The Heir of Mondolfo (4 page)

But he was far out of hearing, and she returned again to her
cot, and, lying down beside her child, clasping his little hand in
hers, at length slept peacefully.

Her sleep was light and short. She arose before the sun, and
hardly had he begun to cast long shadows on the ground when,
attiring herself in her veil, she was about to go with the infant
to the neighboring chapel of Santa Chiara, when she heard the
trampling of horses come up the pathway; her heart beat quick, and
still quicker when she saw a stranger enter the cottage. His form
was commanding, and age, which had grizzled his hair, had not
tempered the fire of his eye nor marred the majesty of his
carriage; but every lineament was impressed by pride and even
cruelty. Self-will and scorn were even more apparent. He was
somewhat like what Ludovico had been, and so like what he then was
that Viola did not doubt that his father stood before her. She
tried to collect her courage, but the surprise, his haughty mien,
and, above all, the sound of many horses, and the voices of men who
had remained outside the cottage, so disturbed and distracted her
that her heart for a moment failed her, and she leaned trembling
and ashy white against the wall, straining her child to her heart
with convulsive energy. Fernando spoke:

"You are Viola Amaldi, and you call yourself, I believe,
the wife of Ludovico Mandolfo?"

"I am so"--her lips formed themselves to these words,
but the sound died away.

Fernando continued:

"I am Prince Mondolfo, father of the rash boy who has
entered into this illegal and foolish contract. When I heard of it
my plan was easily formed, and I am now about to put it into
execution. I could easily have done so without coming to you,
without enduring the scene which, I suppose, I shall endure; but
benevolence has prompted me to the line of conduct I adopt, and I
hope that I shall not repent it."

Fernando paused; Viola had heard little of what he had said. She
was employed in collecting her scattered spirits, in bidding her
heart be still, and arming herself with the pride and courage of
innocence and helplessness. Every word he spoke was thus of use to
her, as it gave her time to recollect herself. She only bowed her
head as he paused, and he continued:

"While Ludovico was a younger son, and did not seek to
obtrude his misalliance into notice, I was content that he should
enjoy what he termed happiness unmolested; but circumstances have
changed. He has become the heir of Mondolfo, and must support that
family and title by a suitable marriage. Your dream has passed. I
mean you no ill. You will be conducted hence with your child,
placed on board a vessel, and taken to a town in Spain. You will
receive a yearly stipend, and, as long as you seek no communication
with Ludovico, or endeavor to leave the asylum provided for you,
you are safe; but the slightest movement, the merest yearning for a
station you may never fill, shall draw upon you and that boy the
vengeance of one whose menaces are but the uplifted arm--the blow
quickly follows!"

The excess of danger that threatened the unprotected Viola gave
her courage. She replied:

"I am alone and feeble, you are strong, and have ruffians
waiting on you to execute such crimes as your imagination suggests.
I care not for Mondolfo, nor the title, nor the possession, but I
will never, oh! never, never! renounce my Ludovico--never do aught
to derogate from our plighted faith. Torn from him, I will seek
him, though it be barefoot and a-hungered, through the wide world.
He is mine by that love be has been pleased to conceive for me; I
am his by the sentiment of devotion and eternal attachment that now
animates my voice. Tear us asunder, yet we shall meet again, and,
unless you put the grave between us, you cannot separate
us."

Fernando smiled in scorn.

"And that boy," he said, pointing to die infant,
"will you lead him, innocent lamb, a sacrifice to the altar of
your love, and plant the knife yourself in the victim's
heart?"

Again the lips of Viola became pale as she clasped her boy and
exclaimed, in almost inarticulate accents:

"There is a God in Heaven!".Fernando left the cottage,
and it was soon filled by men, one of whom threw a cloak over Viola
and her boy, and, dragging them from the cottage, placed them in a
kind of litter, and the cavalcade proceeded silently. Viola had
uttered one shriek when she beheld her enemies, but, knowing their
power and her own impotence, she stifled all further cries. When in
the litter she strove in vain to disengage herself from the cloak
that enveloped her, and then tried to hush her child, who,
frightened at his strange situation, uttered piercing cries. At
length he slept; and Viola, darkling and fearful, with nothing to
sustain her spirits or hopes, felt her courage vanish.

