The Bravo (48 page)

"Thou art said to carry a sure stiletto, honest Jacopo," he whispered.
"A hand of thy practice must know how to maim as well as to slay.
Strike the Neapolitan smartly, but spare his life. Even the bearer of a
public dagger like thine may not fare the worse, at the coming of
Shiloh, for having been tender of his strength on occasion."

"Thou forgettest the gold, Hosea!"

"Father Abraham! what a memory am I getting in my years! Thou sayest
truth, mindful Jacopo; the gold shall be forthcoming in any
event—always provided that the affair is so managed as to leave my
young friend a successful adventurer with the heiress."

Jacopo made an impatient gesture, for at that moment he saw a gondolier
pulling rapidly towards a private part of the Lido. The Hebrew joined
his companion, and the boat of the Bravo darted ahead. It was not long
ere it lay on the strand of the Lido. The steps of Jacopo were rapid, as
he moved towards those proscribed graves among which he had made his
confession to the very man he was now sent to slay.

"Art thou sent to meet me?" demanded one who started from behind a
rising in the sands, but who took the precaution to bare his rapier as
he appeared.

"Signor Duca, I am," returned the Bravo, unmasking.

"Jacopo! This is even better than I had hoped. Hast thou tidings from my
bride?"

"Follow, Don Camillo, and you shall quickly meet her."

Words were unnecessary to persuade, when there was such a promise. They
were both in the gondola of Jacopo, and on their way to one of the
passages through the Lido which conducts to the gulf, before the Bravo
commenced his explanation. This, however, was quickly made, not
forgetting the design of Giacomo Gradenigo on the life of his auditor.

The felucca, which had been previously provided with the necessary pass
by the agents of the police itself, had quitted the port under easy sail
by the very inlet through which the gondola made its way into the
Adriatic. The water was smooth, the breeze fresh from the land, and in
short all things were favorable to the fugitives. Donna Violetta and her
governess were leaning against a mast, watching with impatient eyes the
distant domes and the midnight beauty of Venice. Occasionally strains of
music came to their ears from the canals, and then a touch of natural
melancholy crossed the feelings of the former as she feared they might
be the last sounds of that nature she should ever hear from her native
town. But unalloyed pleasure drove every regret from her mind when Don
Camillo leaped from the gondola and folded her in triumph to his heart.

There was little difficulty in persuading Stefano Milano to abandon for
ever the service of the Senate for that of his feudal lord. The promises
and commands of the latter were sufficient of themselves to reconcile
him to the change, and all were convinced there was no time to lose. The
felucca soon spread her canvas to the wind and slid away from the beach.
Jacopo permitted his gondola to be towed a league to sea before he
prepared to re-enter it.

"You will steer for Ancona, Signor Don Camillo," said the Bravo, leaning
on the felucca's side, still unwilling to depart, "and throw yourself at
once under the protection of the Cardinal Secretary. If Stefano keep the
sea he may chance to meet the galleys of the Senate."

"Distrust us not—but thou, my excellent Jacopo—what wilt thou become
in their hands?"

"Fear not for me, Signore. God disposes of all as he sees fit. I have
told your eccellenza that I cannot yet quit Venice. If fortune favor me,
I may still see your stout castle of Sant' Agata."

"And none will be more welcome within its secure walls; I have much fear
for thee, Jacopo!"

"Signore, think not of it. I am used to danger—and to misery—and to
hopelessness. I have known a pleasure this night, in witnessing the
happiness of two young hearts, that God, in his anger, has long denied
me. Lady, the Saints keep you, and God, who is above all, shield you
from harm!"

He kissed the hand of Donna Violetta, who, half ignorant still of his
services, listened to his words in wonder.

"Don Camillo Monforte," he continued, "distrust Venice to your dying
day. Let no promises—no hopes—no desire of increasing your honors or
your riches, ever tempt you to put yourself in her power. None know the
falsehood of the state better than I, and with my parting words I warn
you to be wary!"

"Thou speakest as if we were to meet no more, worthy Jacopo!"

