Chapter LI: Catastrophe

The fortress of Sperlinga, formerly considered impregnable, was at this time nothing more than a majestic ruin, incapable of being defended. The town, or more properly the hamlet, below it, was inhabited by a few wretched creatures wasted by fever and poverty. Fortress and village were perched upon a cliff of grayish sandstone, and the upper works of the fortress were hollowed out of the rock.

The besiegers climbed the cliff on the side farthest from the village. It seemed inaccessible; but the brigands were so well used to assaults of that sort that they were very soon under the walls of the fort. Half of them, under Malacarne, climbed still higher, and posted themselves in an abandoned bastion on the highest point of the mountain. This crenelated bastion afforded a safe position from which to fire down almost perpendicularly upon the castle. It was agreed that Fra Angelo and his men should station themselves at the entrance to the fortress, where there was only a huge, worm-eaten, disjointed gate, which it was not considered necessary to destroy, as that operation might take sufficient time to give the garrison an opportunity to organize an effective resistance. Malacarne's party was to fire on the castle from above, while Fra Angelo held himself in readiness to fall upon those who should come out. Then he would pretend to retreat, and, while they pursued him, Malacarne would come down, attack the enemy in the rear, and place him between two fires.

The little garrison temporarily quartered in the castle consisted of about thirty men, a larger number than the assailants anticipated, the reinforcements from Castro-Giovanni having arrived secretly at nightfall and climbed up the road, or rather the staircase, from the village, unseen by the bandits who were busily occupied in making their preparations and taking great pains to keep out of sight. That part of the escort which had kept watch throughout the preceding night was sleeping, wrapped in their cloaks, on the floors of the great dismantled halls. The late arrivals had lighted an enormous fire of fir branches in the courtyard, and were playing _mora_ to keep awake.

The prisoners occupied the great square tower: Verbum Caro, exhausted and gasping for breath, stretched on a pile of rushes; the Piccinino, gloomy but calm, sitting on a stone bench, much wider awake than his keepers. He had heard a little bird whistling in the ravine, and had recognized that designedly inaccurate melody as a signal from Malacarne. He was patiently rubbing against a projecting stone the cord with which his hands were bound.

The officer in command of the _campieri_ was seated on the only chair in an adjoining room, with his elbows resting on the only table in the castle, which he had obtained by requisitioning it in the village. He was an energetic, surly young man, accustomed to keep his temper at the boiling point by the constant use of wine and tobacco, having to fight against a lingering remnant of love for his country and hatred of the Swiss. He had not slept an hour since the Piccinino was placed in his custody, so that he was literally falling under the assaults of drowsiness. The lighted cigar which he held in his hand burned the ends of his fingers from time to time. Then he would rouse himself with a start, puff at his cigar, look out through a great crack in the wall in front of him to see if there were any signs of dawn, and, feeling acutely the sharpness of the air on that elevated spot, would wrap his cloak about him with a shudder, cursing the false Piccinino, who was breathing stertorously in the adjoining room, and in a moment would let his head fall forward on the table once more.

A sentinel was on guard at each end of the castle, but, whether because of fatigue or of the heedlessness that takes possession of the most disturbed mind when a dangerous situation is nearing its end, they had not detected the swift and silent approach of the brigands. A third sentinel was on duty at the isolated bastion which Malacarne was about to seize, and that circumstance came very near causing the failure of the whole plan of attack.

As he was climbing through a breach, Malacarne saw the man sitting under his feet, almost between his legs. He had not anticipated that obstacle, and he had neither his dagger nor his pistol in his hand. An opportune dagger thrust cuts a man's life short without giving him time to cry out. The pistol shot is less certain, nor did Malacarne wish to fire until all his men were posted so that they could pour a deadly volley into the fort. Meanwhile the sentinel would surely give the alarm, even if the bandit should retreat, for his footing was precarious, and the stones, uncemented, were beginning to crumble all about him. _The campiere_ was not asleep. He was paralyzed with cold, and had pulled his cloak over his head as a protection against the piercing wind which stiffened his limbs.

But while this precaution deadened the sound of the wind and made it easier for him to hear sounds in the distance, it prevented him from hearing any noise at his side, and the hood which he had pulled over his eyes had made him blind for the last quarter of an hour. However, he was a brave soldier, incapable of sleeping at his post. But there is nothing more difficult than to keep a sharp lookout. An active and alert mind is necessary for that, and the _campiere's_ mind was wholly devoid of thought. He fancied that he was watching because he was not moving. And yet the mere falling of a pebble at his feet would have caused him to fire his gun. He had his finger on the trigger.

