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The Addiction Recovery Skills Workbook Changing
Addictive Behaviors Using CBT Mindfulness and
Motivational Interviewing Techniques Suzette Glasner-
Edwards Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Suzette Glasner-Edwards
ISBN(s): 9781626252783, 1626252785
Edition: Paperback
File Details: PDF, 4.13 MB
Year: 2015
Language: english
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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but when the conduct repented of to-day is repeated
tomorrow, when hastiness becomes habitual, when pride
and self-will gain increasing strength, what wonder if a
feeling of resentment mingle even with maternal affection?

Mrs. Cleveland was in a state of nervous irritation, and

not disposed to meet the constrained advances of her son.
Deeply mortified by her silence, vexed with his mother, but
far more vexed with himself, Horace again threw himself
back in the carriage. No enjoyment could he find in
surveying the exquisite landscape around him, over which
the beams of the setting sun were now throwing a golden
glory.

CHAPTER IV.
SEPARATION.

Scarcely had the upper rim of the golden sun dipped

below the horizon, when the dark curtain of night was
thrown over the landscape, spangled with tremulous stars.
Horace was startled from his disagreeable reflections by
what seemed almost like sudden darkness; and Mrs.
Cleveland became yet more nervously alive to the dangers
of the road, when she could no longer see their approach.

Having reached the bottom of a long, steep hill, Jacomo

got down from his seat, and lit the carriage lamps. In reply
to the lady's anxious question as to whether it would not
yet be better to go back, he replied that it would now be as
easy to proceed to Staiti as to return to the inn, for the road
down which they had just descended was one fitted for
goats rather than for horses. Jacomo muttered and:
grumbled a good deal, as he remounted his seat, about the
folly of having started at all; and words, though but half
understood, did not tend reassure Mrs. Cleveland.

The momentary glare which the lamps threw in passing

on gray rock, or gloomy thicket, seemed to make the
darkness beyond more deep and oppressive; and the jingle
of the horse-bells, and rumble of the wheels, but drearily
broke the stillness of that unfrequented road.

Horace knew well that his mother was in an agony of

nervous alarm, dreading to catch sight of a bandit behind
every bush; and notwithstanding his natural courage, he
began in some measure to share her apprehensions.
Raphael's warning rang in his ears—and the more vividly
memory recalled the countenance of him who had given it,
the more Horace wondered at himself for having allowed so
little weight to his words. Horace had often longed for an
adventure; but night traveling through a wild and desolate
country, known to be infested by robbers, has in it more of
romance than of pleasure even to one of courageous spirit.

The road now lay through the deep recesses of a wood,

where the boughs, meeting and intermingling above,
formed an arch over the way, and blotted out from view the
few stars that had gleamed in the sky.

Suddenly there was heard the sharp report of a pistol,

which made Mrs. Cleveland start and shriek. The next
moment, the horses were thrown violently back upon their
haunches, and the lamplight dimly showed indistinct forms
glancing like phantoms through the darkness. Then came
wild, fierce faces at the window; the door was forced open
and the travelers dragged out of the carriage almost before
they had time to be certain that all was not some terrible
dream!

Horace's first impulse was to defend his mother. All

unarmed as he was, he struck at the man who had seized
her, but received himself a sharp blow on the arm which
made it drop stunned to his side. He glanced round, and
that glance was sufficient to assure him that resistance
would be utterly hopeless. There were at least five or six
robbers around, most of them already busily engaged in
rifling the carriage; and strange sounded their laughter and
their jests as they drew forth now this thing—now that—
dragging cloaks, bandboxes, dressing-case, umbrella, fan,
to be piled in a heap on the road.

The bandit who had seized Mrs. Cleveland had already

torn from her neck the gold chain, and with it the watch
which she wore; and plunging his coarse hand into her
pocket had turned it inside out, to make sure that none of
its contents should escape him. Trembling as in a fit of
ague, the poor lady had been constrained to pull off her
gloves, and draw hastily from her icy fingers the jeweled
rings which adorned them. Horace was half-maddened at
the sight, but he had no power to protect his mother, he
could but pass his left arm around her to support her from
sinking, and glare at the spoilers with the vain wrath of one
whose strength does not equal his spirit. Jacomo was on his
knees, invoking the Virgin and all the saints to defend him!
The robbers took little notice of him, save that one spurned
him with his foot in passing and another sternly bade him
cease his whining or he would dash out his brains.

Amidst the confusion and terrors of the scene, Horace

yet retained his self-possession sufficiently to notice that
none of the bandits kept any of the plunder, but that they
placed it together in the heap before mentioned, probably
with a view to division. The word "Matteo" was also
occasionally heard amid the tumult of voices, and presently
every eye was turned in one direction, whence came a
crashing sound as if some one were forcing his way through
the brushwood. Mrs. Cleveland had sunk on the ground,
Horace was kneeling beside her, half supporting her
drooping form, when there strode into the dimly lighted
space, the tall figure of the chief of the banditti.

