Among the Brigands Part 9

At length they reached that long, straight piece of road already mentioned. At one end of this was a rising ground; as they ascended this and reached its summit, they looked ahead, and there, far away before them, was a single rider. They recognized Bob at once. He was more than a mile away; but the sight of him filled them all with joy, and they at once stimulated their donkeys to greater exertions. In spite of the distance that intervened, they all shouted as loud as they could; but of course the distance was too great, and their cries were lost before they reached nearly as far away as Bob. In a short time he turned in the road, and pa.s.sed out of sight.

They now rode on for a long time, and at length came to the road that led to the mountains, up which Bob had gone. This road was not even noticed by them. They had pa.s.sed other roads of the same kind, which, like this one, led to the mountains, and attached no more importance to this than to those. In the minds of some of them, however, these side-roads suggested a fear, that Bob's a.s.s might have turned off into some one of them; but of course, as they were all alike, they could not conjecture which one would have been taken by the runaway. As they rode on, they still looked ahead. At every turn in the road they still expected to see the fugitive; and it was not until the donkeys themselves gave signs of fatigue, that they were willing to slacken their pace. But the nature of these donkeys was, after all, but mortal; like other mortal things, they were subject to weakness and fatigue; and as they were now exhausted, their riders were compelled to indulge them with a breathing s.p.a.ce, and so they slackened their pace to a walk.

And now they all began to consider the probabilities of Bob's fortunes.

"I'm afraid something's happened," said Clive. "Perhaps he's been thrown."

"Thrown?" cried Frank, cheerily. "Why, if so, we would have found him long ago. But the idea of Bob being thrown from any animal that ever lived is simply absurd. h.e.l.l stick to that donkey as long as the donkey runs."

"It seems to me," said David,--who was a very thoughtful and observant boy,--"it seems to me that the donkey may have taken some of those roads that go off to the mountains."

"Pooh!" said Frank. "Why should the donkey take the trouble to do anything of that sort? A runaway animal don't generally indulge in freaks of that kind. He generally goes it blind, and runs straight ahead along the road that happens to be before him."

"But perhaps he lives among the mountains," said David, "and, in that case, he would merely be running home."

"I don't believe that," said Frank. "I hold that it requires some thought for an ordinary donkey to quit the high road, and take one of those by-roads."

"Not if a by-road leads to his home."

"But how could his home be there," objected Frank, "when we found him away down there near Paestum?"

"Easily enough," said David. "I dare say they were going home at the very time we came up with them."

"I wish we could ask the boy about it," said Clive. "He could tell as just what we want to know."

"Yes," said Frank; "but, unfortunately, we couldn't understand all of it."

David heaved a sigh.

"How I wish," he exclaimed, "that I had studied Italian before I came! But from this time forth, I'm determined not to rest till I've learned the language."

Uncle Moses was deeply distressed at Bob's disappearance. He had only one idea in his mind. He told the other boys what it was. It was the idea of brigands. They had met poor Bob; they had seized him, and had carried him off to their lurking-places in the mountains.

Even now he was in captivity. And the heart of Uncle Moses yearned over the poor prisoner. He expressed these fears in a few words, for he was too agitated to say much.

Clive and David both shook their heads over this, and thought there was something in it. Both of them now thought that Bob might have been carried by his donkey to the mountains; and, if so, his capture by brigands would be almost certain. To them, these mountains seemed to be full of them; the whole population, in their opinion, was a community of brigands.

Clive had also another idea. It was this. The driver had deserted them and had gone off vowing vengeance. He had gone to the mountains, and returned with a band of brigands to capture all of them. They had met Bob, seized him, and taken him off.

At all this Frank laughed.

"Pooh!" said he. "I don't see why you should go out of your way to torment yourselves about nothing at all. It all seems plain enough to me. The donkey has run off, and intends to keep running till he drops. There's a long, straight, smooth road before him, and he'll stick to that without bothering his head about by-roads or mountains.

And if he's obstinate enough, I don't see why he shouldn't keep on running till he gets to Salerno. And it's my opinion, if we don't pick him up on the road, well find him at Salerno when we get there."

