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from Monte Catillo, over the olive heights of Tivoli, to
Frascati and the flanks of the Albans. Westward, the
Campagna was
shrouded in violet gloom. The tallest
of the pines and cypresses in
Hadrian's Villa, catching
the last of the sunset-glow, burned slowly to
their
summits, like torches extinguished by currents of air
from
below. Between Castel Arcione and the base of
the Sabines, where the
intermingling summits sweep
upward frolll the Montecelli to Palombara,
and thence
by giant Subiaco to the innumerable peaks and ranges
of
the mountain-land beyond, lay a white mist, wan as
the sheen of a new
moon on burnt grass—save in the
direction of the ancient Lago de'
Tartari, where it hung
heavy and darkly grey, dense as it was with the
sulphur-
fumes of the Acquae Albulae.
the hill-road curves to the left. the
off waveringly betwixt the Palombara road and the
highway
from Rome to Tivoli: at first like a bridle-way,
then but a sheep-path
or dried-up course of a hill-torrent.
Following this, one enters the
wild and lonely Glen of
the Shepherds, though seldom does any shepherd
wander
there, and even the solitary goatherd rarely descends
from
the steep heights of Sterpara that overhang it from
the west.
had called through the dusk with clear, thrilling notes:
one after another had swung a sudden lilt of music
across the myrtles,
through the thickets of wild rose and
honeysuckles, over the clustered
arbutus, and down by
the birch-hollows, where the narrow stream
crawled
suffocatingly through fern-clumps and tufted grasses.
Close to where some stunted, decrepit olives clung
despairingly to a bank of fissured soil rose a wild mag-
nolia, whose
white blooms gleamed in the twilight like
ivory discs. Suddenly, from
where its topmost sprays still
retained a dusky green hue, a thrush
sprang violently
into the air and darted westward against the
crimson
light, clattering loudly and shrilly like a
heavily-feathered
arrow whistling towards the already blood-strewn
flanks
of a beast of prey. A nightingale among the myrtles
near
flew earthward, dipping his breast against the dewy
anemones that
clustered in the shadow; but ere the
spray whence he had slipt like a
rain-drop had ceased
its last tremulous vibration he was swinging, with
out-
spread wings, upon a branch of the deserted magnolia.
Then
came a loud summoning cry, a few low calls, and
all at once a burst of
ecstatic song. In a few moments
all was still around, save for the
shrilling of the locusts
and the distant croaking of frogs. But
suddenly, and
in the midst of his love-song, the nightingale
ceased,
gave a broken, dissonant cry, and with a rapid tilt and
poise of his wings was lost in the under-dark like a
blown leaf.
nolia. A small, dark figure crept on out, and then a boy
of
some ten or twelve years rose to his feet, stretched
himself warily,
ran his hands through his shaggy black
hair, and began to mutter to
himself. All at once he
inclined his head and listened intently. Before
he could
sink back to his shelter, two young men stepped
noise-
lessly from behind the higher olives, the taller of the
two
coming rapidly forward.
the boy alert for flight; "it is I—Andrea Falcone."
is time enough. What is the message? "
Both
young men were singularly handsome, with clear-
cut features, dark,
eloquent eyes, and faces pale as
blanched ivory. Lithe and vigorous
mountaineers, they had
all the grace and dignity of the Roman
peasant;
and though they had the Campagna melancholy in
their faces, each had
that alert look common to all the
Sabine muleteers. Everyone in the
Montecelli knew
the cousins Andrea Falcone and Marco Vaccaro; and
in
the hill-town of S. Angelo in Capoccia itself, there was no
question as to their pre-eminence in all things that,
locally,
constituted good fortune. Not only was the story
of their deep
friendship well known—a friendship so
close that one would never go far
without the other, to
the extent that if a rich
as a guide up Subiaco, he
would perforce have to engage
both—but, the gossips of the
hill-villages were each and
all aware of the love Andrea and Marco bore
for Vittoria
and Anita, the daughters of Giovan' Antonio Della
Porta,
the vintner and ex-brigand of that remote and highest
hill-town of the Sabines, San Polo de'Cavalieri. Naturally,
it was
delightful food for these gossips when a feud broke
out between the
muleteers of San Polo and of Palombara
and San Angelo, in consequence
of which neither Andrea
nor Marco dare set foot in the vicinage of the
town—not
only because old Della Porta swore that, whether they
willed or no, his daughters should marry none but men
of pure Sabine
blood, and certainly no accurst Roman
contadini (for all their
hill-folk talk!), but also because
a league of San Polo youths and men,
headed by Simone
Gaetano and Gregorio da Forma, had sworn to
poniard
any" Angelinis" they found within the village boundaries.