Matteo was a large and powerful man, with a

countenance on which the character of ruffianism was so
legibly stamped, that had he appeared in gentlemen's
society under whatever auspices, with whatever name, or in
whatever dress, a child would have instinctively shrunk
from him, and a stranger's first thought have been:

"There is one whom I would rather not meet alone at

night in a solitary place."

Grizzled was the shock of coarse hair thrown back from

his dark face,—grizzled the untrimmed beard; but his thick
beetling brows were intensely black, and almost joined
together in one. The most repulsive feature was the mouth,
of which the lower jaw projected, and which was furnished
with teeth so irregular and large, that they suggested the
idea of the fangs of some beast of prey. The alarm of Mrs.
Cleveland increased when the light fell on the countenance
of the man in whose power she knew herself to be. Clasping
her hands, she gasped forth in broken Italian:

"Oh, mercy—we will pay ransom—we will give anything

—only spare me and my son!"

"Ransom!" repeated Matteo in a hoarse voice. "We want

from you something more than money." And turning sharply
round to one of his companions, he inquired, "Has not the
Rossignol returned?"

"Not yet," replied the young man addressed, who,

though seemingly several years older than Raphael, bore so
strong a likeness to him, that the first impression of the
bewildered travelers had been that the musician whose
warning they had neglected, and whom they had left behind
at the little inn, had by some strange means overtaken the
carriage. The second glance at Enrico had however quite
removed such impression. The cast of the features might be
alike,—there might be the same classical outline, the same
delicately penciled brow,—but the expression of the face
was utterly dissimilar. Instead of the calm thoughtfulness,
tinged with melancholy, which had struck Mrs. Cleveland in
the improvisatore, there was a restless wildness in this
young man's eye, like that of a hunted animal, and a
nervous twitch in his lip peculiarly apparent whenever he
was addressed by Matteo.

"Why has he not returned?" growled Matteo. "And why

did he go at all?"

"He went for tidings of your son, and he has not had
time to return," was the answer.

"If he play me false," commenced the brigand,—

grinding his white fangs instead of completing his sentence.

"He has not played you false, or these birds would not
be in your net," cried Enrico, as he pointed to Horace and
his mother.

Horace at once comprehended that "the Rossignol" (the

Italian word for "nightingale") must be a cant name for
Raphael; and that the musician, whatever might have been
his motive in uttering his words of warning, must have
incurred some risk by doing so.

Matteo now turned again towards his captives, and

spoke as follows to the trembling lady, using violent
gesticulation, and giving emphasis to his speech with the
action of hand and foot:—

"You know, or you do not know, that the dogs of

soldiers have seized my son; that they have dragged him
off to a dungeon; that the sentence of a tyrannical judge
may condemn him, as it has condemned other bold spirits
before him. You are rich; a golden key opens all doors—ay,
even the barred and bolted gate of a prison! You shall write
to the government. You shall say that you are in Matteo's
hands, at Matteo's mercy. You shall tell what conditions I
offer. If Otto be set free, you shall be set free; if they hurt a
hair of his head—" Matteo half unsheathed his stiletto, and
the gleam of the cold blue steel spoke more forcibly than
words.

"There is little use in writing," suggested Enrico; "these

people are strangers—foreigners—a mere letter is thrown
aside—blood is spilt while officials take their drive or their
siesta. * Let one of the prisoners go, knowing that the life
of the other hangs on the issue, and the dullest employé
will be made to hear, the slowest to act: gold will be
lavished freely, and Otto be a free man again."

* The noonday sleep which Italians habitually take

Mrs. Cleveland glanced anxiously from one speaker to

the other, unable to catch the whole of their meaning, but
understanding in a general way the nature of a discussion in
which she was so deeply concerned.
 "Right! Right!" exclaimed the robber. "We'll keep the
lady and send off the boy."

"No!" exclaimed Horace, starting to his feet. "If a

prisoner must remain in your hands, keep me and release
my mother."

"Oh, my child! My child!" cried the lady. "Never shall

they part us—never!" and she stretched out her clasped
hands to Matteo in an attitude of agonizing entreaty.

"I'll send her," growled the brigand; "she is a mother.

She will not spare cries or tears to wring mercy out of the
merciless. Hear me, woman!" he continued in a louder tone,
to the trembling supplicant before him. "You shall go to
those high in power and plead for my son as you would
plead for your son; and pour out your gold to those who
never yet refused gold, yea, if it were the last ducat which
you possessed to keep you from beggary. If Otto be
standing here in three days—"

"Three days are not enough," interrupted Enrico, "you

require an impossibility; application may have to be made
to Naples, to the king himself."