Inspired by his desperate situation, Malacarne grasped the unfortunate sentinel's throat in his iron hands, rolled down into the bastion with him, and held him thus, unable to utter a sound, until one of his comrades stabbed him in his arms.

In another moment they were crouching behind the battlements, protected from the fire of the enemy. The fire blazing in the courtyard enabled them to see the _campieri_ unsuspectingly intent on their game, and they took plenty of time to aim. The weapons were hurriedly reloaded while the besieged were seeking theirs; but before they had thought of using them--before they had discovered from what direction they were attacked--a second volley was poured in upon them, and several were severely wounded. Two did not rise again; a third fell head-foremost into the fire, and was burned to death for lack of help.

From the tower the officer had seen where the attack had come from. He rushed out, roaring with rage. He did not arrive in time to prevent his men from wasting a volley on the wall.

"Stupid dolts!" he cried, "you waste your ammunition firing at random! You have lost your wits! Leave the fort! Leave the fort! We must fight outside!"

But he discovered that he himself had lost his wits, for he had left his sword on the table on which he had fallen asleep. A flight of six steps separated him from the room. He ascended them at a single leap, for he knew that in a moment he would have to fight with cold steel.

But, during the fusillade, the Piccinino had succeeded in breaking his bonds, and had taken advantage of the tumult to break down the ill-secured door of his prison. He had pounced on the lieutenant's sword and extinguished the pitch-pine torch that was stuck in a crack of the table. When the officer returned, and was feeling about in the darkness for his weapon, he received a terrific cut across the face, and fell backward. Carmelo rushed upon him and finished him. Then he cut Verbum Caro's bonds and handed him the lieutenant's sword, saying: "Do what you can!"

The false Piccinino forgot in an instant his weakness and his suffering. He dragged himself on his knees to the door, and there he succeeded in rising and standing on his feet. But the real Piccinino, seeing that he could not walk except by clinging to the walls, threw the officer's cloak over him, put the military cap on his head, and told him to go out at his leisure. Thereupon he himself went down into the deserted courtyard, took the cloak from one of the _campieri_ who had been killed, disguised himself as best he could, and, always faithful to his comrade, took him by the arm and led him toward the gateway of the fort.

Everybody had gone out except the two men who had been left behind to prevent the prisoners from escaping in the confusion, and who were returning to guard the tower. The fire in the courtyard was dying out, and gave only a feeble light.

"The lieutenant is wounded!" cried one of them, as he saw Verbum Caro leaning on Carmelo, who was himself disguised.

Verbum Caro did not reply, but motioned to them to go on and guard the tower. Then he went out as rapidly as he could, with his chief, whom he implored to fly without him, but who refused to abandon him under any consideration.

If this was generous conduct on the Piccinino's part, it was no less judicious; for, by giving his men such proofs of affection, he made sure of their loyalty forever. The false Piccinino might have been recaptured the next moment; but if he had been, no amount of torture could have made him admit that his companion was the real Piccinino.

They were already fighting on the narrow platform in front of the castle, and the brigands commanded by Fra Angelo pretended to give way. But the _campieri_, deprived of their leader, did not act together or in good order. When Malacarne's detachment, rushing down from the bastion like a thunderbolt, took possession of the gateway and showed them that retreat was impossible, they felt that they were lost, and halted as if dazed by terror. At that moment Fra Angelo, Michel, Magnani and their men turned upon them and pressed them so close that their plight seemed desperate indeed. Thereupon the _campieri_, knowing that the brigands gave no quarter, fought with the frenzy of despair. Crowded between two walls, they had the advantage of position over the brigands, who were obliged to avoid the precipice behind them. Moreover, Malacarne's band had been struck with dismay.

As the two Piccininos crossed the drawbridge, the brigands, deceived by their disguise, had fired on them. Verbum Caro was not touched, but Carmelo, struck by a bullet in the shoulder, had fallen. Malacarne had rushed at him to finish him, but, on recognizing his chief, had fairly roared with grief, and his men, crowding about him, no longer thought of fighting.

For a few moments Fra Angelo and Michel, who were fighting in the front rank, hand-to-hand with the _campieri_, were in grave danger. Magnani was even farther to the front; he tried to turn aside all the blows aimed at Michel, for they had no time to reload their weapons and were fighting with swords and knives, and the noble-hearted Magnani sought to make his body a rampart to protect Agatha's son.