It was quite natural that Gregorio da Forma and Gae-
tano should be the
active ministers in this league of hate,
for the former was desirous of
Anita Della Porta and
Simone lusted after the beautiful Vittoria. But
both
girls were closely watched, and though they had several
times
managed to meet their lovers in the woods, or amid
the copses of the
Glen of the Shepherds, such encounters
were no longer possible. The
girls had, indeed, but one
ally, but one emissary—their young
half-brother, Guido.
Guido loved his sisters; but he had another bond
of
fellowship—hatred of their morose and tyrannical father.
Twice
had Vittoria and Anita tried to evade those who
kept an eye on them:
once by attempted flight to
Vicovara and once across Ponte Rotto to
Castel Ma-
dama—for they had imagined success impossible by
way of Palombara. It was after the last occasion that
old Della Porta
had publicly proclaimed the approaching
marriage of his daughters with
Simone Gaetano and
Gregorio da Forma.
thin hair-daggers as the Sabine men with their poniards.
A girl of the
Sabines, moreover, does not hesitate to use
her dagger in offence as
well as in self-defence; and,
when the blood-vow is once sworn, the
steel, as the
saying is, sweats with thirst.
Falcone and his friend and kinsman, Marco, were met
in the
Glen of the Shepherds, within an easy eagle's-
flight of San Polo. If
any muleteer on Sterpara or
goatherd on the slopes should see them, the
cry would
go from coign to coign, and find a score of fierce
echoes
in the dark narrow streets of the mountain vilbge. As
for
Guido, he ran the chance of a flaying from his father,
or eyen a
knifing from cruel, treacherous Simone or from
sullen Gregorio.
while Marco eyed the neighbourhood like a hawk, and
Guido stood as taut and eager as a goat about to leap.
Vittoria or Anita. But this is their last night."
startled but suppressed voice.
"To-morrow Vittoria will be wed to Simone and Anita
to
Gregorio."
that seemed to paralyse even gesture or glance.
in a thick, husky voice.
great black eyes flashing half-inquiringly, half-sus-
piciously.
witness. It was in the moonlight, by the old fountain
I beyond the
church."
smile.
But—
When 'tis wet, who can say there shall be no
flood?"
Anita free of their blood-ban if once they be wedded."
himself for it! "
cross from his neck, stepped close to the young men.
Vaccaro. that henceforth I am your younger brother:
and that your home
in San Angelo in Capoccia shall be
my home: and your kin my kin: and we
be one ever-
more in the curse and in the blessing? Already you
are
my elder-brothers, but you have not sworn. Will
you swear now ?
no more of my father's household or even of San Polo."
Porta," said Andrea, solemnly, kissing the cross and
making the sacred
sign upon his forehead and upon his
breast.
fully around, and then with downcast eyes and trembling
hands
whispered that he was breaking a solemn vow
which he had perforce taken
that very day.
pietro will absolve thee to-morrow, or as soon as you can
come to San Angelo."
