The Sea-Witch, Maturin Murray Ballou [nonfiction book recommendations txt] 📗

swifter still flew the brisk burden, “Tira la la.”

“Good people all,” the chief now said, “we have piped this man to play, and now that we the pipes have tuned, ‘tis fair his purse should pay.”

“Villain!” replied the veteran, testily, “ye shall not have a doit!”

“Good luck, our friend’s not satisfied,” returned the mask. “And yet we’ve done our best. Well then, Jean Maret, we will offer you a change. Doubtless you have seen the dance which is inspired by the bite of our famous black spider. Let us see if our good steel may not be able to supply the place of the spider. Come then, my lads, strike up ‘La Tarantula.’”

Again Jean was forced to display his powers of agility, as flew the music and the accompanying voices, onward and still on, with ever-increasing rapidity. At length his obstinacy was overcome, as much by the absurdity of the affair as its personal inconvenience.

“Cease, cease,” he cried; “have done with this, and the money you demand shall be forthcoming. A pack of fiends were better companions, I trow, than your blackamoor troop. Let me on, then, and I will lead you to my cash-box, and after you have there satisfied yourselves, I pray you to go your ways like honest thieves, as you are.”

“Take heed what you say, Jean,” replied the chief masker. “We are honest, that is true enough, and we only want a fair payment for our services. Our band never performs for a less price than a thousand crowns, nor will we ask more than this of a worthy soldier like yourself. So lead the way, my friend, we follow close on your steps.”

With jingling steel and shrilly pipe, the troop retraced its course, till on arriving at the lodging-place of Jean Maret, the latter paid down the needful scot, indulging himself while counting out the coin in various hearty objurgations which seemed to add no little to the amusement of his hearers. Meanwhile, from mouth to mouth, among the villagers, who gathered round the scene, passed the whispered murmur:

“Sartello, the bandit chief, and his followers!”

The person thus indicated turned to the shrinking crowd, and lifting the mask from his face, he addressed them thus:

“Good friends, our play is finished. The players through me, desire to make you their most respectful bow, thanking you for your good company. We rejoice to see that you are pleased with our endeavors for your amusement, and will hope that when next we chance to meet, we may therein be as fortunate as now.”

At the word, each of the troop made a low obeisance, and with their leader, quickly retreated from the village. By slow degrees, the streets were cleared, though here and there a few lingered along to talk over the occurrences of the night. It was not till near the dawn of morn that the village again became quiet, when in the early dew, a carriage drove swiftly up to the inn, the door of which the coachman, having leaped from his seat, banged with might and main. At length old Gaspar thrust his night-capped head from an upper window.

“What means this cursed din?” he angrily exclaimed.

“Come down—come down!” the coachman replied, in a gruff voice. “Here is Prince Reklovstt waiting at your door.”

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed the landlord, withdrawing his head in a fluster. “It can be no common prince, this, with such a jaw-breaking name. Here Francesco, Rosa, wife, all of you! hurry, haste down stairs as quickly as you can!”

The household were quickly astir, the doors were unbarred, and Gaspar presented himself before the prince, who had just descended from the carriage. The Russian lord—for any one would have known him as such by his appearance—possessed a long beard, thick eyebrows, and eyes, whose look was chiefly a chilly and impenetrable stare.

“He must be monstrous rich,” thought Gaspar; “he has such a bearish way with him.”

The coachman, who seemed also to serve as interpreter, now addressed the host in tolerable Italian, easy enough to be understood, though interspersed now and then with some queer sounding words.

“The prince wishes to breakfast. Quick then! bring a turkey, a quart of brandy, a cup of fat, a good cheese pie, and a reindeer’s tongue.”

The landlord was filled with astonishment and respect.

“O, servant of a mighty lord!” he said, “our larder is to-day somewhat scant, for crowds of guests have scoured our house of all its choicest fare. But we will give you the very best we have, if you will deign to accept it.”

The coachman seemed disturbed, but consulted the prince, who answered him with a frown and a growl of foreign words.

“Mine host!” rejoined the interpreter, “the prince doth condescend to accept. But be sure, whatever else fails, that the brandy is good.”

The coachman and his master now engaged themselves in a harsh-sounding conversation, wherein one would have judged that the vowels were far less plentiful than the consonants. Near half an hour thus passed, when—wondrous speed!—a half cooked fowl was placed on the table, together with olives, grapes, and sour brown bread. The Russian lord upon seeing this rare repast spread before him, gave vent to what sounded very like a Sclavonic invective, but nevertheless plunged his knife into the midst of the fowl, and carved and growled, and growled and eat, apparently bent on the most murderous havoc. Meantime, his servant turned to Gaspar.

“The prince hath heard one of your village youths, by name, Gulielmo Massani, commended much for his high talent and great pictorial skill.”

“Ah!” murmured Gaspar, to himself, “heard one ever such elegant discourse?”

“The prince last evening met upon the road an old acquaintance, who told him much concerning this lad; recounted his whole history, and told how he drew wonderful resemblances of birds, and beasts, and men.”