Suddenly Michel, who was constantly pushing him aside and begging him to think of his own safety, missed him from his side. Michel thereupon attacked the enemy fiercely. The first horror of bloodshed having passed away, he was urged onward by a strange and terrifying nervous excitement. He was not wounded. Fra Angelo, who had a superstitious faith in the grandeur of the young prince's destiny, had prophesied that he would not be. But if he had been wounded twenty times over, he would not have been conscious of it, his vital forces were so concentrated in his brain. He was, as it were, intoxicated by danger, and excited to frenzy by the battle. It was a ghastly but intense pleasure; the blood of Castro-Reale awoke and began to boil fiercely in the veins of the lion's whelp. When the victory was won, and they were able to join forces with Malacarne, walking over dead bodies, it seemed to Michel that the contest had been too short and too easily decided. And yet it had been so desperate that almost every man among the victors was more or less severely wounded. The _campieri_ had sold their lives dearly, and if Malacarne had not recovered his energy when he saw that the Piccinino was reviving and was able to fight, Fra Angelo's band would have been forced back into the yawning ravine behind them.

The dull gray dawn was beginning to whiten the misty peaks on the horizon when the assailants entered the conquered fortress. They had to pass through it in order to retire into the mountains unseen by the inhabitants of the village, who had left their horses and were timidly climbing their steep rocky street to ascertain the result of the engagement. Their anxious eyes could hardly distinguish the moving mass of the combatants, lighted only by the flashing of their fire-arms. While they were fighting hand-to-hand the pale-faced citizens of Sperlinga stood frozen with terror, listening to the shouts and imprecations of that incomprehensible struggle. They had no inclination to assist the garrison, and most of them longed for the success of the brigands. But the dread of reprisals restrained them from going to their aid. At daybreak they could be seen, almost naked, standing in groups here and there like trembling ghosts, manifesting an ill-defined purpose to go to the assistance of the victors.

Fra Angelo and the Piccinino had no idea of waiting for them. They rushed hurriedly into the fortress, each brigand dragging a body to give it the _coup de grace_. They collected their wounded, and disfigured those of their own number who were dead. But this ghastly scene, which acted upon Verbum Caro like a tonic, disgusted the Piccinino beyond measure. He instantly ordered his men to disperse, and to return to their homes or places of refuge as speedily as possible. Then he took Fra Angelo's arm, and entrusting Verbum Caro to the care of Malacarne and his party, tried to induce the monk to fly with him.

But Fra Angelo was in a terrible state of anxiety concerning Michel and Magnani, and went about from one to another, without mentioning any names, asking for the two young monks who had accompanied him. He was not willing to leave the place until he had found them, and his desperate persistence threatened to expose him to grave danger.

At last the Piccinino spied two frocks at the bottom of the ravine.

"There are your companions," he said to the monk, leading him in that direction. "They have gone ahead; and I can well imagine that they fled from the sickening spectacle of our victory. But their delicacy doesn't interfere with their being gallant fellows. Who are they, pray? I saw them fighting like lions. They wear the dress of your order; but I cannot understand how two such heroes can have been living in your convent and I not know them."

Fra Angelo did not reply; with his bloodshot eyes he was trying to make out the two monks. He recognized the frocks he had given Michel and Magnani, but he could not understand their inaction, and the indifference with which they held themselves aloof from the others. One of them seemed to be seated, the other kneeling by his side. Fra Angelo hurried down into the ravine so eagerly and recklessly that again and again he nearly fell over the precipice.

The Piccinino, who was severely wounded, but strong of will and stoical in his suffering, followed him, careless of his own safety, and they soon reached the foot of the precipice, a spot shut in on all sides, and terribly solitary, with a mountain torrent flowing at their feet. As they had been compelled to make a detour about several steep cliffs, they had lost sight of the two monks, and the darkness that still prevailed in the depths of the gorge made it difficult for them to find their way.

They dared not call; but at last they discovered the men they were seeking. One was sitting on the ground, supported by the arms of the other. Fra Angelo rushed forward and pushed back the hood that first met his hand. He saw Magnani's handsome face, darkened by the shadow of death; his blood was pouring out upon the ground; Michel was drenched with it and felt that his strength was giving way, although he had no other wound than that caused by his intense and intolerable sorrow at his inability to help his friend, and at the feeling that he was dying in his arms.

Fra Angelo tried to assist the noble-hearted artisan, but Magnani gently put away the hand with which he would have touched his wound.

