THE OLD woman immediately hastened to obey, and to give commands, under the sanction of that name, which by whomsoever pronounced, always set the whole household on the alert; for it never entered the imagination of any one, that another person would venture to use it unauthorized. She reached Malanotte shortly before the carriage arrived; and on seeing it approach, got out of the litter, beckoned to the driver to stop, advanced towards the door, and whispered to Nibbio, who put his head out of the window, the wishes of his master.

Lucia aroused herself, on feeling the carriage stop, and, awaking from a kind of lethargy, was seized with renewed terror, as she wildly gazed around her. Nibbio had pushed himself back on the seat, and the old woman, with her chin resting on the door, was looking at Lucia, and saying, ‘Come, my good girl; come, you poor thing; come with me, for I have orders to treat you well, and try to comfort you.’

At the sound of a female voice, the poor girl felt a ray of comfort — a momentary flash of courage; but she quickly relapsed into still more terrible fears. ‘Who are you?’ asked she, in a trembling voice, fixing her astonished gaze on the old woman’s face.

‘Come, come, you poor creature,’ was the unvaried answer she received. Nibbio, and his two companions, gathering from the words, and the unusually softened tones of the old hag, what were intentions of their lord, endeavoured, by kind and soothing words, to persuade the unhappy girl to obey. She only continued, however, to stare wildly around; and though the unknown and savage character of the place, and the close guardianship of her keepers, forbade her indulging a hope of relief, she nevertheless, attempted to cry out; but seeing Nibbio cast a glance towards the handkerchief, she stopped, trembled, gave a momentary shudder, and was then seized, and placed in the litter. The old woman entered after her;333 Nibbio left the other two villains to follow behind as an escort, while he himself took the shortest ascent to attend to the call of his master.

‘Who are you?’ anxiously demanded Lucia of her unknown and ugly-visaged companion: ‘Why am I with you? Where am I? Where are you taking me?’

‘To one who wishes to do you good,’ replied the aged dame; ‘to a great . . . Happy are they to whom he wishes good! You are very lucky, I can tell you. Don’t be afraid — be cheerful; he bid me try to encourage you. You’ll tell him, won’t you, that I tried to comfort you?’

‘Who is he? — why? — what does he want with me? I don’t belong to him! Tell me where I am! let me go! bid these people let me go — bid them carry me to some church. Oh! you who are a woman, in the name of Mary the Virgin! . . . ’

This holy and soothing name, once repeated with veneration in her early years, and now for so long a time uninvoked, and, perhaps, unheard, produced in the mind of the unhappy creature, on again reaching her ear, a strange, confused, and distant recollection, like the remembrance of light and form in an aged person, who has been blind from infancy.

In the meanwhile, the Unnamed, standing at the door of his castle, was looking downwards, and watching the litter, as before he had watched the carriage, while it slowly ascended, step by step; Nibbio rapidly advancing before it at a distance which every moment became greater. When he had at length attained the summit, ‘Come this way,’ cried the Signor; and taking the lead, he entered the castle, and went into one of the apartments.

‘Well?’ said he, making a stand.

‘Everything exactly right,’ replied Nibbio, with a profound obeisance; ‘the intelligence in time, the girl in time, nobody on the spot, only one scream, nobody attracted by it, the coachman ready, the horses swift, nobody met with: but . . . ’

‘But what?’

‘But . . . I will tell the truth; I would rather have been commanded to shoot her in the back, without hearing her speak — without seeing her face.’

‘What? . . . what? . . . what do you mean?’

‘I mean that all this time . . . all this time . . . I have felt too much compassion for her.’

‘Compassion! What do you know of compassion? What is compassion?’

‘I never understood so well what it was as this time; it is something that rather resembles fear; let it once take possession of you, and you are no longer a man.’

‘Let me hear a little of what she did to excite your compassion.’

‘O, most noble Signor! such a time! . . . weeping, praying, and looking at one with such eyes! and becoming pale as death! and then sobbing, and praying again, and certain words . . . ’

— I won’t have this creature in my house — thought the Unnamed, meanwhile, to himself. — In an evil hour, I engaged to do it; but I’ve promised — I’ve promised. When she’s far away . . . And raising his face with an imperious air towards Nibbio, ‘Now, said he, ‘you must lay aside compassion, mount your horse, take a companion — two, if you like — and ride away, till you get to the palace of this Don Rodrigo, you know. Tell him to send immediately . . . immediately, or else . . . ’

But another internal no, more imperative than the first, prohibited his finishing. ‘No,’ said he, in a resolute tone, almost, as it were, to express to himself the command of this secret voice. ‘No: go and take some rest; and to-morrow morning . . . you shall do as I will tell you.’

