Part 11 (2/2)
”I will pay a hundred crowns,” interrupted di Lippo.
”A hundred devils--begone!”
”As you please. Remember, it is a hundred crowns, and, on the faith of a n.o.ble, I say nothing about tonight. Where can I find you, in case you change your mind? A hundred crowns is a comfortable sum of money, mind you.”
There was no excitement about di Lippo. He spoke slowly and distinctly. His cool voice neither rose nor dropped, but he spoke in a steady, chill monotone. A hundred crowns _was_ a comfortable sum of money. It was a sum not to be despised. For a t.i.the of that--nay, for two pistoles--the Captain Guido Moratti would have risked his life twice over, things had come to such a pa.s.s with him. Highway robbery was not exactly his line, although sometimes, as on this occasion, he had been driven to it by the straits of the times. But suppose this offer was a blind? Suppose the man before him merely wanted to know where to get at him, to hand him over to the tender mercies of the thumbscrew and the rack? On the other hand, the man might be in earnest--and a hundred crowns! He hesitated.
”A--hun--dred--crowns.” The cavaliere repeated these words, and there was a silence. Finally the bandit spoke:
”I frankly confess, signore, that stealing purses, even as I have done to-day, is not my way; but a man must live. If you mean what you say, there must be no half-confidences. Tell me who you are, and I will tell you where to find me.”
”I am the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo of Castel Lippo on the Greve.”
”Where is Castel Lippo?”
”At the junction of the Arno and the Greve--on the left bank.”
”Very well. In a week you will hear from me again.”
”It is enough. You will allow me to ransom the horse. I will send you the sum. On my word of honour, I have nothing to pay it at once.”
”The signore's word of honour is doubtless very white. But a can in the hand is a can in the hand, and I need a horse--Good-night!”
”Good-night! But a can in the hand is not always wine to the lips, though a hundred crowns is ever a hundred crowns;” and saying this, di Lippo drew his cloak over the lower part of his face, and turned sharply to the right into the darkness, without so much as giving a look behind him. His horse would have followed; but quick as thought, Moratti's hand was on the trailing reins, and holding them firmly, he stooped and picked up the purse, poising it at arm's-length in front of him.
”Silver,” he muttered, as his fingers felt the coins through the soft leather--”thirty crowns at the most, perhaps an odd gold piece or so--and now to be off. _Hola!_ Steady!” and mounting the horse, he turned his head round, still talking to himself: ”I am in luck. Cheese falls on my macaroni--thirty broad pieces and a horse, and a hundred crowns more in prospect. Captain Guido Moratti, the devil smiles on you--you will end a Count. _Animo!_” He touched the horse with his heels, and went forward at a smart gallop; and as he galloped, he threw his head back and laughed loudly and mirthlessly into the night.
In the meantime it was with a sore heart that the cavaliere made his way through the forest to the banks of the Arno, and then plodded along the river-side, through the wood, by a track scarcely discernible to any but one who had seen it many times. On his right hand the river hummed drearily; on his left, the trees sighed in the night-wind; and before him the narrow track wound, now up, then down, now twisting amongst the pines in darkness, then stretching in front, straight as a plumb-line. It was gall to di Lippo to think of the loss of the crowns and the good horse; it was bitterness to trudge it in the cold along the weary path that led to the ferry across the Arno, which he would have to cross before reaching his own home; and he swore deeply, under the m.u.f.fling of his cloak, as he pressed on at his roundest pace. He soon covered the two miles that lay between him and the ferry; but it was past midnight ere he did this, and reaching the ferryman's hut, battered at the door with the hilt of his sword.
Eventually he aroused the ferryman, who came forth grumbling. Had it been any one else, honest Giuseppe would have told him to go hang before he would have risen from his warm bed; but the Cavaliere Michele was a n.o.ble, and, although poor, had a lance or two, and Castel Lippo, which bore an ill name, was only a mangonel shot from the opposite bank. So Giuseppe punted his excellency across; and his excellency vented his spleen with a curse at everything in general, and the bandit in particular, as he stepped ash.o.r.e and hurried to his dwelling. It was a steep climb that led up by a bridle-path to his half-ruined tower, and di Lippo stood at the postern, and whistled on his silver whistle, and knocked for many a time, before he heard the chains clanking, and the bar put back. At last the door opened, and a figure stood before him, a lantern in one hand.
”St. John! But it is your wors.h.i.+p! We did not expect you until sunrise. And the horse, excellency?”
”Stand aside, fool. I have been robbed, that is all. Yes--let the matter drop; and light me up quick. Will you gape all night there?”
The porter, shutting the gate hastily, turned, and walking before his master, led him across the courtyard. Even by the moonlight, it could be seen that the flagstones were old and worn with age. In many places they had come apart, and with the spring, sprouts of green gra.s.s and white serpyllum would shoot up from the cracks. At present, these fissures were choked with snow. Entering the tower by an arched door at the end of the courtyard, they ascended a winding stair, which led into a large but only partially furnished room. Here the man lit two candles, and di Lippo, dropping his cloak, sank down into a chair, saying: ”Make up a fire, will you--and bring me some wine; after that, you may go.”
The man threw a log or two into the fireplace, where there was already the remains of a fire, and the pinewood soon blazed up cheerfully.
Then he placed a flask of Orvieto and a gla.s.s at his master's elbow, and wis.h.i.+ng him good-night, left him.
Michele di Lippo poured himself out a full measure and drained it at a draught. Drawing his chair close to the blazing wood, he stretched out his feet, cased in long boots of Spanish leather, and stared into the flames. He sat thus for an hour or so without motion. The candles burned out, and the fire alone lit the room, casting strange shadows on the moth-eaten tapestry of the hangings, alternately lighting and leaving in darkness the corners of the room, and throwing its fitful glow on the pallid features of the brooding man, who sat as if cut out of stone. At last the cavaliere moved, but it was only to fling another log on the flames. Then he resumed his former att.i.tude, and watched the fire. As he looked, he saw a picture. He saw wide lands, lands rich with olive and vine, that climbed the green hills between which the Aulella babbles. He saw the grey towers of the castle of Pieve. Above the donjon, a broad flag flapped lazily in the air, and the blazon on it--three wasps on a green field--was his own. He was no longer the ruined n.o.ble, confined to his few acres, living like a goat amongst the rocks of the Greve; but my lord count, ruffling it again in Rome, and calling the mains with Riario, as in the good old times ten years ago. Diavolo! But those were times when the Borgia was Pope! What nights those were in the Torre Borgia! He had one of Giulia Bella's gloves still, and there were dark stains on its whiteness--stains that were red once with the blood of Monreale, who wore it over his heart the day he ran him through on the Ripetta.
_Basta!_ That was twelve years ago! Twelve years! Twelve hundred years it seemed. And he was forty now. Still young enough to run another man through, however. _Cospetto!_ If the bravo would only undertake the job, everything might be his! He would live again--or perhaps! And another picture came before the dreamer. It had much to do with death--a bell was tolling dismally, and a chained man was walking to his end, with a priest muttering prayers into his ears. In the background was a gallows, and a sea of heads, an endless swaying crowd of heads, with faces that looked on the man with hate, and tongues that jeered and shouted curses at him. And the voices of the crowd seemed to merge into one tremendous roar of hatred as the condemned wretch ascended the steps of the platform on which he was to find a disgraceful death.
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