"O, that's all very well," said Clive, "but think how certain you were about the driver--"

He was interrupted by the sound of galloping horses and rolling wheels. The sound came from behind. At once they all turned their heads. Emerging from behind a torn in the road, they saw two horses galloping at full speed, and drawing a carriage. The driver was whipping the horses furiously, and calling and shouting. The carriage was empty. In a moment they recognized the truth. It was their carriage and their driver.

They all stood still, and looked in surprise, and the carriage rolled swiftly up. The driver at once stopped the horses, and jumped to the ground. Then, coming to the boys, he burst forth into a strain of the most profuse and vehement apologies. He implored them to forgive him, and began to explain the cause of his absence from the place where they had left him.

It seems that he found this place an inconvenient one, and had driven across the fields for about half, a mile, to some trees.

Here he had taken his horses out, and allowed them to feed. He himself lay down in the carriage, and took a _siesta_. He overslept himself. On awaking, he was horrified to find how much time had pa.s.sed, and at once proceeded to search for the horses.

But during his sleep they had both wandered off, and could not be found until after a long search. When at length he was ready, and had driven back, he found to his horror that they were not there. Thinking that they were still among the ruins, he had gone over the whole place, which took up still more time. At last he saw that they must have left. He at once drove off. Knowing that they were on foot, he expected every minute to catch sight of them. He drove on for miles without seeing any trace of them, and at length came to the conclusion that they had, perhaps, found the carriage of some other visitors, and had obtained seats in that. He knew that they must have gone, and could only account in that way for their rapid progress.

This explanation of the driver was perfectly satisfactory to them all, and their joy at getting the carriage again was so great that they excused his unfortunate slumbers. The driver also, on his part, had now forgotten all about his sulks, and was the same genial and companionable soul as before. On learning about Bob's mishap, he at once a.s.sured them that the donkey must have run along the road, and that they would undoubtedly soon catch up with him. So the whole party got into the carriage, the driver whipped up the horses, and away they went towards Salerno.

Mile after mile was traversed.

Still there were no signs of Bob,

"Something's happened," said Clive.

"He's been carried to the mountains," said David.

"It's the brigands!" groaned Uncle Moses.

"O, it's all right," said Frank, confidently. "That donkey's a regular race-horse. We'll find him at Salerno."

At length they reached Salerno. They drove up to the hotel.

No signs of Bob!

Hurrying in, they made inquiries, and found that he had not come.

This filled them all with the greatest concern; and the driver, and the landlord, and all others who heard of it, a.s.serted that he must have been carried to the mountains. It was now dark.

Nothing more could be done; and so they could only resolve to drive back on the following day, and make a more careful search after the lost boy.

CHAPTER X.

_The captive Boy and his grisly Visitant.--The Hand on his Head.--Denouement.--The Brigand Family.--The old Crone.--The Robber Wife.--The Brigand Children.--A Revolution of Feeling.--The main Road.--The Carriage.--In Search of Bob._

Paralyzed with terror, dumb with horror, Bob lay motionless and almost breathless; and the grisly old hag reached out her long, lean, thin, bony, withered, shrivelled hand, and took his hair, while with the other hand she raised her sharp weapon.

She took his hair very lightly and tenderly; so lightly, indeed, that Bob was just conscious of her touch; and though he expected that he would be torn from his bed and struck dead the next instant, yet this fate was delayed.

She took his hair then in her hand very gently and tenderly, and in her other hand she raised the sharp weapon.

Now, the sharp weapon was a pair of sheep-shears.

These shears she held forward, and with them she snipped off, as noiselessly as possible, a lock of Bob's hair.

She pressed the lock of hair to her thin lips, looked at it steadfastly for some time, pressed it once more to her lips, and then put it in the folds of her dress.

Then kneeling by Bob's side, she looked at him long and earnestly.

She bent over him, and looked down upon him. She laid the shears upon the floor, clasped her withered hands together, and gazed upon the boy. He lay still. His eyes were closed; but the delay of his fate and the snip of the shears in his hair bad roused him somewhat from his abyss of terror. He opened his eyes wide enough to see what was going on. He could not see the old woman's face, but he saw her kneeling, and he saw her thin hands clasped before her, like one in prayer, and tremulous.

The old woman bent over him; and if Bob could have seen her face he would have known that this old creature was an object of any other feeling rather than fear. Pale it was, that face that was over him, and wrinkled, and emaciated; but there was upon it a softened expression--an expression of yearning and of longing.