Kabanata Kabanata 23 · Chapter XXIII

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The Cardinal Frederick was engaged in study, as was his custom,

preparatory to the hour of divine service, when the cross-bearer

entered, with a disturbed and unquiet air.

“A strange visit,—strange indeed, most illustrious signor.”

“From whom?” asked the cardinal.

“From the signor ——,” replied the chaplain; pronouncing the name which

we are unable to repeat to our readers. “He is without, in person, and

asks admittance to the presence of your lordship.”

“Indeed!” said the cardinal, closing his book and rising from his seat,

his countenance brightening; “let him come in, let him come in

immediately.”

“But——,” replied the chaplain, “does your lordship know who this man

is? It is the famous outlaw ——.”

“And is it not a happy circumstance for a bishop, that such a man should

have come to seek him?”

“But——,” insisted the chaplain, “we never dare speak of certain

things, because my lord says they are idle tales. However, in this case

it appears to be a duty——. Zeal makes enemies, my lord, and we know

that more than one ruffian has boasted that sooner or later——”

“And what have they done?”

“This man is an enterprising, desperate villain, who is in strict

correspondence with other villains, as desperate as himself, and who,

perhaps, have sent him——”

“Oh! what discipline is this!” said the cardinal, smiling; “the soldiers

exhort the general to cowardice!” Then, with a grave and pensive air, he

resumed, “Saint Carlo would not have deliberated a moment, whether he

should receive such a man; he would have gone to seek him. Let him enter

immediately; he has already waited too long.”

The chaplain moved towards the door, saying in his heart, “There is no

remedy; these saints are always obstinate.”

He opened the door, and reaching the hall, where he had left the

ecclesiastics, he beheld them collected together in one corner of the

room, and the Unknown standing alone in another. As he approached him,

he eyed him keenly to ascertain whether he had not arms concealed about

his person. “Truly, before introducing him, we might at least

propose——,” but his resolution failed him. He spoke—“My lord expects

your lordship. Be kind enough to come with me.” And he led the way into

the presence of Frederick, who came forward to meet the Unknown with a

pleased and serene countenance, making a sign to the chaplain to quit

the room.

The Unknown and the cardinal remained for some moments silent and

undecided; the former experienced at the same time a vague hope of

finding some relief to his internal torments, and also a degree of

irritation and shame at appearing in this place as a penitent, to

confess his sins, and implore pardon of a man. He could not speak;

indeed, he hardly wished to do so. However, as he raised his eyes to the

cardinal’s face, he was seized with an irresistible sentiment of

respect, which increasing his confidence, and subduing his pride without

offending it, nevertheless kept him silent.

The person of Frederick was indeed fitted to inspire respect and love.

His figure was naturally majestic and noble, and was neither bent nor

wasted by years; his eye was grave and piercing, his brow serene and

pensive; his countenance still shone with the animation of youth,

notwithstanding the paleness of his face, and the visible traces it

presented of abstinence, meditation, and laborious exertion. All his

features indicated that he had once been more than ordinarily handsome;

the habit of solemn and benevolent thought, the internal peace of a long

life, love for mankind, and the influence of an ineffable hope, had

substituted for the beauty of youth, the more dignified and superior

beauty of an old age, to which the magnificent simplicity of the

_purple_ added an imposing and inexpressible charm. He kept his eyes for

a few moments fixed on the Unknown, as if to read his thoughts; and

imagining he perceived in his dark and troubled features something

corresponding to the hope he had conceived, “Oh!” cried he in an

animated voice, “what a welcome visit is this! and how I ought to thank

you for it, although it fills me with self-reproach.”

“Reproach!” cried the Unknown, in astonishment; but he felt re-assured

by his manner, and the gentleness of his words, and he was glad that the

cardinal had broken the ice, and commenced the conversation.

“Certainly, it is a subject of self-reproach that I should have waited

till you came to me! How many times I might, and ought to have sought

_you_!”

“You! seek _me_! Do you know who I am? Have they told you my name?”

“Do you believe I could have felt this joy, which you may read in my

countenance—do you believe I could have felt it, at the sight of one

unknown to me? It is you who are the cause of it—you, whom it was my

duty to seek—you, for whom I have so wept and prayed—you, who are that

one of my children (and I love them all with the whole strength of my

affections)—that one, whom I would most have desired to see and

embrace, if I could have ever dared to indulge the hope of so doing. But

God alone can work miracles, and he supplies the weakness and tardiness

of his poor servants.”

The Unknown was amazed at the kindness and warmth of this reception;

agitated and bewildered by such unlooked-for benevolence, he kept

silence.

“And,” resumed Frederick, more affectionately, “you have some good news

for me; why do you hesitate to tell it me?”

“Good news! I! I have hell in my soul, and how can I bring _you_ good

news! Tell me, tell me, if you know, what good news could you expect

from such a one as I?”

“That God has touched your heart, and is drawing you to himself,”

replied the cardinal calmly.

