The Robbers' Cave

A TALE OF ITALY

BY

A. L. O. E.

CHICAGO

The Bible Institute Colportage Association

843-845 North Wells Street

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. THE CALABRIAN INN

II. A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER

III. BITTER WORDS

IV. SEPARATION

V. ROUGH COMPANY

VI. THE ROBBERS' CAVE

VII. MUSIC AND MADNESS

VIII. A DASH FOR FREEDOM

IX. ANXIOUS HOURS

X. THE LONE SENTINEL

XI. THE ORPHAN'S TALE

XII. HOW THE LIGHT WAS LIT

XIII. FAILURE

XIV. TIDINGS

XV. ONWARDS

XVI. A PERILOUS PASS

XVII. ONE EFFORT MORE

XVIII. VICTORY

Printed in United States of America

The Robbers' Cave.

A TALE OF ITALY.

CHAPTER I.

THE CALABRIAN INN.

"Lazy dog! Can't he drive faster—keeping us grilling here in the heat! I should like to have the use of his whip for a few minutes and try its effect upon his shoulders!" Such was the impatient exclamation of Horace Cleveland, as for the third time he thrust his head out of the carriage window.

"I wish that we had never come to Calabria at all!" sighed his mother. Horace was resuming his lounging position in the carriage, after hurling a few Italian words of abuse at the driver, as she added, "It was a nonsensical whim of yours, Horace, to bring us into this wild land, when we might have remained in comfort at Naples, with every convenience around us, such as my weak health so much requires."

"Convenience!" repeated Horace contemptuously. "Would you compare the luxuries of Naples, its drives, its bouquets, its ices, its idle amusements, with the glorious scenery of a land like this? Look what a splendid mountain rises there, all clothed to the very summit with myrtle, aloes, and cactus, where here and there stands a tall palm, like the king of the forest, overlooking the rest. And see what an expanse—what an ocean of olives stretches yonder!"

"I do not admire the olive, with its rugged stem and dull dingy leaves," observed Mrs. Cleveland.

"Not when the breeze ruffles those leaves, and shows their silver linings? Look there now,—how beautiful they appear under the brightness of an Italian sky!"

"I am too weary to admire anything," said Mrs. Cleveland with a yawn, "and it seems as if we were never to reach the inn at Staiti. The heat is almost suffocating."

"I say," halloed Horace to the driver, "how long shall we be in arriving at Staiti?"

The Italian shrugged his shoulders, and without taking the trouble to turn round made reply, "We shall not be there till twenty-four o'clock, signore."

"Twenty-four o'clock!" exclaimed Horace; not surprised, however, by the expression, as the reader may possibly be, as he was familiar with the Italian mode of reckoning the twenty-four hours from sunset to sunset. "Is there no inn,—no locanda, where we could rest on the way?"

"Si, signore," answered the Calabrese, pointing onwards with his whip to a small, irregularly built house, which seemed wedged between two masses of rock overgrown with cactus, and which was so much of the color of the cliffs, that one might fancy that it had grown out of them.

"It looks much more picturesque than comfortable," observed Horace, drawing back his head, and showing the inn to his mother.

"Let's stop there—or anywhere," gasped Mrs. Cleveland, fanning herself with the air of one whose patience as well as strength is almost exhausted. "I can go no further to-day."

"We can stop and bait," said Horace; and again he leaned out of the window to give his orders to the driver in the haughty tone of command which he seemed to think befitting an English "milordo."

It was clear at a glance that Horace Cleveland regarded himself as one of the lords of creation, and, from national or family or personal pride, considered himself superior to all such of his fellow-creatures as he might meet in Calabria. His manner, even to his mother, was petulant and imperious. Horace Cleveland had had, indeed, much to foster his vanity and strengthen his pride. Horace occupied a proud position in his school, and he plumed himself not a little upon it.

"The boy is father of the man," sang the poet; and on the strength of that aphorism, Horace built up a high tower of airy hopes. He had been accustomed to be admired, imitated, followed, in the little world of a public school, and he expected to hold the same place in the great world, which he soon must enter. Horace felt himself born to command.

The youth's triumphs at school had hardly tended to make him more agreeable at home. He was an only child, and his widowed mother regarded him as her all in all. Very proud was Mrs. Cleveland of his talents, very proud of his success: with fond admiration she gazed on his open, handsome countenance,—the high forehead, the clear gray eye, and thought that amongst all his companions none could compare with her son. And yet Mrs. Cleveland was by no means altogether contented with Horace. She would have been better pleased had he exhibited less spirit and more submission.