"Ay, ay," said the brigand impatiently; "Naples is more

than a stone's throw, and time may be needed, even
though love and fear alike give wings. If, woman, in seven
days my son be standing here free and uninjured," Matteo
stamped on the ground as he spake, "free and uninjured
shall your son be restored; if there be an hour's delay—"
Matteo uttered with an oath some threat which the lady
could not understand, but of its horrible nature she could
judge both by the gesture of him who made it, and by the
livid paleness which overspread the face of her son.

"O Horace! What does he say?" she exclaimed.

 "Never mind, mother; it was something that you had
better not understand. You know quite enough. You know
that my life depends upon your procuring within seven days
the release of this Otto, this son of Matteo."

Horace spake less distinctly than usual, and even his

lips looked bloodless and white.

Matteo turned to the heap of plunder. "Is everything

here?" he sternly inquired.

"Everything," promptly replied several voices.

The brigand pointed to Jacomo. "Make that fellow take

the reins again," he said, "and drive as one who drives for
his life. Thrust the woman back into the carriage; she must
be at Staiti within the hour."

Two or three rude hands were instantly laid on Mrs.

Cleveland, but she clung to her son as if it were to death
instead of to liberty and safety that she was to be hurried.
In that moment of terror and anguish, all his faults and her
own perils were forgotten. The mother thought only of her
child. To tear her from him was to rend asunder the very
strings of her heart!

"Mother, dear, don't give way like this. There's no use

resisting, no use entreating. We may yet meet again. All
may be well. Don't you give these wretches an excuse for
treating you roughly." And as he uttered these broken
sentences, Horace tried gently himself to unclose those
clinging arms.

It was only, however, by sheer force that the robbers

tore Mrs. Cleveland away from her boy, and her cry as they
were severed, rang in the ears of Horace like a death-knell.
He had a terrible persuasion at that moment that he was
parted from his mother never to see her again. A crowd of
recollections rushed through the youth's brain: a
consciousness that he had been a self-willed, undutiful son;
that his conduct had caused all this misery; that he had
forgiveness to implore for a thousand faults, and yet that
his tongue had no power to ask for it.

Horace saw his mother dragged to the carriage, and

rather thrown than lifted into it. From her silence after that
one cry, he believed that her senses must have failed her,
and was almost thankful for that belief.

He saw a robber strike one of the horses with

something that made it, weary as it was, bound forward
with such frantic violence that Jacomo was almost
unseated. His exclamation of terror raised hoarse laughter
from the lawless band, and before that laughter had ceased,
the carriage with its gleaming lamps had disappeared in the
darkness, and Horace stood, helpless and alone, a captive
in the midst of banditti.

CHAPTER V.
ROUGH COMPANY.

If one feeling were more overpowering than another to

Horace at that trying hour, it was the pang of remorse—
despair of ever being able to make up by devotion in the
future for ingratitude and disobedience in the past. Oh! That
the selfish and self-willed would anticipate the hour of final
separation from one whose tender love they are now
throwing away as a worthless thing, under whose reproofs
they chafe, for whose infirmities they have no indulgence! A
time may come when they will in vain wish that by the loss
of every earthly possession they could purchase one smile
from the eyes, one fond word from the lips of a now
neglected parent.

Horace was roused from his gloomy thoughts by the

hoarse voice of Matteo. "Has any one brought the irons?" he
said.

With a heavy clanking sound, a robber threw down on

the ground an old pair of shackles, red with rust, which had,
probably at some remote period, been worn by one of the
band. Matteo pointed with his coarse finger to Horace—a
significant action which required no explanation. As the
fetters were being fastened over the slender ankles of the
youth, the chief bade Enrico take charge of the prisoner, for
whose safety he should answer with his own.

Then followed a division of the spoil. Mrs. Cleveland's

dressing-case and desk were forced open with a dagger—
the contents of her purse counted out, the various articles
of her luggage placed in separate heaps. Reserving almost
all the gold for himself, Matteo distributed his booty.

Most of the robbers looked discontented, but not one

dared to utter a murmur. Horace saw with bitter emotion his
mother's most valued trinkets in these rude hands; the
Maltese cross which he himself had given, the mourning
brooch with his father's hair, nay, the very wedding ring
which had united his parents, were profaned by the touch of
fingers which might be stained with murder. These papers,
some of them priceless to her who had once owned them,
were thrown away or trampled underfoot.
 Matteo beckoned Enrico to some little distance,
apparently to give him some orders, and their departure
seemed to be the signal for more unrestrained and lawless
mirth. Then also the murmurs which had been checked by
the presence of the dreaded chief broke out amongst such
of the band as had been disappointed in their share of the
plunder.

"What am I to make of trumpery like this?" exclaimed

one robber, holding up to view with great contempt a silver
gray cloak with a hood, a black gown, a lace-trimmed
parasol, and a fan!

His appeal was answered by a roar of laughter.

"You may set up for a gentlewoman, Beppo!" shouted

one.

"My share matches yours," laughed another, "you've the

dress, and I've the dressing-case!"

"Ay, with silver tops to all the bottles," growled Beppo.

