A Love Story, by a Bushman - - (the speed reading book .TXT) 📗

in England, and like London very much.”

 

George conversed with him for some time; and found him to be one of that

class, whose numbers make us unmindful of their wants or their

loneliness; who eke out a miserable pittance, by carrying busts of

plaster-of-Paris—grinding on an organ—or displaying through Europe,

the tricks of some poodle dog, or the eccentricities of a monkey

disguised in scarlet.

 

It is rare that these come from a part of Italy so far south; but it

appeared in this instance, that Giuseppe’s father being a carrier, had

taken him with him to Milan—had there met a friend, rich in an organ and

porcupine—and had entrusted the boy to his care, in order that he might

see the world, and make his fortune.

 

Giuseppe gave a narrative of some little events, that had occurred to him

during his wanderings, which greatly interested George; and he finally

concluded, by saying that his father had now retired to his native place

at Barberini, where many strangers came to see the “antichità.” George,

on referring to the guide book, found that this was indeed the case; and

that Isola Barberini is marked as the site of ancient Veii, the rival of

young Rome.

 

“And when do you go there, youngster, and how far is it from this?”

 

“I am going now, Signore, to be in time for supper. It is only a

‘piccolo giro’ across the fields; and looks as well by moonlight as at

any other time.”

 

“Ah!” replied George, “I would be glad to accompany you. Henry,” said he,

as he entered the room of the inn, “I am away on a classic excursion to

Veii. The night is lovely—I have an excellent guide—and shall be back

before you have finished your punch making.

 

“Do let me go!” and he lowered his voice, and the tears swam in his eyes,

“I cannot endure these rude sounds of merriment, and a moonlight walk will

at least afford nothing that can thus pain me.”

 

Sir Henry looked out. The night was perfectly fine. The young peasant,

all willingness, had already shouldered his bundle, and was preparing to

move forward.

 

“You must not be late, George,” said his brother, assenting to his

proposal. “Do not stay too long about the ruins. Remember that you are

still delicate, and that I shall wait supper for you.”

 

As the boy led on, George followed him in a foot path, which led through

fields of meadow land, corn, and rye.

 

The fire-flies—mimic meteors—were giddily winging their way from bush to

bush,—illuming the atmosphere, and imparting to the scene a glittering

beauty, which a summer night in a northern clime cannot boast.

 

As they approached somewhat nearer to the hamlet, their course was over

ground more rugged; and the disjointed fragments of rocks strewed, and at

intervals obstructed, the path.

 

The cottages were soon reached.

 

The villagers were all in front of their dwellings, taking their last meal

for the day, in the open air.

 

The young guide stopped in front of a cottage, a little apart from the

rest. The family party were seated round a rude table, on which were

plates and napkins.

 

Before the master of the house—a wrinkled old man, with long grey

hair—was a smoking tureen of bread soup, over which he was in the act of

sprinkling some grated Parmesan cheese.

 

A plate of green figs, and a large water melon—the cocomero—made up

the repast.

 

“Giuseppe! you are late for supper,” said the old patriarch, as the boy

approached to whisper his introduction of the stranger.

 

The old man waved his hand courteously—made a short apology for the

humble viands—and pointed to a vacant seat.

 

“Many thanks,” said George, “but my supper already awaits me. I will not,

however, interfere with my young guide. Show me the ruins, Giuseppe, and I

will trouble you no further.”

 

The boy moved on towards what were indeed ruins, or rather the

vestige of such.

 

Here a misshapen stone—there a shattered column—decaying walls,

overgrown with nettles—arches and caves, choked up with rank

vegetation—bespoke remains unheeded, and but rarely visited.

 

George threw the boy a piece of silver—heard his repeated cautions as

to his way to Storta—and wished him good night, as he hurried back to

the cottage.

 

George Delmé sat on the shaft of a broken pillar, his face almost buried

in his hands, as he looked around him on a scene once so famous.

 

But with him classic feelings were not uppermost. The widowed

heart mourned its loneliness; and in that calm hour found the full

relief of tears.

 

The mourner rose, and turned his face homeward, slowly—sadly—but

resignedly.

 

The heavens had become more overcast—and clouds occasionally were

hiding the moon.

 

It was with some difficulty that George avoided the pieces of rock which

obstructed the path.

 

The road seemed longer, and wilder, than he had previously thought it.

 

Suddenly the loud bay of dogs was borne to his ear; and almost, before he

had time to turn from the path, two large hounds brushed past him,

followed by a rider—his gun slung before his saddle—and his horse

fearlessly clattering over the loose stones.

 

The horseman seemed a young Roman farmer. He did not salute, and probably

did not observe our traveller. As the sound from the horse receded, and

the clamour of the dogs died away, a feeling almost akin to alarm crossed

George’s mind.

 

George was one, however, who rarely gave way to vague fears.

 

It so happened that he was armed.

 

Delancey had made him a present of a brace of pocket pistols, during the

days of their friendship; and, very much to Sir Henry’s annoyance, George

had been in the habit, since leaving Malta, of constantly carrying these

about him.

 

He strode on without adventure, until entering the field of rye.