Horace was eager to claim a man's independence; Mrs. Cleveland clung to a parent's authority. It is probable that the lady would have retained more influence over her boy, had she exercised it more judiciously. She had been as an unskillful rider, who, instead of keeping a light but firm hand on the bridle, alternately threw down the rein and caught it up to jerk the mouth of his restive steed, and irritate its temper. Delicate health and weak nerves had combined to make the widowed lady sometimes peevish, and even unreasonable: and her will often clashed with that of her son to a degree that caused a painful jar upon the feelings of both. Thus those who were dearer to each other than all the world besides, were each not unfrequently a source of annoyance and irritability even to the being best beloved.

"I am sure that it was great folly to come to Calabria at all!" exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, as the chaise drew up at the door of the inn.

Now this was what Horace could not endure to hear, since it had been to gratify his wishes, and quite against her own judgment, that his mother had quitted Naples for the mountainous south of Italy. Moreover Horace had heard that same exclamation nearly ten times already on that day, and the effect of heat and weariness had drawn largely on his stock of patience. Ready to vent his ill-humor on the first thing that he touched, Horace flung open the door of the chaise as he might have hit at a foe, and rudely pushed aside a young Italian who had come forward to help the lady to alight.

The hot blood rose to the stranger's sun-burnt cheek, and a look of anger, instantly repressed, passed like lightning over his face.

Mrs. Cleveland caught the look, transient as it was, and as she walked into the inn, laid her hand on the arm of her son, and whispered to him in English:

"For mercy's sake, do not treat these people with rudeness. You know that all these Italians carry stilettos in their vests; we are alone—amongst strangers!"

Horace's only reply was a look to express contempt for all Italians in general, and this one in particular, and a disregard for all considerations founded upon personal fear. He snatched up a grip, and one or two shawls from the chaise, and carried them into the locanda, being too much out of humor to offer his mother the support of his arm.

Mrs. Cleveland was shown into the little inn by its master, who came forth to meet her. He was a stout, red-faced man with one eye, and a countenance by no means prepossessing.

"Giuseppina! Giuseppina!" he shouted.

A Calabrese girl, barefooted, attired in a bright blue dress with an orange border, and wearing large gold ear-rings and chain, came to answer the call. Guided by her, the weary lady entered a small, close room which might be termed the parlor, but which was evidently put to many more uses.

The entrance of the visitors disturbed a hen and a whole brood of sickly chickens, which cackling and fluttering made a hasty retreat across the threshold. On one part of the dirty earthen floor was piled a set of empty wine-skins, the odor from which blended with the more disagreeable scent from some thousands of silk-worm cocoons, heaped together in a corner.

"Have you no better quarters to give us than this hole?" cried Horace to Giuseppina in the Italian language, which he spoke with ease.

"No, signore," replied the girl, as she swept from the table a confused litter of old sacking, chaff and oakum, in order to make preparation for the coming meal, which Horace, with a look of disgust, forthwith proceeded to order. Mrs. Cleveland, being less familiar with the language, usually left such arrangements to her son.

"What can you give us?" asked Horace.

"Ebene, signore, maccaroni," replied the barefooted maiden.

"Maccaroni, of course, and what besides?"

Giuseppina glanced to the right at the wine-skins, then to the left at the heap of cocoons, as if to gather from them some culinary idea, shrugged her shoulders and suggested "omelet," but in a tone expressive of doubt.

"Omelet then, and anything else that you may have, and be quick, for the lady is weary and wants refreshment!" cried Horace.

Giuseppina showed her white teeth in a smile, and quitted the parlor.

"One is stifled in this horrible den!" exclaimed Horace, stalking up to the window, and throwing it open. Very little air was admitted on that sultry afternoon, but there came the sound of voices from without.

"What are the people doing outside, Horace?" faintly inquired Mrs. Cleveland.

"Like Italians—doing nothing," was the reply. "They are merely gathering round that young man whom we saw at the door, apparently to listen to his singing, for he has a guitar in his hand."

"That Italian whom you struck?" inquired Mrs. Cleveland.

"I did not strike him—I only pushed him back. These fellows must be taught to know their own place," Horace haughtily replied.

"My dear boy," said Mrs. Cleveland, leaning forward on the chair on which she had wearily sunk, "you must acquire, indeed you must, a more gentle and conciliatory manner. In a wild, strange place like this, altogether out of the bounds of civilization, a thoughtless act might bring serious trouble—a wanton insult might cost a life!"