"I'll make an exchange if you will."

The offer was only received with a louder burst of

merriment, and the disappointed Beppo turned fiercely
towards Horace.

"Here's a garment more to my mind!" he cried. And

flinging down his bundle of woman's clothes, the robber
seized hold of the indignant and struggling captive, and by
force dispossessed him of his coat.

The gang gathered around, much amused at the scene,

laughing uproariously at the vain passionate resistance of
Horace.
 "There's more peel on the orange," cried one, and the
young captive might have had to submit to further
indignities had not Enrico come to the rescue.

"Hold!" he cried. "The prisoner is in my charge, no one

has a right to touch him but me."

"For seven days," said Beppo significantly, "he'll want no

clothes after that." And putting out his large, coarse foot,
he added with a laugh, "In seven days, I'll have hosen and
boots. I take it that his will just fit me!"

"It's a shame to dig a man's grave before his eyes!"

exclaimed Enrico.

"Shame!" repeated Beppo angrily. "Don't come it your

brother over us; it's enough to have one lunatic in a family,
say I."

Without taking any notice of the insult, Enrico touched

Horace on the shoulder and bade him come with him; which
the youth was ready enough to do—it being an unutterable
relief to him to be removed, even for a short time, from the
company of the rest of the lawless band. Enrico led his
captive into the deep recesses of the wood, seeming to find
his way by instinct through the darkness in which shining
fireflies glanced and played.

Horace envied them their liberty. He walked with

difficulty and pain. His fetters not only impeded his
movements but chafed his ankles. He stumbled over the
inequalities of the ground, struck against branches which he
could not see, and his chain caught and entangled in
brambles, and he often felt inclined to throw himself down
on the ground in utter despair of getting on. Enrico neither
pitied nor appeared to notice his sufferings, but hurried him
on through the thicket.
 Horace, who, notwithstanding his fetters, grasped
strongly the hope of future escape, was eagerly on the
watch for landmarks, and strained his eyes in the darkness
to find some. The rippling sound of water, and the
occasional glimpse which he caught through the trees of
what appeared to be a stream, seemed to supply something
like a guide. His hope strengthened as the noise increased
so greatly that Horace felt certain that they were
approaching a cataract plunging down the side of the
mountain, the roar of waters could not be mistaken, though
nothing was visible to the eye. Before Enrico reached what
must be the head of the fall, he turned sharply round to the
left, and grasping his captive by the wrist, made him follow
in the same direction.

"Is there not a cataract yonder?" asked Horace; it was

the first time that he had addressed his jailer.

"Sheer two hundred feet over the rocks," was the reply;
"we call it 'Cascata della Morte (the death fall),' for a
miserable wretch was once whirled over the edge."

"And perished?" inquired Horace.

"As surely," answered Enrico, "as if he had flung himself

from the top of St. Peter's or down into the crater of
Vesuvius. The remains, when recovered from the stream in
the valley yonder, scarcely retained semblance of the
human form."

Horace hardly paid attention to the concluding words,

he was so carefully surveying the path before him. He had
left the thick wood behind him, and had now to pass along a
ledge of rock, which seemed like a shelf jutting out of the
mountain, and which overhung a precipice of whose depth
there was not sufficient light to enable him to judge. To
Horace a vast chasm of darkness appeared to spread to the
right.

Here Enrico and his prisoner were challenged by a

robber who had been left as a sentinel to guard this
dangerous post.

"Chi va là?" (Who goes there?) cried the man.

Enrico gave the word "Morte," and passed on with his

captive.

"I think that I might possibly find my way back from

hence to the high road," thought Horace, "with the sound of
the water to guide me, were I only freed from these
shackles. But if a sentinel be always placed here on the
watch, it would render escape well-nigh impossible. One
blow would send one reeling over that rock into depths that
it makes the brain dizzy to think of!"

Enrico now again struck into the forest, and here the
path became so very intricate that Horace soon lost all idea
even of the direction in which he was going, all clue by
which he might find his way back. The path was so much
tangled with thicket, that the progress of Enrico and his
prisoner became necessarily very slow, and Horace soon
became not only exhausted, but despairing. It was some
time since a word had been exchanged, but as they toiled
on through the brushwood, Enrico said abruptly to his
companion:

"You need not fear insult from me, for I, like yourself,
am a gentleman born. My father was of good family, he was
an officer in the royal army, and died in the service of the
king."
 "Then how can you—" Horace stopped short, being
afraid of saying something that might offend.

"How can I consort with such ruffians? You would ask.

No matter; that is no business of yours. Men may be bound
by other kind of chain than that which you drag so wearily
along."

There was extreme bitterness in the young man's tone,

and though Horace could not see the face of the speaker in
the gloom, he imagined how the thin lip was twitching and
the restless eye wandering around.

