Good mornin, Muster Hardin. I hope ye ha passed a pleasant night ot. Compliments o Captin, an wants ye to come an see him.
Without further speech Doggy Dick seized the prisoner by the collar. Then, with a spiteful shake, such as might have been given by an irate policeman, dragged him out out of the cell, and on toward the quarters of the bandit chief. As a matter of course, these were in the best house of the place; but the young artist was not prepared to witness such splendour inside. Not only was the furniture well made, but there were articles of luxe in abundance plate, pictures, looking-glasses, clocks, girandoles, épergnes, and the like, not very artistically arranged, but plenteous everywhere. It was a somewhat grotesque admixture of the ancient and modern, such as may be seen in a curiosity-shop, or the chambers of a London money-lender.
In the apartment to which the prisoner was introduced, there were two individuals seated amidst the glittering confusion. One was the brigand chief, whose name he now knew for the first time to be Corvino. He knew it from hearing him so addressed by the other occupant of the chamber, who was a woman, and who in her turn was called by the chief Cara Popetta the Cara being merely a prefix of endearment.
Corvino, the chief, has been already delineated. Popetta, as being his spouse, also deserves a word. She was a large woman, nearly as tall as Corvino himself, and quite as picturesquely attired. Her dress was glittering with beads and bugles; and with her dark, almost chestnut-coloured skin and crow-black hair, she would have passed muster among the belles of an Indian encampment. She had once been beautiful, and her teeth were still so, when displayed in a smile; otherwise, they resembled the incisors of a tigress preparing to spring upon her prey. The beauty that had once shone in her countenance might still to some extent have remained for Cara Popetta was scarce turned thirty but for a scar of cadaverous hue, that traversed the left cheek. This turned what was once a fair face into one disfigured, even to ugliness. And if her eyes spoke truth, many a cicatrice had equally deformed her soul, for as she sat eyeing the prisoner on his entrance, there was that in her aspect that might have caused him to quail.
Just then he had no opportunity for scanning her very minutely. On the instant of his stepping inside the room he was accosted by the chief, and commanded in a hard tone to take a seat by the table.
I need not ask you if you can write, signor artista , said the bandit, pointing to the materials upon the table. Such a skilled hand as you with the pencil cannot fail to be an adopt with the pen. Take hold of one of these, and set down what I indite translating it, as I know you can, into your native tongue. Here is a sheet of paper that will serve for the purpose.
As he said this, the brigand stretched forth his hand, and pointed to some letter-paper already spread out upon the table.
The prisoner took up the pen, without having the least idea of what was to be the subject of his first essay at secretaryship. Apparently it was to be a letter, but to whom was it to be
written? He was not long kept in ignorance.
The address first, commanded the brigand.
To whom? asked the young Englishman making ready to write.
Al Signor Generale Harding ! dictated the bandit.
To General Harding! translated Henry, dropping the pen and starting up from his seat. My father! What know you of him?
Enough, signor pittore , for my purpose. Sit down again, and write what I dictate. That is all I want of you.
Thus commanded, the artist resumed his seat; and once more taking up the pen, wrote the address thus dictated. As he did so, he thought of the last time he had penned the same words, when directing that angry letter from the roadside inn near to his fathers park. He had no time to give way to reminiscences, for the bandit exhibited great impatience to have the letter completed.
Padre caro ! was the next phrase that required translation.
Again the secretary hesitated. Again went his memory back to the writing from the English inn, where he had commenced that letter without the prefix Dear. Was he now to use it at the dictation of a brigand?
The command was peremptory. The bandit, chafing at the delay, repeated it with a menace. His captive could only obey, and down went the words Dear Father.
And now, said Corvino, continue your translation; dont stop again. Another interruption may cost you your ears.
This was said in a tone that told the speaker was in earnest. Of course, in the face of such a terrible alternative, the young artist could do no less than continue the writing of the letter to its end. When translated into his own tongue, it ran as follows:
Dear Father,This is to inform you that I am a prisoner in the mountains of Italy, about forty miles from the city of Rome, and upon the borders of the Neapolitan territory. My captors are stern men, and, if I be not ransomed, will kill me. They only wait till I can hear from you; and for this purpose they send a messenger to you, upon whose safety while in England my life will depend . If you should cause him to be arrested, or otherwise hindered from returning here, they will retaliate upon me by a torture too horrible to think of. As the amount of my ransom, they demand thirty thousand scudi about five thousand pounds. If the bearer bring this sum back with him in gold a circular note on the Bank of Rome will do they promise me my liberty; and I know they will keep their promise, for these men, although forced to become bandits by cruel persecution on the part of their government, have true principles of honesty and honour. If the money be not sent, then, dearest father, I can say with sad certainty, that you will never more see your son.