The Bravo turned, and the action brought his features to the moon. There
was a melancholy smile, in which deep satisfaction at the success of the
lovers was mingled with serious forebodings for himself.

"We are certain only of the past," he said in a low voice.

Touching the hand of Don Camillo, he kissed his own and leaped hastily
into his gondola. The fast was thrown loose, and the felucca glided
away, leaving this extraordinary being alone on the waters. The
Neapolitan ran to the taffrail, and the last he saw of Jacopo, the
Bravo, was rowing leisurely back towards that scene of violence and
deception from which he himself was so glad to have escaped.

"My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine hath been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are banned, and barred—forbidden fare."
PRISONER OF CHILLON.

When the day dawned on the following morning the square of St. Mark was
empty. The priests still chanted their prayers for the dead near the
body of old Antonio, and a few fishermen still lingered in and near the
cathedral, but half persuaded of the manner in which their companion had
come to his end. But as was usual at that hour of the day the city
appeared tranquil, for though a slight alarm had passed through the
canals at the movement of the rioters, it had subsided in that specious
and distrustful quiet, which is more or less the unavoidable consequence
of a system that is not substantially based on the willing support of
the mass.

Jacopo was again in the attic of the Doge's palace, accompanied by the
gentle Gelsomina. As they threaded the windings of the building, he
recounted to the eager ear of his companion all the details connected
with the escape of the lovers; omitting, as a matter of prudence, the
attempt of Giacomo Gradenigo on the life of Don Camillo. The unpractised
and single-hearted girl heard him in breathless attention, the color of
her cheek and the changeful eye betraying the force of her sympathies at
each turn in their hazardous adventure.

"And dost thou think they can yet escape from those up above?" murmured
Gelsomina, for few in Venice would trust their voices, by putting such a
question aloud. "Thou knowest the Republic hath at all times its galleys
in the Adriatic!"

"We have had thought of that, and the Calabrian is advised to steer for
the mole of Ancona. Once within the States of the Church the influence
of Don Camillo and the rights of his noble wife will protect them. Is
there a place here whence we can look out upon the sea?"

Gelsomina led the Bravo into an empty room of the attic which commanded
a view of the port, the Lido, and the waste of water beyond. The breeze
came in strong currents over the roofs of the town, and causing the
masts of the port to rock, it lighted on the Lagunes, without the tiers
of the shipping. From this point to the barrier of sand, it was apparent
by the stooping sails and the struggles of the gondoliers who pulled
towards the quay, that the air was swift. Without the Lido itself, the
element was shadowed and fitful, while further in the distance the
troubled waters, with their crests of foam, sufficiently proved its
power.

"Santa Maria be praised!" exclaimed Jacopo, when his understanding eye
had run over the near and distant view—"they are already far down the
coast, and with a wind like this they cannot fail to reach their haven
in a few hours. Let us go to the cell."

Gelsomina smiled when he assured her of the safety of the fugitives, but
her look saddened when he changed the discourse. Without reply, however,
she did as he desired, and in a very few moments they were standing by
the side of the prisoner's pallet. The latter did not appear to observe
their entrance, and Jacopo was obliged to announce himself.

"Father!" he said, with that melancholy pathos which always crept into
his voice when he addressed the old man, "it is I."

The prisoner turned, and though, evidently much enfeebled since the
last visit, a wan smile gleamed on his wasted features.

"And thy mother, boy?" he asked, so eagerly as to cause Gelsomina to
turn hastily aside.

"Happy, father—happy."

"Happy without me?"

"She is ever with thee in spirit, father. She thinks of thee in her
prayers. Thou hast a saint for an intercessor in my mother—father."

"And thy good sister?"

"Happy too—doubt it not, father. They are both patient and resigned."

"The Senate, boy?"

"Is the same: soulless, selfish, and pretending!" answered Jacopo
sternly; then turning away his face, in bitterness of heart, though
without permitting the words to be audible, he cursed them.

"The noble Signori were deceived in believing me concerned in the
attempt to rob their revenues," returned the patient old man; "one day
they will see and acknowledge their error."