Horace was anxious to ascertain to a certainty whether

Raphael were the brother to whom reference had been
made, and who had been spoken of as "the Rossignol," but
he was afraid of drawing the e improvisatore into difficulty
or danger by letting it be known that he had ever seen him.
As a leading question, Horace asked Enrico whether he
knew English, remembering that Raphael had uttered his
second warning in that language.

"No; is it likely that I should?" answered the robber.

Foiled in his first attempt to gain information, Horace

made another. "Why did that fellow call your brother a
lunatic?" said he.

"Because he is one!" replied Enrico impatiently. "None

but a madman would be always putting his head into the
lion's mouth, certain that it must be bitten off at last!"

"Does he belong to the band?" asked Horace.

"Yes—no—what is it to you?" cried Enrico.

 This rebuff put an end to the conversation, though it
increased the desire of Horace to know more of the
mysterious Raphael; for he was now certain that the
stranger at the door of the inn was the brother of the bandit
Enrico.

At length the long tangled forest was passed, and the

way opened on a rocky space, where, by the faint star-light,
no longer hidden by foliage, Horace saw a bold, partially-
wooded cliff rising before them, a gigantic mass of gloomy
shade. Horace had little opportunity, however, of remarking
anything but the difficulty of the ascent, as progression here
took the character of climbing, which the fetters on his
limbs made a terrible effort.

"It is impossible for me to get up, chained as I am!"

exclaimed Horace, after having rubbed the skin from one of
his ankles, in a vain attempt to raise himself to a platform
of rock.

"Impossible!" echoed Enrico, with a short, mocking

laugh. "It must be done and the sooner better, or Matteo
will be here to quicken your movements with the point of
his stiletto."

Once again Horace tried to get up, the moisture dewing

his lip and brow, both from the pain and the exertion; but
cumbered as he was with his shackles, he could not
succeed.

Then Enrico, growing impatient, lent a strong hand to

help him. Even with this assistance, it was with the utmost
difficulty that the suffering youth reached the platform. He
stopped for some moments to recover his breath, and to
wipe his heated temples.

"Could you find your way back?" said Enrico.

 "The woods seem to me to be a perfect labyrinth."

"Then there is no chance of your attempting an

escape?"

"I fear that I have more will than power to escape,"

replied the young captive with a sigh.

"Do you know what would follow your making any such
attempt?"

"Perhaps—" began Horace.

"Most assuredly," interrupted Enrico, "I should send a

bullet through your head."

"This gentleman, as he calls himself, is not much better

than the rest," was the silent reflection of Horace.

A few more steps, and the two had reached the mouth
of a cave which yawned in the mountain, its mouth half
hidden by a thick growth of cactus, which abounded as a
weed in this place. Horace was glad to have arrived at his
destination, whatever it might be, for he felt that he could
not for many minutes more have endured the exhausting
effort of dragging his fettered feet over the rocks.

CHAPTER VI.
THE ROBBERS' CAVE.
 Enrico, followed by his prisoner, groped his way through
the cave, and then along a passage in the rock too low to
admit of their standing upright. The dampness of the air,
the darkness of the place, made the unhappy Horace feel as
though he were entering a tomb. They soon, however,
emerged into a very spacious cavern of irregular shape, at
one side of which was some light. This light, as Horace soon
perceived, came from two wax tapers, burning in front of an
image of the Virgin. The feeble gleam served only to make
"darkness visible," not reaching at all to the roof of the
cave, and showing but little even of its brown rugged wall.
The place was tenanted by bats, which wheeled around in
circling flights, seeming to Horace's fevered imagination like
spirits of evil haunting the robbers' cave. The youth
watched with curiosity to see whether Enrico would cross
himself or bow on passing the image, and as he did neither,
the prisoner ventured upon a remark.

"I should hardly have expected to see that here," he

said, pointing to the shrine.

"Why so?" asked his companion.

"Because," answered Horace, trying to put his reply in

the least offensive form, "I should not have thought Matteo
a man to care for religion."

"That shows how little you know about him," said

Enrico. "Some of your mother's good ducats will go to a fat
friar for masses, that the rest may be enjoyed with an easy
conscience; and though Matteo has not scrupled to rob a
traveler on this Friday, nothing would persuade him to touch
a morsel of meat.

"Is it possible," exclaimed Horace, "that a man can so

deceive his own soul?"
 "None of that talk here," cried Enrico, with gesture of
irritation; "we have more of it than we like, and will never
stand it from you!"

"From whom can they hear it?" thought the astonished

Horace. "One would as little expect to hear truth as to find
honesty in a den like this!"

Enrico now lighted a torch which was fastened in the

rock a few feet above a long low table, which Horace now
for the first time perceived, and which, with the rude
benches on each side of it, seemed to form all the furniture
of the place. On it were ranged sundry flagons, bottles of
wine, and other preparations for a meal.

"I suppose that while you are our prisoner, you will
partake of our fare," said Enrico. "Will you join our jovial
party at supper to-night, or shall I at once introduce you to
the luxuries of our private apartment—the elegant chamber
which you are to share with me and my brother?" Enrico's
tone was satirical, and there was indescribable bitterness in
his smile.