She wept long with despair and misery. She thought of Ludovico
and what his grief would be, and her tears were redoubled. There
was no hope, for her enemy was relentless, her child torn from her,
a cloister her prison. Such were the images constantly before her.
They subdued her courage, and filled her with terror and
dismay.

The cavalcade entered the town of Salerno, and the roar of the
sea announced to poor Viola that they were on its shores.

"O bitter waves!" she cried. "My tears are as
bitter as ye, and they will soon mingle!"

Her conductors now entered a building. It was a watch-tower at
some distance from the town, on the sea-beach. They lifted Viola
from the litter and led her to one of the dreary apartments of the
tower. The window, which was not far from the ground, was grated
with iron; it bore the appearance of a guardroom. The chief of her
conductors addressed her, courteously asked her to excuse the rough
lodging; the wind was contrary, he said, but change was expected,
and the next day he hoped they would be able to embark. He pointed
to the destined vessel in the offing.

Viola, excited to hope by his mildness, began to entreat his
compassion, but he immediately left her. Soon after another man
brought in food, with a flask of wine and a jug of water. He also
retired; her massive door was locked, the sound of retreating
footsteps died away.

Viola did not despair; she felt, however, that it would need all
her courage to extricate herself from her prison. She ate a part of
the food which had been provided, drank some water, and then, a
little refreshed, she spread the cloak her conductors had left on
the floor, placed her child on it to play, and then stationed
herself at the window to see if any one might pass whom she might
address, and, if he were not able to assist her in any other way,
he might at least bear a message to Ludovico, that her fate might
not be veiled in the fearful mystery that threatened it; but
probably the way past her window was guarded, for no one drew near.
As she looked, however, and once advanced her head to gaze more
earnestly, it struck her that her person would pass between the
iron grates of her window, which was not high from the ground. The
cloak, fastened to one of the stanchions, promised a safe descent.
She did not dare make the essay; nay, she was so fearful that she
might be watched, and that, if she were seen near the window, her
jailers might be struck with the same idea, that she retreated to
the farther end of the room, and sat looking at the bars with
fluctuating hope and fear, that now dyed her cheeks with crimson,
and again made them pale as when Ludovico had first seen her.

Her boy passed his time in alternate play and sleep. The ocean
still roared, and the dark clouds brought up by the sirocco
blackened the sky and hastened the coming evening. Hour after hour
passed; she, heard no clock; there was no sun to mark the time, but
by degrees the room grew dark, and at last the Ave Maria tolled,
heard by fits between the howling of the winds and the dashing of
the waves. She knelt, and put up a fervent prayer to the Madonna,
protector of innocence--prayer for herself and her boy--no less
innocent than the Mother and Divine Child, to whom she made her
orisons. Still she paused. Drawing near to the window, she listened
for the sound of any human being: that sound, faint and
intermittent, died away, and with darkness came rain that poured in
torrents, accompanied by thunder and lightning that drove every
creature to shelter. Viola shuddered. Could she expose her child
during such a night? Yet again she gathered courage. It only made
her meditate on some plan by which she might get the cloak as a
shelter for her boy after it had served for their descent. She
tried the bars, and found that, with some difficulty, she could
pass, and, gazing downward from the outside, a flash of lightning
revealed the ground not far below. Again she commended herself to
divine protection; again she called upon and blessed her Ludovico;
and then, not fearless but determined, she began her
operations.

She fastened the cloak by means of her long veil, which, hanging
to the ground, was tied by a slip-knot, and gave way when pulled.
She took her child in her arms, and, having got without the bars,
bound him with the sash to her waist, and then, without accident,
she reached the ground.