Gaetano. When I looked through the chink in the
great barn, I saw
that Gregorio da Forma was also there,
with his hand at his mouth
half-covering his black
beard. Simone's smooth, fat face was agleam
with
sweat, and he rubbed his bald forehead again and again.
though his eyes narrowed and widened like a cat's in
the twilight. All the time I watched, Simone never
ceased to wipe his
brows, and never once did Gregorio
take away his hand from his
mouth."
tered Marco, savagely. "Aha! Signore Gregorio da
Forma. I know
that which would bring you to the
hangman in Rome, or the knife
anywhere where men
say Garibaldi and Italia in one breath!"
is already arranged by God. The ink which was black
is turning red, and
the hour is at hand. Guido, say
what you have to say."
father at first would have nought to say to
comfort
Simone and Gregorio when they told him of the rumour
that
Vittoria and Anita had sworn the virgin-vow against
them. But at last
Simone, miserly though he be, won
him over. He promised him"—
mind
Gregorio might laugh at the girls' vows,
clasped his knife.
said that no one should be in the house to-night, after
the feast which
he is to give is over; and that Simone
and Gregorio might take that
which would be theirs by
law on the morrow. The virgin-vow would
thus
be made useless as old straw, as void as yesterday's wind.
There would be none to interfere. If the girls
screamed "—
while Marco made a low, hissing noise like a
wind-eddy
upon ice. "Is this thing to be done to-night? Ay, so:
I
believe you. No, no: I want to hear no more. What
does anything else
matter. We must be there, too,
Marco—if we have to go to our death at
the same time.
replied; though, after a moment's hesitation, he stooped
and whispered in his cousin's ear. Andrea smiled grimly.
to
their homes by nine at latest. There is to be a
sunrise-Sacrament
to-morrow, and everyone will be
abed early. Vittoria and Anita will not
sit long with
the men; but go to their room, where my father will
doubtless lock them in."
looking the Vicolo da Pozza."
secretly as you can. Tell Vittoria and Anita all you
know. Tell them we
are here"—
and join you in the wood," broke in Guido, with eager
anticipation.
laugh. "Tell them to wait in their room till we
come. Now, go. And
see: make us a sign when we
can slip in unperceived by the hole in the
wall at the
old Piazza del Giove. We can get into your house by
the empty palazzo next it. Then you will take us to
your sisters'
room."
you."
leapt from thicket to thicket till he was out of sight
in
the undergrowth.
shadow as much as possible. They interchanged few
words, and then only
in whispers. An hour passed
thus; during which they reached the upper
end of the
Glen of the Shepherds and ascended the steep, wooded
heights of Monte di San Polo. From where they crouched
they could
see clearly the black mass of the western side
of the village rising
sheer, like a smooth cliff of basalt,
and without apparent inlet. But
they knew where the
hole in the ruinous wall was, close by the
deserted
Piazza del Giove; and they kept their gaze upon the
spot, passionately
intent for the signal from Guido.
after eight. The cousins looked at each other, but said
nothing for some minutes.
me, he won't do that" —muttered Marco, at last—"but
if he should have
been caught, or even unable to get
away alone"——
round the disc of the hole in the wall.
us
go. Remember—everything—our lives—depend
upon our discretion. I know
the way best. Follow me."
skirt of undergrowth, and up the short stony ascent
that led apparently
against a blank precipice of stone
wall. For a moment, when close,
Andrea hesitated, but
a low whistle guided him aright; and in a few
minutes
he and Marco were in San Polo. A few seconds more,
and
they were in the old deserted house that adjoined
the Casa Della
Porta.
opened, and soon nearly all the guests were gone. At
last all had
bidden good-night except Simone Gaetano
and his friend Gregorio. With a
sullen curse, as though
half-ashamed of himself, Giovan' Antonio threw
a key
on the table.
'Tis but a night here or a night
there! But, look you
—no undue violence, you know! For myself, I am
dead
beat with sleep, and don't expect to hear a sound till
cock-crow."
night, the beetle-browed vintner flung himself into a
huge
rush-chair by the hearth-place. He had begun to
snore lustily, when,
just as his companions were moving
from the room, he called
angrily:
Do you want all San Polo to keep you company?"