"If you could possibly keep me apart from the band to-
night, I should be thankful," said Horace, "I am parched
with thirst, but I have not the slightest inclination to eat
food."

Enrico went up to the table, and filled a large tankard

with water, which Horace eagerly drained. He then bade the
prisoner to follow him, and a little more—to Horace—painful
clambering up rude stony steps brought them to a recess in
the side of the cave, about ten feet above the floor, and
overlooking the table.

It was so utterly dark, that it was by feeling and not by

sight that young Cleveland became aware that there was a
heap of dry leaves upon the rocky floor.

"As the Rossignol has not returned," said Enrico, "you

may take possession of his bed. I warrant it that you have
been accustomed to a more soft and dainty couch! I must
go below to prepare the banquet."

So saying, Enrico groped his way back to the floor of

the cavern; while Horace, dizzy and bewildered by the
strange events of the night, gave a deep sigh of relief at
finding himself in comparative solitude. He threw himself
down on the heap of leaves, resting his burning forehead on
his arm, and tried to collect his scattered thoughts and
realize his position.

"What a strange, wild place this is! Shall I ever leave it

alive?—Shall I ever look upon the sunshine, or feel the pure
breath of heaven? What horrors these walls may have
witnessed! Could they speak, what fearful tales of crime
might they disclose! And it is more than probable that, ere
a week shall have passed, another may be added to the
list."

Horace changed his position in feverish restlessness,

and a sharp thrill of pain reminded him of the fetters on his
limbs. "There would be none to lift a hand, or to speak a
word in my defence; no, nor to feel pity for my youth,
whatever I might have to endure! Even this Enrico, who
seems somewhat less brutal than the rest, would shoot me
dead on the spot rather than suffer his captive to escape.
Oh, my mother, my poor mother, how little you ever
expected your son to be in such a situation as this!"

Then Horace recalled how, ever since he could

remember, his parent had been wont to come and sit at
night by his bed-side, stroke back his curly hair, and talk to
him of holy things, and tell him how much she loved him.
These nightly visits, once a pleasure to both, had within the
last year become a cause of painful feeling between Horace
and his mother. The youth had grown jealous of being
treated like a child; it had annoyed him to be disturbed
from his desk or some interesting book by the entrance of
his mother at her regular hour; to be chidden for sitting up
late, or warned of the danger of fire. Horace had become so
impatient et the interruption, the reproof and the warning,
that he had at last actually locked his door, answering his
mother's "good-night" without turning the key to admit her.

Mrs. Cleveland had been deeply wounded, Horace

hardly guessed how deeply, but it was agony now upon this
his first night of captivity to recall the sound of her step in
the passage, the tone of her plaintive "good-night," and to
think that that step—that voice—might be heard by his ear
no more. Oh, why had he not loved her better?—Why, why
had he not always welcomed the presence of one so dear?

With this train of thought came linked another; it was

not only in filial piety that Horace Cleveland had failed: his
neglect had not been only towards his mother. Carefully
brought up as he had been, the youth had, with tolerable
regularity, observed the outward forms of religion, and
conscience had been easily satisfied that all was right with
his soul.

Horace had mistaken reverence for devotion, and belief

in God's truth for faith. But such a shadow of religion could
not support him under the pressure of real trials, or make
tolerable the prospect of death: it had no strength or
solidity in it. Horace could not realize the presence of a
heavenly Father in the dark, gloomy cave, nor was the
psalmist's assurance his,—
 "The Lord is my light and any salvation, whom
shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life,
of whom shall I be afraid?"

In courage and spirit he was by no means deficient—but

human courage and spirit will bend under the pressure of
protracted trial; that terrible walk in shackles had for the
time exhausted the energies of Horace, and in that gloomy
abode of evil, he felt desolate and wretched indeed.

Even the comfort of silence was soon taken from the

prisoner. Before many minutes had elapsed, a wild uproar of
voices announced the approach of the band. One by one the
robbers emerged from the low passage which united the
outer and inner caves, some bearing spoil, and some
bearing torches, which threw a wild, red glare on their dark
faces and picturesque dress. Horace counted eight bandits,
including Enrico. The men sat noisily down at the table.
Matteo and some others had their seats near the wall, and
were so immediately under Horace that he could not see
them, without stretching his head so far forward that he
would himself have been exposed to the observation of the
robbers, which he anxiously desired to avoid; but while
remaining under cover of the darkness of his recess, Horace
had full view of Enrico and three of his companions, who sat
opposite to their chief.

I shall not enter into details of what—with disgust and

horror—Horace saw and heard on that night; the oaths, the
tales, the songs of the coarsest description, the sounds of
wild revel, the burst of laughter strangely echoing through
the recesses of the vaulted cave, till it seemed as though
fields unseen shouted and laughed again. Enrico, laying
aside his former manner, appeared to be the gayest of the
gay, plunging into the torrent of unholy mirth as though he
sought to drown all memory and all remorse.

