in a darkness deeper
than despair.
For, as the vine-dresser, cautiously dragging
his feet from ridge to ridge, and clinging nervously
to the projections of the rock with his
hands, till the blood streamed from the swollen
fingers, reached the verge of that fissure which
he had sought to gain, and grasped its jagged
rim, he beheld a sudden rocking of the white
mass above, announcing the insecurity of the
platform that he had fancied might afford him
ample resting-place. He saw the bed of glittering
ice starting from the rock on which it had so
long been poised, and moving toward the precipice;
he heard a shivering and a crackling as
the glacier surged above him, and the wretched
man saw that his fate was inevitable. One effort,
however, wild as the desperate shriek that broke
from his lips, he made to cast himself forward
into the gap that divided the icy platform; but
it was too late. The great mass of congealed
snow and ridged ice slid slowly forward, swayed
majestically for a moment over his head, then
overlapped and became unbalanced on the edge
of the cliff. Flashing for a second in the slanting
sunbeams, it then plunged downward, roaring
and crashing, and falling at length, crushed
and splintered into a myriad of fragments upon
the rocky bases of the mountain. The hunters
of Val d'Orazio, fleeing in consternation before
the descending ruin, looked backward to the
height where they had last distinguished the
vine-dresser.
But Berthold was no longer there—the avalanche
had accomplished its work!
