Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/706

698 “You are pressing on eagerly, Don Lertora,” said I, as I saw him shake the reins and make other peaceful incentives to speed. “Are you afraid of a coming storm?”

“No, signore,” said he; “but there is a bad spot in the road before us, and I’d like to get over it before dark.”

“Is it a torrent?” asked I.

No; it was not a torrent, nor was it an unsafe bridge, or a new cutting, or a steep declivity,—so that I was forced to ask, “How is it so bad as you say?”

“As the signore is not a Christian, he would only laugh at me if I told him,” said he, after a pause.

“Stay,” said I; “I may not observe Christianity after your forms, or accept it entirely at your teachings, but I trust still I am as much a Christian as you are.”

A little discussion ensued on this point, wherein by abstaining from anything offensive, and by the exercise of a little patience, I satisfied my companion that, at least, I was not totally unworthy of what I aspired to.

“Well,” said he, after some minutes of silence, “we are coming to a spot on the road where a traveller was murdered, and where his spirit still wanders, though the Church has endeavoured in various ways to give him peace. It was no common murder—not one of those crimes instigated by love of gain—for all that he had, purse, watch, and a medal, were found on the dead body.”

“But who ever saw the ghost! Have you yourself?”

“No; not his, but I saw his brother’s.”

“His brother’s ghost! Was his brother also murdered, then?”

“Wait awhile—we are just close to the spot now,” said he, in a low voice. “I’ll tell you the story when we have passed the place.”

And so saying, he turned away from me, and I saw by the motion of his hand as he crossed himself that he was praying. I, of course, would not disturb his devotions, and sat silently thinking over what he had said; and in this way we reached a little one-arched bridge over a dried-up torrent. There was no balustrade to the sides, but on the crown of the arch a little wooden cross stood, on arriving at which the priest pulled me sharply by the sleeve, while, in low quickened mutterings, I could perceive how intently and eagerly he now prayed. As I looked down, the bed of the stream seemed about twenty or four-and-twenty feet beneath, but several sharp rocks stood up and made the fall more perilous.

“They threw him over, I suppose?” said I, questioning.

The priest nodded, and continued his prayers. “The blessed Virgin be praised!” said he, or rather, to use his less reverent expression, “Viva Maria, we are past it!” were his first words after we had gone about a quarter of a mile.

“Now for the story, I want to hear that,” said I.

“Will you not wait till we reach Gariglano; we shall be there in an hour, and when we have got a good supper and a flask of old wine the story will tell all the better?”

I agreed. Indeed there was a smack of good-fellowship in the proposal which pleased me all the more, perhaps, as I scarcely looked for it.

did not, as we entered it, give much promise of those convivialities the priest had depicted. It was a regular tumble-down Italian village, with streets so narrow as barely to admit our little calessina, and a pavement so uneven that we could only creep along step by step. All, too, was in darkness; no lamps without, not even the solitary flicker of a candle within a window, under an archway, or an open door as we passed. Some indistinct traces of men asleep—confused, misshapen groups they were, but except these, not a sign of life or humanity to be seen.

At last we emerged from the dreary labyrinth of close alleys into what, by an imperfect light, I saw was a piazza: there always is a piazza where there is the slightest possible pretension to township. All that I could perceive was a little square, irregularly built, and a sort of basin or fountain in the centre, indicated by a low trickling ripple audible in the intense stillness.

At a low-arched doorway, over which a bough of pine tree hung, in lieu of sign, the priest knocked stoutly with his whip-handle, shouting out a prolonged note of “Ho—oh, Desiderio!” at the same time. No response came to this summons, and he changed it after a while for “Ho—oh, Teresina!” but apparently Teresina slept as soundly as Desiderio, and did not mind us.

“Corpo di Bacco!” said the priest, “how these peasants sleep when once they lay their heads down: you’d think they were in the Campo Santo.”

“Is not that large house yonder an inn?—let us try there,” said I, pointing to a great massive-looking edifice on the opposite side of the piazza.

“The Madonna protect us from ever setting foot in it,” cried he, in terror; when suddenly facing round to the little door, he redoubled his efforts, like one in some great emergency. At last, but not before a long assault, a crackling old casement opened at the very top of the house, and a voice called out—

“Who’s there?”

“Don Lertora, the Parroco of San Frediano—your old friend.”

“Indeed! Can it be true?”

“Yes: come down quickly and open the door.”

“But why are you so late on the road?”

“You shall hear all when you come down.”

“Santissima Madre, how impatient you are! Was there any fall of snow on the Fauce as you passed?”

“None whatever, the road as good as this.”

“Ah, then, we’ll have a wet winter of it. I always said so,” said the other, in a reflective and meditative tone.

“Are we to pass the night out here in the open piazza?” cried I, utterly driven beyond all further endurance.

“Who is the Signore?” cried the voice from above.