Horace tried to shut out from his own ears the sounds
of profane merriment, but he tried in vain. It seemed to his
loathing mind that if one black spot were to be found on
earth, where evil, unmixed evil, reigned triumphant, where
faith was quite shut out, where heavenly hope could not
come—that spot was the robbers' cave in the depth of the
Calabrian mountain!

CHAPTER VII.
MUSIC AND MADNESS.

"Ha! The Rossignol come at last!" shouted Beppo, as a

low, clear whistle was heard in the dark passage.

Horace looked down eagerly, and saw the slight form of

Raphael, as he came forth from the gloom, bearing his
instrument of music.

The young Calabrian looked exceedingly weary. He

made a slight inclination of the head on entering towards
the place where Horace knew that the chief was; he then
laid his guitar against the rocky wall and sat down on a
vacant seat beside his brother Enrico.

"What news of Otto?" cried Matteo, whose voice was

easily recognized amongst the rest by its peculiar
harshness.

"I could gain no tidings beyond those which have

already reached you," replied Raphael, in low, rich tones,
which formed as strong a contrast to the discordant sounds
which had lately prevailed, as his appearance did to that of
his companions. "He was as you know, conveyed by a
strong military escort towards Staiti; thence to be taken to
Reggio. He had not been able to communicate with any one
at the inn, access to him being strictly forbidden by the
officer in charge."

Something that sounded like a curse burst from the lips

of Matteo.

"And what are your news?" inquired Raphael, with what

seemed to Horace a somewhat anxious air.

One of the robbers replied with a laugh, "Some good

business done to-day! English travelers are always worth
the plucking! It will take you some time with your curing
and your carolling to bring in the value of a plaything like
this;" and he held up the glittering gold chain which had
been torn from the neck of Mrs. Cleveland.

"Any blood shed?" inquired Raphael quickly, resting his

clenched hand on the table, and sternly regarding the last
speaker. When a short account of what had occurred was
given to him, the improvisatore looked relieved, and Horace
instinctively felt that he had a friend in the man whom he
had called to his face a low musician, a jailbird, a
companion of thieves.

Raphael bent towards his brother and whispered some

question, to which Enrico replied by glancing up towards the
recess occupied by the captive; then heaping food upon a
trencher which was before the Rossignol, he bade him eat
and drink and refresh himself after his long walk.

Raphael shook his head, and pushed the trencher away.

"If you will not eat, you shall sing," cried Matteo.
"Beppo here has a voice which he might have borrowed
from a raven, and Marco's is like a muffled drum—we've not
had a singer worth listening to, since Carlo was shot in the
wood!"

Raphael did not appear much more disposed to sing

than to eat, but Matteo spoke like one whose will was a law
which few would have dared to oppose; and the musician,
albeit reluctantly, laid his hand on the guitar.

"Give us the jovial old Spanish drinking song, with the

bolero—give it out bold and free!" exclaimed Beppo.

"I shall choose my own song," replied Raphael coldly,

"and sing it in what manner I list."

"A madman's theme must be madness," cried the ill-

favored robber.

"Be it so," answered the Rossignol; "although I accept

not your name—I take the word as my subject. Madness
shall be my theme."

He struck a few chords with a light, bold hand—and the

silvery sound in that fearful place seemed like the tones of
an angel's harp. In an instant, all other noise was so
completely hushed that Horace could hear distinctly the
slow drip of water distilling from the roof of the cave.

The attention of the robbers deepened as, after a short

prelude, Rossignol began to sing. His exquisite voice poured
forth in a wild and original air, sometimes rapid and almost
gay, but at the close of every verse ending in a minor key,
and in tones of such deep pathos that they sounded like a
dirge from the dead, or a wail for the lost.

Horace had often listened to music, but he had never

before heard such music as this. In others he had felt sweet
song a charm, but in Raphael it was a power. It was a spell
which kept chained in almost breathless silence the reckless
beings whose fierce passions brooked no restraint either of
law or conscience.

MADNESS.

A wanderer stood by a rapid stream,

When a scroll unto him was brought;
'Twas a father's message of love, addrest
To one whose childhood his care had blest.
'Twas an offer of pardon, peace and rest;—
But the prodigal whom he sought,
Only flung the scroll from the river's brink,
And watched it slowly and slowly sink.
Oh! Madman, to break love's golden link!

On a hill stood a poor wayfaring man,

When a parchment to him was given
By which he was proved the rightful heir
To all the broad region before him there,
The wooded valleys, and meadows fair,
Bounded but by the arch of heaven.
But with reckless hand he the parchment tore,
And the breezes afar the fragments bore.
Oh! Madman, that wealth can be thine no more!
 A doomed man crouched o'er his prison fire,
His heart for his fate he steeled;
Already he heard the castle bell
Boom drearily forth his dying knell,
When his eye on a royal writing fell;
'Twas his pardon, signed and sealed!
But he flung the pardon into the flame,
And so went forth to a death of shame.
Oh! Madman, well hast thou earned the name!

