The Bravo, James Fenimore Cooper [best book reader .txt] 📗

wished it, Jacopo?"

"Signore, greatly," returned the accused, with a show of emotion, that had not hitherto escaped him. "I was a man condemned of his fellows, and the oar had been my pride, from childhood to that hour."

Another movement of the third inquisitor betrayed equally his interest and his surprise.

"Dost thou confess the crime?"

Jacopo smiled, but more in derision than with any other feeling.

"If the illustrious senators here present will unmask, I may answer that question, haply, with greater confidence," he said.

"Thy request is bold and out of rule. None know the persons of the patricians who preside over the destinies of the state. Dost thou confess the crime?"

The entrance of an officer, in some haste, prevented a reply. The man placed a written report in the hands of the inquisitor in red, and withdrew. After a short pause, the guards were ordered to retire with their prisoner.

"Great senators!" said Jacopo, advancing earnestly towards the table, as if he would seize the moment to urge what he was about to say;--"Mercy! grant me your authority to visit one in the prisons, beneath the leads!--I have weighty reasons for the wish, and I pray you, as men and fathers, to grant it!"

The interest of the two, who were consulting apart on the new intelligence, prevented them from listening to what he urged. The other inquisitor, who was the Signer Soranzo, had drawn near the lamp, anxious to read the lineaments of one so notorious, and was gazing at his striking countenance. Touched by the pathos of his voice, and agreeably disappointed in the lineaments he studied, he took upon himself the power to grant the request.

"Humor his wish," he said to the halberdiers; "but have him in readiness to reappear."

Jacopo looked his gratitude, but fearful that the others might still interfere to prevent his wish, he hurried from the room.

The march of the little procession, which proceeded from the chamber of the inquisition to the summer cells of its victims, was sadly characteristic of the place and the government.

It went through gloomy and secret corridors, that were hid from the vulgar eye, while thin partitions only separated them from the apartments of the Doge, which, like the specious aspect of the state, concealed the nakedness and misery within, by their gorgeousness and splendor! On reaching the attic, Jacopo stopped, and turned to his conductors.

"If you are beings of God's forming," he said, "take off these clanking chains, though it be but for a moment."

The keepers regarded each other in surprise, neither offering to do the charitable office.

"I go to visit, probably for the last time," continued the prisoner, "a bed-ridden--I may say--a dying father, who knows nothing of my situation,--will ye that he should see me thus?"

The appeal which was made, more with the voice and manner, than in the words, had its effect. A keeper removed the chains, and bade him proceed. With a cautious tread, Jacopo advanced, and when the door was opened he entered the room alone, for none there had sufficient interest in an interview between a common Bravo and his father, to endure the glowing warmth of the place, the while. The door was closed after him, and the room became dark.

Notwithstanding his assumed firmness, Jacopo hesitated when he found himself so suddenly introduced to the silent misery of the forlorn captive. A hard breathing told him the situation of the pallet, but the walls, which were solid on the side of the corridor, effectually prevented the admission of light.

"Father!" said Jacopo with gentleness.

He got no answer.

"Father!" he repeated in a stronger voice.

The breathing became more audible, and then the captive spoke.

"Holy Maria hear my prayers!" he said feebly. "God hath sent thee, son, to close my eyes!"

"Doth thy strength fail thee, father?"

"Greatly--my time is come--I had hoped to see the light of the day again to bless thy dear mother and sister--God's will be done!"

"They pray for us both, father. They are beyond the power of the Senate."

"Jacopo, I do not understand thee!"

"My mother and sister are dead; they are saints in Heaven, father."

The old man groaned, for the tie of earth had not yet been entirely severed. Jacopo heard him murmuring a prayer, and he knelt by the side of his pallet.

"This is a sudden blow!" whispered the old man. "We depart together."

"They are long dead, father."

"Why hast thou not told me this before, Jacopo?"

"Hadst thou not sorrows enough without this? Now that thou art about to join them, it will be pleasant to know that they have so long been happy."

"And thou?--thou wilt be alone--give me thy hand--poor Jacopo!"

The Bravo reached forth and took the feeble member of his parent; it was clammy and cold.

"Jacopo," continued the captive, whose mind still sustained the body, "I have prayed thrice within the hour: once for my own soul--once for the peace of thy mother--lastly, for thee!"

"Bless thee, father!--bless thee! I have need of prayer!"

"I have asked of God favor in thy behalf. I have bethought me of all thy love and care--of all thy devotion to my age and sufferings. When thou wert a child, Jacopo, tenderness for thee tempted me to acts of weakness: I trembled lest thy manhood might bring upon me pain and repentance. Thou hast not known the yearnings of a parent for his offspring, but thou hast well requited them. Kneel, Jacopo, that I may ask of God, once more, to remember thee."

"I am at thy side, father."