— This girl must have some demon of her own — thought he, when left alone, standing with his arms crossed on his breast, and his gaze fixed upon a spot on the floor, where the rays of the moon, entering through a lofty window, traced out a square of pale light, chequered like a draught-board by the massive iron bars, and more minutely divided into smaller compartments by the little panes of glass. — Some demon, or . . . some angel who protects her . . . Compassion in Nibbio! . . . To-morrow morning — to-morrow morning, early she must be off from this; she must go to her place of destination; and she shall not be spoken of again, and — continued he to himself, with the resolution with which one gives a command to a rebellious child, knowing that it will not be obeyed — and she shall not be thought of again, either. That animal of a Don Rodrigo must not come to pester me with thanks; for . . . I don’t want to hear her spoken of any more. I have served him because . . . because I promised; and I promised, because . . . it was my destiny. But I’m determined the fellow shall pay me well for this piece of service. Let me see a little . . . —

And he tried to devise some intricate undertaking, to impose upon Don Rodrigo by way of compensation, and almost as a punishment; but the words again shot across his mind — Compassion in Nibbio! — What can this girl have done? — continued he, following out the thought; — I must see her. Yet no — yes, I will see her. —

He went from one room to another, came to the foot of a flight of stairs, and irresolutely ascending, proceeded to the old woman’s apartment; here he knocked with his foot at the door.

‘Who’s there?’

‘Open the door.’

The old woman made three bounds at the sound of his voice; the bolt was quickly heard grating harshly in the staples, and the door was thrown wide open. The Unnamed cast a glance round the room, as he paused in the doorway; and by the light of a lamp which stood on a three-legged table, discovered Lucia crouched down on the floor, in the corner farthest from the entrance.

‘Who bid you throw her there, like a bag of rags, you uncivil old beldame?’ said he to the aged matron, with an angry frown.

‘She chose it herself,’ replied she, in an humble tone. ‘I’ve done my best to encourage her; she can tell you so herself; but she won’t mind me.’

Get up,’ said he to Lucia, approaching her. But she, whose already terrified mind had experienced a fresh and mysterious addition to her terror at the knocking, the opening of the door, his footstep, and his voice, only gathered herself still closer into the corner, and, with her face buried in her hands, remained perfectly motionless, excepting that she trembled from head to foot.

‘Get up,’ I will do you no harm . . . and I can do you some good,’ repeated the Signor . . . ‘Get up!’ thundered he forth at last, irritated at having twice commanded in vain.

As if invigorated by fear, the unhappy girl instantly raised herself upon her knees, and joining her hands, as she would have knelt before a sacred image, lifted her eyes to the face of the Unnamed, and instantly dropping them said: `Here I am, kill me if you will.’

`I have told you I would do you no harm,’ replied the Unnamed, in a softened tone, gazing at her agonized features of grief and terror.

‘Courage, courage,’ said the old woman; ‘if he himself tells you he will do you no harm . . . ’

‘And why,’ rejoined Lucia, with a voice in which the daringness of despairing indignation was mingled with the tremor of fear, ‘why make me suffer the agonies of hell? What have I done to you? . . . ’

‘Perhaps they have treated you badly? Tell me . . . ’

‘Treated me badly! They have seized me by treachery — by force! Why — why have they seized me? Why am I here? Where am I? I am a poor harmless girl. What have I done to you? In the name of God . . . ’

‘God, God!’ interrupted the Unnamed, ‘always God! They who cannot defend themselves — who have not the strength to do it, must always bring forward this God, as if they had spoken to him. What do you expect by this word? To make me? . . . ’ and he left the sentence unfinished.

‘O Signor, expect! What can a poor girl like me expect, except that you should have mercy upon me? God pardons so many sins for one deed of mercy. Let me go; for charity’s sake, let me go. It will do no good to one who must die, to make a poor creature suffer thus. Oh! you who can give the command, bid them let me go! They brought me here by force. Bid them send me again with this woman, and take me to . . ., where my mother is. Oh! most holy Virgin! My mother! my mother! — for pity’s sake, my mother. Perhaps she is not far from here . . . I saw my mountains. Why do you give me all this suffering? Bid them take me to a church; I will pray for you all my life. What will it cost you to say one word? Oh, see! you are moved to pity: say one word, oh say it! God pardons so many sins for one deed of mercy!’

— Oh, why isn’t she the daughter of one of the rascally dogs that outlawed me! — thought the Unnamed; — of one of the villains who wish me dead; then I should enjoy her sufferings; but instead . . . —

‘Don’t drive away a good inspiration!’ continued Lucia, earnestly, reanimated by seeing a certain air of hesitation in the countenance and behaviour of her oppressor. ‘If you don’t grant me this mercy, the Lord will do it for me. I shall die, and all will be over with me; but you . . . Perhaps, some day, even you . . . But no, no; I will always pray the Lord to keep you from every evil. What will it cost you to say one word? If you knew what it was to suffer this agony! . . . ’

‘Come, take courage’ interrupted the Unnamed, with a gentleness that astonished the old woman. ‘Have I done you any harm? Have I threatened you?’