Horace did not answer, and as he remained looking out the window, his mother could not see on his face the effect of her gentle reproof; she saw, however, that he was impatiently moving his foot up and down, which was his trick when he had to listen to anything which it did not please him to hear.

A few chords on a guitar, touched by a skillful hand, were now heard, and immediately the hum of voices without was silenced.

"I hate to see a man play a guitar!" exclaimed Horace. As he spoke, the tones of a voice singularly melodious and rich mingled with those of the instrument, and Mrs. Cleveland, weary as she felt, was lured to the window to listen.

Surrounded by a group of Calabrese stood the musician. He was simply but picturesquely attired, after the fashion of his country; the red jacket, not worn, but carried across the shoulder ready to be put on in season of rain, left exposed to view the white shirt. A felt hat, of a somewhat oval shape, shaded a countenance which, with its classical outlines and thoughtful expression, could have formed a study for an artist. The song of the young Italian, translated into English, might run thus:—

If to pine in a dungeon were e'er my fate When light struggled in through the iron grate, What view would most soothe my unwearied eye,— The boundless ocean—the earth—or sky? Oh! not the ocean!—its ceaseless swell With my restless grief would accord too well; The voice of its wild waves would break my sleep, And the captive bend o'er his chain and weep. 'Twere sweet to gaze on the laughing earth, And view, though distant, its scenes of mirth. Ah, no! ah, no! they would but recall Life's flowers to one who had lost them all. The sky, the sky, unbounded, bright, With its silvery moon, and its stars of light, The blush of morning, the evening glow, Its passing clouds, and its radiant bow,— There—there would I fix my unwearied eye, Till fancy could paint a bright world on high, And earth and its sorrows would fade in night, With freedom before me—and heaven in sight!

CHAPTER II.

A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER.

"Who is that singer?" inquired Mrs. Cleveland in broken Italian of the girl Giuseppina, who had just reentered the room with a large dish of maccaroni which looked like a pile of tobacco-pipes.

"Improvisatore," answered the girl.

"What is that?" inquired Horace.

"An improvisatore," replied Mrs. Cleveland, "is one who makes poetry on the spur of the moment. This class of minstrels is, I believe, peculiar to Italy, the beautiful language of the country giving facility to rapid composition. Do you suppose," she continued, addressing herself to Giuseppina, "that the young man really made that song about prisons himself?"

"Prisons," repeated the Calabrese, with a slight but expressive shrug of the shoulders; "I should say that Raphael might very well sing about prisons."

"You don't mean us to understand," said Horace, "that, young as he seems, he has been acquainted with the inside of them?"

"Chi sa? (Who knows?)" replied the girl, with another expressive shrug, as she placed his dish upon the table.

"He was never imprisoned, I trust, for any crime?" inquired Mrs. Cleveland, more uneasy than ever at the recollection of Horace's rudeness to the stranger.

"Chi sa?" repeated the girl.

"I cannot believe," said the lady, "that there can lurk much harm in one with such a countenance, and such an exquisite voice."

"Oh, he's an Italian!" cried Horace, who rather prided himself on his prejudices.

Giuseppina lingered, fidgeting about the table, moving the dish now to the right, now to the left, as if she could never satisfy herself that she had placed it perfectly straight.

"Does this Raphael, as you call him," said Horace, "earn his living by his music?"

"Chi sa?" repeated Giuseppina, not looking up, but showing her teeth in a meaning smile.

"Does the idle fellow do nothing but sing and play?"

"He cures the sick also," replied Giuseppina; "he gathers herbs, and has wonderful power to take away fever, and to heal wounds from sword or from shot. But," she added, crossing herself, and shaking her head, "the abate (abbot) says that none can tell how he came by his knowledge."

"This Raphael is looked upon, then, as rather a suspicious character?"

Giuseppina dropped her voice, and looked as if the desire to impart information were struggling with a fear of danger from so doing as she made answer:

"He is certainly no stranger to Matteo."

The last word was pronounced in a whisper so low, that both Mrs. Cleveland and her son had to bend forward to catch the name.

"Who is Matteo?" asked Horace.

Giuseppina raised her hands and eyebrows with a gesture of surprise.

"Not know Matteo! All the world knows Matteo!" she said with low but rapid utterance, glancing around her as she did so, as if to make sure that no third listener was present. "We don't speak of him—no one speaks of him—but—"

"But?" said Horace with some curiosity, as the speaker came to a pause.