The old man raised his feeble arms, and with a voice whose force appeared reviving, he pronounced a fervent and solemn benediction.

"The blessing of a dying parent will sweeten thy life, Jacopo," he added after a pause, "and give peace to thy last moments."

"It will do the latter, father."

A rude summons at the door interrupted them.

"Come forth, Jacopo," said a keeper, "the Council seeks thee!"

Jacopo felt the convulsive start of his father, but he did not answer.

"Will they not leave thee--a few minutes longer?" whispered the old man--"I shall not keep thee long!"

The door opened, and a gleam from the lamp fell on the group in the cell. The keeper had the humanity to shut it again, leaving all in obscurity. The glimpse which Jacopo obtained, by that passing light, was the last look he had of his father's countenance. Death was fearfully on it, but the eyes were turned in unutterable affection on his own.

"The man is merciful--he will not shut thee out!" murmured the parent.

"They cannot leave thee to die alone, father!"

"Son, I am with my God--yet I would gladly have thee by my side!--Didst thou say--thy mother and thy sister were dead!"

"Dead!"

"Thy young sister, too?"

"Father, both. They are saints in Heaven."

The old man breathed thick, and there was silence. Jacopo felt a hand moving in the darkness, as if in quest of him. He aided the effort, and laid the member in reverence on his own head.

"Maria undefiled, and her Son, who is God!--bless thee, Jacopo!" whispered a voice, that to the excited imagination of the kneeling Bravo appeared to hover in the air. The solemn words were followed by a quivering sigh. Jacopo hid his face in the blanket, and prayed. After which there was deep quiet.

"Father!" he added, trembling at his own smothered voice.

He was unanswered; stretching out a hand, it touched the features of a corpse. With a firmness that had the quality of desperation, he again bowed his head and uttered fervently a prayer for the dead.

When the door of the cell opened, Jacopo appeared to the keepers, with a dignity of air that belongs only to character, and which was heightened by the scene in which he had just been an actor. He raised his hands, and stood immovable while the manacles were replaced. This office done, they walked away together in the direction of the secret chamber. It was not long ere all were again in their places, before the Council of Three.

"Jacopo Frontoni," resumed the secretary, "thou art suspected of being privy to another dark deed that hath had place of late within our city. Hast thou any knowledge of a noble Calabrian, who hath high claim to the senate's honors, and who hath long had his abode in Venice?"

"Signore, I have."

"Hast thou had aught of concern with him?"

"Signore, yes."

A movement of common interest made itself apparent among the auditors.

"Dost thou know where the Don Camillo Monforte is at present."

Jacopo hesitated. He so well understood the means of intelligence possessed by the Council, that he doubted how far it might be prudent to deny his connexion with the flight of the lovers. Besides, at that moment, his mind was deeply impressed with a holy sentiment of truth.

"Canst thou say, why the young duca is not to be found in his palace?" repeated the secretary.

"Illustrissimo, he hath quitted Venice for ever."

"How canst thou know this?--Would he make a confidant of a common Bravo?"

The smile which crossed the features of Jacopo was full of superiority; it caused the conscious agent of the Secret Tribunal to look closely at his papers, like one who felt its power.

"Art thou his confidant--I ask again?"

"Signore, in this, I am--I have the assurance from the mouth of Don Camillo Monforte himself, that he will not return."

"This is impossible, since it would involve a loss of all his fair hopes and illustrious fortunes."

"He consoled himself, Signore, with the possession of the heiress of Tiepolo's love, and with her riches."

Again there was a movement among the Three, which all their practised restraint, and the conventional dignity of their mysterious functions, could not prevent.

"Let the keepers withdraw," said the inquisitor of the scarlet robe. So soon as the prisoner was alone with the Three, and their permanent officer, the examination continued; the Senators themselves, trusting to the effect produced by their masks, and some feints, speaking as occasion offered.

"This is important intelligence that thou hast communicated, Jacopo," continued he of the robe of flame. "It may yet redeem thy life, wert thou wise enough to turn it to account."

"What would your eccellenza at my hands? It is plain that the Council know of the flight of Don Camillo, nor will I believe that eyes, which so seldom are closed, have not yet missed the daughter of the Tiepolo."

"Both are true, Jacopo; but what hast thou to say of the means? Remember, that as thou findest favor with the council, thine own fate will be decided."

The prisoner suffered another of those freezing gleams to cross his face, which invariably caused his examiners to bend their looks aside.

"The means of escape cannot be wanting to a bold lover, Signore," he replied. "Don Camillo is rich, and might employ a thousand agents, had he need of them."

"Thou art equivocating; 'twill be the worse for thee, that thou triflest with the Council--who are these agents?"

"He had a generous household, Eccellenza;--many hardy gondoliers, and servitors of all conditions."

"Of these we have nothing to learn. He hath escaped by other means--or art thou sure he hath escaped at all?"

"Signore, is he