 

The pathway became very narrow—so that on either side him, he grazed

against the bearded ears.

 

Suddenly he heard a rustling sound. The moon at the moment broke from

a dark cloud, and he fancied he discerned a figure near him half hid

by the rye.

 

Again the moon was shrouded.

 

A rustling again ensued.

 

George felt a ponderous blow, which, aimed at the left shoulder, struck

his left arm.

 

The collar of his coat was instantaneously grasped.

 

For a moment, George Delmé felt irresolute—then drew a pistol from his

pocket and fired.

 

The hold was loosened—a man fell at his feet.

 

The pistol’s flash revealed another figure, which diving into the

corn—fled precipitately.

 

Let us turn to Sir Henry Delmé and to Thompson.

 

For some time after George’s departure, they were busily engaged in

preparing supper.

 

While they were thus occupied, they noticed that the Papal soldiers

whispered much together—but this gave rise to no suspicion on

their part.

 

One by one the soldiers strolled out, and the landlord betook himself to

the kitchen.

 

The punch was duly made, and Sir Henry, leaving the room, paced

thoughtfully in front of the inn.

 

At length it struck him, that it was almost time for his brother to

return.

 

He was entering the inn, for the purpose of making some enquiries; when he

saw one of the soldiers cross the road hurriedly, and go into the

courtyard, where he was immediately joined by the vetturino.

 

Delmé turned in to the house, and called for the landlord.

 

Before the latter could appear, George rushed into the room.

 

His hat was off—his eyes glared wildly—his long hair streamed back,

wet with the dews of night. He dragged with him the body of one of the

soldiers; and threw it with supernatural strength into the very centre

of the room.

 

“Supper!” said he, “ha, ha, ha! I have brought you supper!”

 

The man was quite dead.

 

The bullet had pierced his neck and throat. The blood was yet flowing, and

had dabbled the white vest. His beard and hair were clotted with gore.

 

Shocked as Sir Henry was, the truth flashed on him. He lost not a moment

in beckoning to Thompson, and rushing towards the stable. The driver was

still there, conversing with the soldier.

 

As Sir Henry approached, they evinced involuntary confusion; and the

vetturino–at once unmanned—fell on his knees, and commenced a

confession.

 

They were dragged into the inn, and the officers of justice were sent for.

 

Sir Henry Delmé‘s anxious regards were now directed to his brother.

 

George had taken a seat near the corpse; and was sternly regarding it with

fixed, steady, and unflinching gaze.

 

It is certainly very fearful to mark the dead—with pallid

complexion—glazed eye—limbs fast stiffening—and gouts of

blood—standing from out the face, like crimson excrescences on a

diseased leaf.

 

But it is far more fearful than even this, to look on one, who is bound

to us by the nearest and most cherished ties—with cheek yet

glowing—expression’s flush mantling still—and yet to doubt whether the

intellect, which adorned that frame—the jewel in the casket—hath not for

ever left its earthly tenement.

 

Chapter VII.

 

The Vetturini.

 

“Far other scene is Thrasymene now.”

 

*

 

“Fair Florence! at thy day’s decline

When came the shade from Appennine,

And suddenly on blade and bower

The fire-flies shed the sparkling shower,

As if all heaven to earth had sent

Each star that gems the firmament;

‘Twas sweet at that enchanting hour,

To bathe in fragrance of the Italian clime,

By Arno’s stream.”

 

The brothers were detained a few days at Storta; while the Roman police,

who, to do them justice, were active on the occasion, and showed every

anxiety to give the travellers as little trouble as possible—were

investigating the occurrences we have described. It appeared that some

suspicion had previously attached itself to Vittore Santado, and that the

eyes of the police had been on him for some time.

 

It now became evident, both from his own confession, and subsequent

discoveries, that this man had for years trafficked in the lives and

property of others;—and that the charge connected with George, was one of

the least grave, that would be brought against him.

 

It was shown that he was an active agent, in aiding the infamous designs

of that inn, on the Italian frontier, whose enormities have given rise to

more than one thrilling tale of fiction, far out-done by the

reality—that inn—where the traveller retired to rest—but rose not

refreshed to prosecute his journey:—where—if he slumbered but once,

that sleep was his last.

 

Until now, his career had been more than usually successful.

 

The crafty vetturino had had the art to glean a fair reputation even from

his crimes.

 

More than once, had he induced a solitary traveller to leave the high road

and his carriage, for the purpose of visiting some ruin, or viewing some

famous prospect.

 

On such occasions, Vittore’s accomplices were in waiting; and the

unsuspecting stranger—pillaged and alarmed, would return to the vettura

penniless.

 

Vittore would be foremost in his commiseration; and with an air of blunt

sincerity, would proffer the use of his purse; such conduct ensuring the

gratitude, and the after recommendations of his dupe.

 

It is supposed that the vetturino had contemplated rifling the carriage in

the inn yard; but some suspicion as to the servant’s not leaving the

luggage, and the sort of dog fidelity displayed by Thompson towards the

brothers; had induced him rather to sanction an attempt on George during

his imprudent excursion to Barberini.

 

Vittore Santado was executed near the Piazza del Popolo, and