"Almost as well," exclaimed Beppo, "as the rhymer who

could make such a song! Sing to us of men of flesh and
blood, for the world holds no such fools as those in your
ballad—they be more unnatural than the ghosts and goblins
of nursery rhymes."

"For the matter of that," observed Marco, another of the

robbers, "there's many a prodigal I wot of, has thrown his
father's letter away."

"But to tear a deed of inheritance—throw a pardon into

the fire—nothing so wild, so improbable was ever yet said
or sung. Such mad freaks as those are not played by men
even in their dreams."

"Are you sure of that?" asked the Rossignol, while his

fingers, as if unconsciously, wandered over the strings of his
guitar.

"Is the song ended?" said Matteo.

"Not ended—but you have heard enough," was the

answer of the improvisatore.

"Let's hear it out," cried the chief.

 "Let's hear it out," echoed the bandits.

Again rose the rich, full tones, but with deeper

emphasis, more thrilling expression.

Such madmen amongst us live and dwell

Such madmen amongst us die;
A father's message is heard—forgot;
A treasure offered—accepted not;
Men wildly prefer the demon's lot,
To freedom and life on high!
A king's free pardon—a parent's stay,
Infinite wealth may be theirs to-day.
Oh! Madmen, to cast them all away!

The song ceased. There was an instant of deep stillness,

and then Beppo flung a tankard at the head of the speaker,
as his comment on a moral so unwelcome.

By a quick movement, Raphael avoided the blow; Enrico

glanced fiercely at Beppo; the Rossignol laid his hand on his
brother's arm, as if to restrain him from expression of
anger, and without taking any other notice of the insult,
arose from his seat.

The countenances of the banditti, as Horace looked

down upon them, would have been a study for a painter.
The music had a very different effect upon its various
hearers. Beppo's face was flushed with passion, while over
that of Marco, a powerful man who sat next to him,
gathered a gloomy scowl. A third wore a mocking sneer, a
glance that seem to say that while he admired the music,
he cared nothing for the moral of the song.
 Enrico's expression, after the glance of indignation had
passed away, was that of silent misery which he made a
vain effort to conceal. The bow might have been drawn at a
venture, but in one heart the barbed arrow was rankling.

And there stood the Rossignol, calm and intrepid, as

one not unconscious of danger, but raised above its fear.
Horace looked with wondering curiosity at the man who
could dare to sing such a lay in such a place, and marveled
what mysterious link could bind his fate with that of ruffians
with whom it appeared that he could have no feeling in
common. Even as regarded Enrico, when Horace now looked
upon the two brothers, and contrasted them with each
other, he could hardly conceive how he had ever traced a
resemblance between them.

The noise of the falling tankard clattering on the rocky

floor, was succeeded by that of the fist of Matteo coming
heavily down upon the table, as if in anger; when the chief
spoke, however, he made no allusion to the song; that it
had offended him could only be gathered from the increased
savageness of his tone.

"It is time to disperse. Mountain-wolves, away to your

dens!"

The command was instantly obeyed. For a few

moments, noise and uproar prevailed, and as the wild band
scattered in various directions, torches flashed hither and
thither in the hot murky air. Horace watched the retreating
form of Beppo, as the light which he carried showed a
deeper recess of the cave than he had been able to see
before, with glistening stalactites hanging from the roof;
and when he turned to look for the Rossignol, found that he
had disappeared from his view. Remembering that Raphael
was to share his own rocky chamber, Horace awaited his
coming with interest and impatience. There was a step on
the rough stair (if such that might be called, that seemed
framed by nature and not by man), which led to the upper
recess, and some one entered, but in the darkness Horace
knew not whether it were Raphael or Enrico. The comer
threw himself down on a heap of leaves not far from
Horace, and either imagining the captive to be asleep, or
(as was more probable) forgetting his presence altogether,
gave a heavy groan as if in pain. That sound assuredly did
not come from the Rossignol's lips. Horace lay for some
time perfectly still, listening to the drip drip of water, and
the deep sighs of his unseen companion, and awaiting the
coming of Raphael, till, weary as he was, sleep overcame
the young captive.

CHAPTER VIII.
A DASH FOR FREEDOM.

The summer morning had dawned, and though no direct

ray could ever enter the inner cave, Horace could see the
reflection of pure rosy light tinging the rugged stone,
hundreds of feet above him, through a cleft in the rocky
roof, which appeared as if it had been rent asunder by the
shock of an earthquake. Most refreshing to the captive's eye
was even that reflected gleam, which showed that the sun
was shining upon earth, though not upon him: and he
longed for wings to fly upwards through that lofty cleft to
the glorious daylight beyond.
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