Jacopo made no answer, for unlettered as he was, and curtailed of that
knowledge which should be, and is bestowed on all by every paternal
government, the natural strength of his mind had enabled him to
understand that a system, which on its face professed to be founded on
the superior acquirements of a privileged few, would be the least likely
to admit the fallacy of its theories, by confessing it could err.

"Thou dost the nobles injustice, son; they are illustrious patricians,
and have no motive in oppressing one like me."

"None, father, but the necessity of maintaining the severity of the
laws, which make them senators and you a prisoner."

"Nay, boy, I have known worthy gentlemen of the Senate! There was the
late Signor Tiepolo, who did me much favor in my youth. But for this
false accusation, I might now have been one of the most thriving of my
craft in Venice."

"Father, we will pray for the soul of the Tiepolo."

"Is the senator dead?"

"So says a gorgeous tomb in the church of the Redentore."

"We must all die at last," whispered the old man, crossing himself.
"Doge as well as patrician—patrician as well as gondolier,—Jaco—"

"Father!" exclaimed the Bravo, so suddenly as to interrupt the coming
word; then kneeling by the pallet of the prisoner, he whispered in his
ear, "thou forgettest there is reason why thou should'st not call me by
that name. I have told thee often if thus called my visits must stop."

The prisoner looked bewildered, for the failing of nature rendered that
obscure which was once so evident to his mind. After gazing long at his
son, his eye wandered between him and the wall, and he smiled
childishly.

"Wilt thou look, good boy, if the spider is come back?"

Jacopo groaned, but he rose to comply.

"I do not see it, father; the season is not yet warm."

"Not warm! my veins feel heated to bursting. Thou forgettest this is the
attic, and that these are the leads, and then the sun—oh! the sun! The
illustrious senators do not bethink them of the pain of passing the
bleak winter below the canals, and the burning summers beneath hot
metal."

"They think of nothing but their power," murmured Jacopo—"that which is
wrongfully obtained, must be maintained by merciless injustice—but why
should we speak of this, father; hast thou all thy body needs?"

"Air—son, air!—give me of that air, which God has made for the meanest
living thing."

The Bravo rushed towards those fissures in the venerable but polluted
pile he had already striven to open, and with frantic force he
endeavored to widen them with his hands. The material resisted, though
blood flowed from the ends of his fingers in the desperate effort.

"The door, Gelsomina, open wide the door!" he cried, turning away from
the spot, exhausted with his fruitless exertions.

"Nay, I do not suffer now, my child—it is when thou hast left me, and
when I am alone with my own thoughts, when I see thy weeping mother and
neglected sister, that I most feel the want of air—are we not in the
fervid month of August, son?"

"Father, it is not yet June."

"I shall then have more heat to bear! God's will be done, and blessed
Santa Maria, his mother undefiled!—give me strength to endure it."

The eye of Jacopo gleamed with a wildness scarcely less frightful than
the ghastly look of the old man, his chest heaved, his fingers were
clenched, and his breathing was audible.

"No," he said, in a low, but in so determined a voice, as to prove how
fiercely his resolution was set, "thou shalt not await their torments:
arise, father, and go with me. The doors are open, the ways of the
palace are known to me in the darkest night, and the keys are at hand. I
will find means to conceal thee until dark, and we will quit the
accursed Republic for ever."

Hope gleamed in the eye of the old captive, as he listened to this
frantic proposal, but distrust of the means immediately altered its
expression.

"Thou forgettest those up above, son."

"I think only of One truly above, father."

"And this girl—how canst thou hope to deceive her?"

"She will take thy place—she is with us in heart, and will lend
herself to a seeming violence. I do not promise for thee idly, kindest
Gelsomina?"

The frightened girl, who had never before witnessed so plain evidence of
desperation in her companion, had sunk upon an article of furniture,
speechless. The look of the prisoner changed from one to the other, and
he made an effort to rise, but debility caused him to fall backwards,
and not till then did Jacopo perceive the impracticability, on many
accounts, of what, in a moment of excitement, he had proposed. A long
silence followed. The hard breathing of Jacopo gradually subsided, and
the expression of his face changed to its customary settled and
collected look.