"Oh!" continued Giuseppina, with the same stealthy look and quick utterance. "Did not the signori hear how the government courier was stopped and robbed of three hundred dollars on the high road, and the Cavaliero Donato waylaid and shot dead? It is said that they owed him a grudge. And the Contessa Albani was attacked in her detturino and all her jewels taken, and her servants knocked on the head!"

"By whom—by this Matteo?" asked Horace, while his mother, who only understood half of the girl's information, clasped her hands with a gesture of alarm.

"Zitto! (Hush!)" whispered the talkative Calabrese, who appeared, however, greatly to relish the diversion of frightening an English lady. Horace looked as if he could not be frightened.

"And does your government do nothing to keep down such banditti?" said young Cleveland. "What are the soldiers about?"

"I soldati! Ah!" replied Giuseppina with an expressive nod. "There was a party of them here to-day, horsemen, on their way to Reggio; they had a prisoner with them, arms bound behind his back—" The girl put back her own elbows and scowled darkly, as if acting the part of a captured bandit.

"I hope that it was this Matteo!" cried Horace.

"Zitto! (Hush!)" again whispered the girl. "It was not Matteo—they said it was his son."

"I suppose that the soldiers were taking him to Reggio for trial!"

Giuseppina again nodded her head.

"And what is likely to become of him?"

The girl twisted her finger in the chain which she wore, tightening it round her neck, but only answered with a shrug, "Chi sa?" And quitted the room to bring in the rest of the dinner.

"Horace! What a dreadful place we have come to!" gasped Mrs. Cleveland.

The youth laughed as he seated himself at the table. "It is clear that one has some chance of an adventure in Calabria," said he.

"Keep me from adventures!" exclaimed the lady. "Did not the girl tell us—I could hardly understand her, for she spoke so fast—of people being robbed and murdered on the high road by banditti?"

"Ah! But the soldiers are wide awake," suggested Horace, helping the maccaroni. "I hope that they—" (he was not now speaking of the military) "will bring us something better worth eating than this!"

Giuseppina pushed the door open with her knee, and reentered, a dish of omelet in one hand, a second full of snow in the other, and a bottle of wine under her arm.

"Where will the soldiers be to-night?" asked Mrs. Cleveland with some anxiety. "I wish that we had asked for an escort."

"They'll be at Staiti, no doubt," answered Giuseppina, setting down the viands which she had brought.

"We'll be at Staiti to-night also," said Horace; adding in English, "so, mother, you need fear nothing."

"Staiti to-night! No, it would be dark ere the signori could arrive there," observed Giuseppina; "The signori can have good beds here."

"Here!" exclaimed Horace, looking around him in disgust. "The place is not fit for a hound!"

"But, my dear child," said Mrs. Cleveland, "safety is to be thought of even before comfort."

Horace replied to his mother, like herself speaking in English, which Giuseppina, unnecessarily loitering by the table, tried to understand with her eyes, as it conveyed no meaning to her ears: "You talk of safety as if this place were safe. Have you not just heard that one of the gang of banditti is below—a fellow let loose from a prison?"

"The improvisatore?" said Mrs. Cleveland. "I did not understand that he was actually one of the band."

"But I did," pursued Horace, in his overbearing manner; "and I saw the master of this very house, who, by the way, looks a ruffian if ever there was one, in close conference with this very Raphael, who has doubtless come here for no good."

Mrs. Cleveland pushed away the plate of untasted food before her, nervous anxiety having taken from the weary lady all inclination to eat. Horace, to whom a little danger was rather a pleasant excitement, had already half demolished the omelet.

"The signora is not well, the signora must not travel further to-day," suggested Giuseppina.

Horace glanced up hastily at his mother; but seeing on her anxious countenance nothing to excite his fears for her health, he impatiently motioned to the girl to quit the room, as he felt more at his ease when her black eyes were not watching his lips, Giuseppina with lingering step withdrew.

"I wish that you would eat, mother; you know that you will be quite exhausted, if you don't," cried Horace in a tone of vexation.

"I can't travel in the dark—I can't go to be waylaid—robbed—perhaps—"

"Don't you see," cried Horace, striking the handle of his spoon on the table to give more force to his argument, "that if we stay here we are just as likely to come to grief? Have you never heard or read of horrid little wayside inns kept by robbers in disguise; of beds contrived to fall down upon travelers and crush them; of stealthy footsteps at night—and all that sort of thing? Now this seems to be exactly the place for such an unpleasant adventure."