“‘Tis true,” replied Gaspar. “Strange that I should never have thought of it before.”

“So, therefore, the prince offers to patronize the gifted youth, and send him a couple of years or more to Rome, where he will be able to make himself a perfect artist, and get fortune at such a rate that he can soon roll in gold.”

“San Dominic!” said the host; “surely Gulielmo’s luck has turned. They say that Jean, last night, was robbed of more than half his store. and so, I do not know—but Rosa—”

“You’re right,” interrupted the other speaker. “Two hundred crowns are yours, provided Rosa waits two years against Gulielmo’s safe return.”

“Ahem!” exclaimed the somewhat surprised landlord. “How comes it that you know of this? And yet the girl grieves sorely. I will take you at your word.”

The courier nodded and spake to his master, who, with a pompous air, told in his open hand the glittering gold, which was seen transferred to Gaspar’s eager grasp.

“And now where is this same Gulielmo?” inquired the courier. “Bring him hither as quickly as possible. I doubt not, when he hears of his advancement, that he will leap for joy.”

The youth presently arrived. The courier informed him of the matter in hand, while the prince nodded his head most graciously, and smiled so grim a smile that all the servants looked on dismayed.

“Haste,” said the courier to Gulielmo, “pack up your knapsack as quickly as may be, and bid Rosa adieu, for it is time that we were on the road for Rome. There thou shalt undertake the painter’s art, and work for fame and bread. And, if all works prosperously, you shall soon be able to wed the fairest maid of all the land.”

An hour passed; the carriage drew up before the inn door, the host delivered his most obsequious bow, fair Rosa bade farewell to her lover, the prince and Gulielmo entered the stately vehicle, and, with a loud crack of the coachman’s whip, the travellers set out for Rome.

 

CHAPTER III.

THE STUDENT’S RETURN.

 

THE two years had elapsed, when on a bright June afternoon, a weary pilgrim halted within a grove which overlooked the village of Sorento. He gazed around for a moment, as if in expectation of some one, and then sat down upon a mossy stone.

“It was here,” said he, “that he bade me wait on my return. And yet—”

“He is with you,” said Sartello, leaving the scraggy laurel behind which he had concealed himself. “What cheer brings thou from Rome, my gallant lad’? Certes, thy look is loftier and manlier now, whatever fortune thou hast had.”

“Kind friend,” replied the youth, “I may say that I have had both good and ill fortune; though mostly good, if thou dost agree with my opinion. I bring, through intercession of the pope, a pardon from our king. And thou and thine, if henceforth ye are pleased to remain at peace, will be accepted by the law which now holds your lives forfeit.”

Sartello grasped with a vice-like pressure the hand which the youth held out.

“I am well repaid, Gulielmo, for what little I have done in thy behalf, since thou hast thus brought me my heart’s desire. No more will we roam the land, outlaws from honest men. We will till and toil, and freely live, scathless and void of care. But of thyself, what speed? say quickly.”

The youth frankly smiled.

“My pocket is rather low,” he said, “although my hopes are not. I have gained some honor, whatever its worth may be. And now, how fares the gentle maid whom I so long to see?”

“Ah,” replied Sartello, shaking his head sadly, “these women are indeed a puzzle. I fear much that Rosa’s mind has changed since your departure. Absence, as the poets say, is love’s worst bane. But let her go, Gulielmo; fairer charms than hers will soon ease your pain.”

Gulielmo stood for a moment as colorless as marble.

“Is this the reward,” he said, at length, “of all my weary toil?”

“Pray comfort yourself,” replied his friend. “I may as well tell you the worst at once. They say that her wedding-dress is prepared. Jean Maret’s gold, and the importunities of old Gaspar, have been too much, fancy, for her fickle resolution.”

A single tear fell from Gulielmo, notwithstanding the proud compressure of his lips.

“Let it be so,” said he. “I will make no words about it. Neither will I shun her sight. I will face it out, and shame them who think to flout me thus.”

“Bravo, my lad!” exclaimed Sartello. “I find that you are of the true stuff. So come along; the hour is already near, when she is to change her name. I feared at first to tell you the tale, but am glad to learn that my fears were needless.”

Gulielmo’s burning cheek might have sown the pain which raged within his breast: but, nevertheless, he accompanied Sartello with a firm and confident stop till they reached the inn where the guests had already begun to assemble. In the porch, by the side of Jean Maret, sat Rosa, with a few flowers in her hair, her countenance as sweet to view as the first blush of a May morn. But when she met the fiery glance which Gulielmo cast upon her, she seemed abashed, and half turned toward her companion, with a silent appeal of the eyes. The priest now arrived, and all was made ready, Gulielmo looking on with a heated brain, and a feverish sickness gnawing at his heart. He was only able to see a single lovely face, in which a sudden sadness seemed to dim its former smiling grace.

“Why wait we?” bluffly exclaimed Jean Maret. “The priest awaits, the bride is ready. Gulielmo Massani, come forward; Rosa has chosen you as bridesman.”

“Scoundrel!” replied Gulielmo, “dare no jests with me, else your life may fail you before your wedding is over.”

“My