"Let me die in peace, padre," he said, in a voice so faint that the monk was obliged to put his ear to the dying man's lips to hear what he said. "I am happy that I am able to bid you good-bye. You will tell Michel's mother and sister that I died defending him; but do not let Michel know it! He will take care of my family, and you will console them. We won the victory, did we not," he said to the Piccinino, glancing at him with a lifeless eye and not recognizing him.

"O Mila!" exclaimed the Piccinino involuntarily, "you would have been a brave man's wife!"

"Where are you, Michel? I cannot see you any more," said Magnani, feeling for his friend with trembling hands. "We are safe here, aren't we? at the gates of Catania, of course? You will soon embrace your mother! Ah! yes, I hear the murmur of the naiad; the sound revives me; the water flows into my wound--cold as ice, but very soothing."

"Live to see my mother and sister!" cried Michel. "Ah! you shall live, we will never part!"

"Alas! I know what that smile means," said the Piccinino in an undertone, examining Magnani's blue distorted lips; "do not let him talk any more."

"But I am perfectly well!" exclaimed Magnani in a loud voice, putting out his arms. "I do not feel ill at all. Let us go, my friends!"

He struggled to his feet with a convulsive movement, stood for an instant swaying to and fro, then fell dead on the moist sand on the edge of the stream.

Michel was utterly overwhelmed. Fra Angelo did not lose his presence of mind, although from his breast, heaving with violent sobs, there issued hoarse, heartrending groans. He lifted an enormous stone at the entrance to one of the innumerable caves hollowed out of the sandstone long before, to obtain material for building the fortress; he carefully covered Magnani's body with the ample folds of the frock he wore, and, having thus provided a temporary shroud, closed the cave once more with the stone and left the body there.

Then he took Michel's arm, and walked with him and the Piccinino to a more extensive excavation a hundred yards away, which was occupied as a dwelling by a wretchedly destitute family. In the man who joined them there a few moments later, Michel might have recognized one of the peasants who were on friendly terms with the brigands, but Michel knew nothing of what was going on, and recognized nobody.

The peasant assisted the monk to dress the Piccinino's wound, which was deep and beginning to cause him much pain, so much that it required all his strength of will to conceal it.

Fra Angelo was a better surgeon than most of his countrymen who held diplomas. He performed a painful but rapid operation on the Piccinino, and extracted the bullet. The patient did not utter a groan, and Michel did not recover consciousness of his surroundings until he saw him turn pale and grind his teeth.

"Are you going to die too, brother?" he said, taking his clenched hand.

"Would to God that I had died instead of your friend!" Carmelo replied, in an outburst of fierce anger with himself. "I should no longer suffer, and I should be mourned; whereas now I shall suffer all my life and nobody will mourn for me!"

"Is this your gratitude for your brother's self-sacrificing devotion, my friend?" said the monk, throwing the bullet on the ground.

"Brother," rejoined the Piccinino, putting Michel's hand to his lips, "you did not do it from affection for me, I know; you did it for your own honor. But you are revenged for my hatred; for you continue to hate me, and I am doomed to love you!"

Two tears rolled down the brigand's pale cheeks. Were they a manifestation of genuine emotion, or were they caused by the nervous reaction that follows the violent strain of physical suffering? Doubtless they were due in some measure to both causes.

The peasant suggested a strange remedy, which Fra Angelo accepted with great eagerness: the application of a bituminous ooze which was found at the bottom of a spring of brackish water heavily charged with sulphur. The country people collect it and keep it in earthen jars to use in making poultices; it is their panacea. Fra Angelo made a poultice of it and placed it on the brigand's wound; then, having washed him and covered him with some wretched clothes which they bought from the peasant; having also washed off the blood with which Michel and himself were covered, he gave his companions a few swallows of wine, placed Carmelo on their host's mule, gave the man a round sum in gold, to prove to him that there were advantages in serving the good cause, and left him, having first made him swear that he would go the following night and get Magnani's body, and bury it with as much respect as if it were his own son's.

"My own son!" said the peasant in a hollow voice: "do you mean the one the Swiss killed last year?"

This question gave Michel more confidence in the man than any promises or oaths could have done. He looked at him for the first time, and noticed an expression of extraordinary vigor and fanatical enthusiasm on that wasted, earth-colored face. He was more than a brigand, he was a wolf, a vulture, always ready to fall upon a bleeding quarry, to tear it to pieces and glut his rage in its entrails. One could see that his whole life would be too short to avenge his son's death. He did not suggest to his guests that he should guide them in their flight. He was in haste to have done with his duty to them, so that he could go up to the castle to see if any _campiere_ were still breathing and to insult him in his death agony.