Gregorio filled two tankards with wine, one with white,
one with
red.
joined him; "here's
Vittoria's health, lovely blonde that she is; and
here's
my bumper of dark marino to the black hair and black
eyes
of my beautiful Anita!"
marauders they were, they stole upstairs. Each started
violently when
the silence was suddenly broken by the
tower-clock striking the first
quarter after nine.
father," whispered Simone, as Gregorio gently inserted
the key in the
lock, and noiselessly turned it.
white amidst the gloom as innocent childhood. A new
fear came upon
them. If one of the girls had laughed,
or even screamed, it would have
been a relief. Each
vaguely realised that he was doubly a coward, for
now
each was appalled by his own cowardice. When a
wavering shaft
of moonlight, that had been gilding the
stone-carving above the window,
stole into the room, a
dread came upon them that the girls slept, and
had
prayed, and that God watched them.
heart leap within him.
ner of the room, passed across the face of Vittoria, making
her mass of blonde hair like a drift of melted amber. But
her eyes were
open, and looking straight at him.
husband. Do not be afraid, my little one! I want
to
kiss you only—for the sake of good luck to-morrow."
through the room.
the left, Gregorio to the right.
Both men stopped abruptly, glanced towards each other,
took courage,
and moved on again.
the room, as Simone and Gregorio simultaneously felt
themselves seized
in a savage, relentless grip and
dragged on to the bed.
Gaetano?" cried Andrea, as with one arm he pinioned
his shivering
rival, and with the other pressed a knife
against his breast.
da Forma?" snarled Marco savagely, as with his left
hand he pulled back
his foe's head till he could look
into the staring eyes, and with his
right hand pressed
his poniard against his heaving side.
at
the same time, a hoarse choking sob sounded horribly
through the
room.
prop
the dead men, one in one bed, one in the other,
with their dusky-white
faces visible in the gloom, pil-
lowed behind, and as though ready to
greet expected
incomers.
bridle-path of La Scarpellata, from his tavern at high-
set San
Filippo, with intent to breakfast with his kins-
man Simone on the
morrow of his marriage, thought
he had never seen a lovelier night, a
more glorious
dawn. Far away, above the Campagna, hung the moon
like a vast yellow flower slowly sinking into blue depths.
Eastward,
beyond Soracte and above the Ciminian Forest,
the stars grew paler,
with more languid pulsations,
or icy steadfastness. In the woodlands
straight below
the nightingales sang bewilderingly, and in the
nearer
thickets a maze of fireflies made the dusk starred like
a
great city by night.
shoulder of Subiaco, and fell upon the landscape before
him in flowing amber and marvellous flushes, he was so
rapt by the great
beauty that he did not note, in an
ilex grove to his left, four
sleeping figures, two here,
and two there; Vittoria, white as a
windflower, in the
arms of Andrea; Anita, dark as a violet, pillowed
against
the breast of Marco.
path from San Polo de' Cavalieri, he came upon a boy,
so
steadfastly intent in his gaze southward that he heard
nothing.
good Egidio genially. But to his surprise the boy gave
him nought save
a flash from his dark eyes, and the
next moment was up and away,
leaping and running
like a young goat.
to
San Angelo! Ha! Ha! What an idea. Some marriage
prank he's up to, I'll
be bound. Ah,
was twenty
years younger, and in Simone's place! I
wouldn't even mind being in
worthy Signor Gregorio's
for that matter!
of ours! No wonder tho
men came out of Rome and
stole them long ago before the good Popes
heard about
it! Aha, Signori Andrea and Marco, good cousins,
brave
cavaliers, dauntless knights-errant, where are you
now? You may
whistle, my lads! No carrying off
the Sabine women nowadays, ha,
ha!"
the long grass, blew a foam of white blossoms upon the
rider and his
mule. High up in the golden sunlight
the sweet penetrating flute-notes
of the boy-shepherds
called blithely from steep to steep.
sight of San Polo, still coldly white, like an unopened
flower; "God be
thanked, though I be old and fat, love
is a good thing. Ah, Simone, you
rogue! Eh? what,
Gregorio?"