Having then secured the cloak, and enveloped herself and her
child in its dark and ample folds, she paused breathlessly to
listen. Nature was awake with its loudest voice--the sea
roared--and the incessant flashes of lightning that discovered that
solitude around her were followed by such deafening peals as almost
made her fear. She crossed the field, and kept the sight of the
white sea-foam to her right hand, knowing that she thus proceeded
in an opposite direction from Mondolfo. She walked as fast as her
burden permitted her, keeping the beaten road, for the darkness
made her fear to deviate. The rain ceased, and she walked on,
until, her limbs falling under her, she was fain to rest, and
refresh herself with the bread she had brought with her from the
prison. Action and success had inspired her with unusual energy.
She would not fear--she believed herself free and secure. She wept,
but it was the overflowing emotion that found no other expression.
She doubted not that she should rejoin Ludovico. Seated thus in the
dark night--having for hours been the sport of the elements, which
now for an instant paused in their fury--seated on a stone by the
roadside--a wide, dreary, unknown country about her--her helpless
child in her arms--herself having just finished eating the only
food she possessed--she felt triumph, and joy, and love, descend
into her heart, prophetic of future reunion with her beloved.

It was summer, and the air consequently warm. Her cloak had
protected her from the wet, so her limbs were free and unnumbed. At
the first ray of dawn she arose, and at the nearest pathway she
struck out of the road, and took her course nearer the bordering
Apennines. From Salerno as far south as the eye could reach, a low
plain stretched itself along the seaside, and the hills at about
the distance of ten miles bound it in. These mountains are high and
singularly beautiful in their shape; their crags point to Heaven
and streams flow down their sides and water the plain below. After
several hours' walking, Viola reached a pine forest, which
descended from the heights and stretched itself in the plain. She
sought its friendly shelter with joy, and, penetrating its depths
until she saw trees only on all sides of her, she again reposed.
The sirocco had been dissipated by the thunderstorm, and the sun,
vanquishing the clouds that at first veiled its splendor, glowed
forth in the clear majesty of noon. Southern born, Viola did not
fear the heat.

She collected pine nuts, she contrived to make a fire, and ate
them with appetite; and then, seeking a covert, she lay down and
slept, her boy in her arms, thanking Heaven and the Virgin for her
escape. When she awoke, the triumph of her heart somewhat died
away. She felt the solitude, she felt her helplessness, she feared
pursuers, yet she dashed away the tears, and then reflecting that
she was too near Salerno--the sun being now at the sea's
verge--she arose and pursued her way through the intricacies of the
wood. She got to the edge of it so far as to be able to direct her
steps by the neighboring sea. Torrents intercepted her path, and
one rapid river threatened to impede it altogether; but, going
somewhat lower down, she found a bridge; and then, approaching
still nearer to the sea, she passed through a wide and desolate
kind of pasture-country, which seemed to afford neither shelter nor
sustenance to any human being. Night closed in, and she was fearful
to pursue her way, but, seeing some buildings dimly in the
distance, she directed her steps thither, hoping to discover a
hamlet where she might get shelter and such assistance as would
enable her to retrace her steps and reach Naples without being
discovered by her powerful enemy. She kept these high buildings
before her, which appeared like vast cathedrals, but that they were
untopped by any dome or spire; and she wondered much what they
could be, when suddenly they disappeared. She would have thought
some rising ground had intercepted them, but all before her was
plain. She paused, and at length resolved to wait for dawn. All day
she had seen no human being; twice or thrice she had heard the bark
of a dog, and once the whistle of a shepherd, but she saw no one.
Desolation was around her; this, indeed, had lulled her into
security at first. Where no men were, there was no danger for her.
But at length the strange solitude became painful-she longed to see
a cottage, or to find some peasant, however uncouth, who might
answer her inquiries and provide for her wants. She had viewed with
surprise the buildings which had been as beacons to her. She did
not wish to enter a large town, and she wondered how one could
exist in such a desert; but she had left the wood far behind her,
and required food. Night passed--balmy and sweet night--the breezes
fanned her, the glowing atmosphere encompassed her, the fire- flies
flitted round her, bats wheeled about in the air, and the heavy-
winged owl hooped anigh, while the beetle's constant hum filled
the air. She lay on the ground, her babe pillowed on her arm,
looking upon the starry heavens. Many thoughts crowded upon her:
the thought of Ludovico, of her reunion with him, of joy after
sorrow; and she forgot that she was alone, half-famished,
encompassed by enemies in a desert plain of Calabria 2---she
slept.