‘Oh no! I see that you have a kind heart, and feel some pity for an unhappy creature. If you chose, you could terrify me more than all the others: you could kill me with fear; but instead of that, you have . . . rather lightened my heart; God will reward you for it. Finish your deed of mercy; set me free, set me free.’

‘To-morrow morning . . . ’

‘Oh! set me free now — now . . .

‘To-morrow morning, I will see you again, I say. Come, in the mean while, be of good courage. Take a little rest; you must want something to eat. They shall bring you something directly.’

‘No, no; I shall die, if anybody comes here; I shall die! Take me to a church . . . God will reward you for that step.’

‘A woman shall bring you something to eat,’ said the Unnamed; and having said so, he stood wondering at himself how such a remedy had entered his mind, and how the wish had arisen to seek a remedy for the sorrows of a poor humble villager.

‘And you,’ resumed he hastily, turning to the aged matron, ‘persuade her to eat something, and let her lie down to rest on this bed; and if she is willing to have you as a companion, well; if not, you can sleep well enough for one night on the floor. Encourage her, I say, and keep her cheerful. Beware that she has no cause to complain of you.’

So saying, he moved quickly towards the door. Lucia sprang up, and ran to detain him, and renew her entreaties, but he was gone.

‘Oh, poor me! Shut the door quickly.’ And having heard the door closed, and the bolt again drawn, she returned to seat herself in her corner. “Oh, poor me!’ repeated she, sobbing; ‘whom shall I implore now? Where am I? Do you tell me — tell me, for pity’s sake, who is this Signor . . . he who has been speaking to me?’

‘Who is he, eh? — who is he? Do you think I may tell you? Wait till he tells you himself. You are proud, because he protects you; and you want to be satisfied, and make me your go-between. Ask him yourself. If I were to tell you this, I shouldn’t get the good words he has just given you. I am an old woman, an old woman,’ continued she, muttering between her teeth. ‘Hang these young folks, who may make a fine show of either laughing or crying, just as they like, and yet are always in the right.’ But hearing Lucia’s sobs and the commands of her master returning in a threatening manner to her memory, she stooped toward the poor crouching girl, and, in a gentler and more humane tone, resumed: ‘Come, I have said no harm to you; be cheerful. Don’t ask me questions which I’ve no business to answer; but pluck up heart, my good girl. Ah! if you knew how many people would be glad to hear him speak, as he has spoken to you! Be cheerful, for he will send you something to eat just now; and I know . . . by the way he spoke, I’m sure it will be something good. And then you lie down, and . . . you will leave just a little corner for me,’ added she, with an accent of suppressed rancour.

‘I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to sleep. Let me alone; don’t come near me; but you won’t leave the room?’

‘No, no, not I,’ said the old woman, drawing back, and seating herself on an old arm-chair, whence she cast sundry glances of alarm, and at the same time of envy, towards the poor girl. Then she looked at the bed, vexed at the idea of being, perhaps, excluded from it for the whole night, and grumbling at the cold. But she comforted herself with the thoughts of supper, and with the hope that there might be some to spare for her. Lucia was sensible of neither cold nor hunger, and, almost as if deprived of her senses, had but a confused idea of her very grief and terror, like the undefined objects seen by a delirious patient.

She roused herself, when she heard a knocking at the door; and raising her head, exclaimed, in much alarm, ‘Who’s there? — who’s there? Don’t let any one in!’

‘Nobody, nobody; good news!’ said the old woman; ‘it’s Martha bringing something to eat.’

‘Shut the door, shut the door!’ cried Lucia.

‘Ay, directly,’ replied the old woman; and taking a basket out of Martha’s hand, she hastily nodded to her, shut the door, and came and set the basket on a table, in the middle of the room. She then repeatedly invited Lucia to come and partake of the tempting repast, and employing words, which, according to her ideas, were most likely to be efficacious in restoring the poor girl’s appetite, broke forth into exclamations on the excellence of the food; —‘Morsels which, when common people have once got a taste, they don’t forget in a hurry! Wine, which her master drank with his friends . . . when any of them happened to arrive . . . and they wanted to be merry! Hem!’ But seeing that all these charms produced no effect —‘It is you who won’t eat,’ said she. ‘Don’t you be saying to-morrow that I didn’t try to persuade you. I’ll eat something, however; and then there’ll be more than enough left for you, when you come to your senses, and are willing to do yo............