“God! God! If I could see! If I could hear him! Where is God?”

“Do you ask me? you! And who more than yourself has felt his presence?

Do you not now feel him in your heart, disturbing, agitating you, not

leaving you a moment of repose, and at the same time drawing you towards

him, and imparting a hope of tranquillity and of consolation; of

consolation which shall be full and unlimited, as soon as you

acknowledge _Him_, confess your sins, and implore his mercy!”

“Oh! yes, yes; something indeed oppresses, something consumes me. But

God—if it be God, if it be He, of whom you speak, what can he do with

me?”

These words were uttered in a tone of despair; but Frederick calmly and

solemnly replied, “What can God do with you? Through you he can exhibit

his power and goodness. He would draw from you a glory, which none other

could render him; you, against whom, the cries of the world have been

for so long a time raised—you, whose deeds are detested——” (The

Unknown started at this unaccustomed language, but was astonished to

find that it excited no anger in his bosom, but rather communicated to

it a degree of alleviation.) “What glory,” pursued Frederick, “will

accrue to God? A general cry of supplication has risen against you

before his throne; among your accusers, some no doubt have been

stimulated by jealousy of the power you have exercised; but more, by the

deplorable security of your own heart, which has endured until this day.

But, when _you_ yourself shall rise to condemn your life, and become

your own accuser, then, oh! then, God will be glorified! And you ask

what he can do with you? What am I, feeble mortal! that I should presume

to tell you what are his designs respecting you; what he will do with

this impetuous will, and imperturbable constancy, when he shall have

animated and warmed it with love, hope, and repentance? Who are you,

feeble mortal, that you should think yourself able to execute and

imagine greater things for the promotion of evil and vice, than God can

make you accomplish for that of good and virtue? What can God do with

you? Forgive you! save you! accomplish in you the work of redemption!

Are not these things worthy of him? Oh! speak. If I, an humble

creature—I, so miserable, and nevertheless so full of myself—I, such

as I am,—if I so rejoice at your salvation, that to assure it, I would

joyfully give (God is my witness) the few years that remain to me in

life, Oh! think! what must be the love of Him who inspires me with the

thought, and commands me to regard you with such devotion as this!”

The countenance and manner of Frederick breathed celestial purity and

love, in accordance with the vows which came from his mouth. The Unknown

felt the stormy emotions of his soul gradually calming under such

heavenly influence, and giving place to sentiments of deep and profound

interest. His eyes, which from infancy “had been unused to tears, became

swoln;” and burying his face in his hands, he wept the reply he could

not utter.

“Great and good God!” cried Frederick, raising his hands and eyes to

heaven, “what have I ever done—I, thy unprofitable servant—that thou

shouldst have invited me to this banquet of thy grace,—that thou

shouldst have thought me worthy of being thy instrument to the

accomplishment of such a miracle!” So saying, he extended his hand to

take that of the Unknown.

“No!” cried he; “no! Approach me not! Pollute not that innocent and

beneficent hand! You know not what deeds have been committed by the hand

you would place within your own!”

“Suffer,” said Frederick, taking it with gentle violence,—“suffer me to

clasp this hand, which is about to repair so many wrongs, to scatter so

many blessings; which will comfort so many who are in affliction, which

will offer itself, peaceably and humbly, to so many enemies.”

“It is too much,” said the Unknown, sobbing aloud; “leave me, my lord!

good Frederick! leave me! Crowds eagerly await your presence, among whom

are pure and innocent souls, who have come from far to see and hear you,

and you remain here to converse——with whom?”

“We will leave the ninety and nine sheep,” replied the cardinal; “they

are in safety on the mountain. I must now remain with the one which was

lost. These people are perhaps now more satisfied than if they had the

poor bishop with them; perhaps God, who has visited you with the riches

and wonders of his grace, may even now be filling their hearts with a

joy, of which they divine not the cause; perhaps they are united to us

without knowing it; perhaps the Holy Spirit animates their hearts with

the fervour of charity and benevolence; inspires them with a spirit of

prayer; with, on your account, a spirit of thanksgiving of which you are

the unknown object.”

So saying, he passed his arm around the neck of the Unknown, who, after

resisting a moment, yielded, quite vanquished by this impulse of

kindness, and fell on the neck of the cardinal, in an agony of

repentance. His burning tears dropped on the stainless purple of

Frederick, and the pure hands of the bishop were clasped affectionately

around him, who had hitherto been only habituated to deeds of violence

and treachery.

The Unknown, after a long embrace, covering his face with his hands,

raised his head, exclaiming, “Oh! God! Thou who art truly great and

good! I know myself now; I comprehend what I am; my iniquities are all

before me; I abhor myself; but still—still I experience a consolation,

a joy—yes, a joy which I have never before known in all my horrible

life!”

“God accords to you this grace,” said Frederick, “to attract you to his

service, to strengthen you to enter resolutely the new way he has opened

to you, where you have so much to undo, to repair, to weep for!”

“Miserable that I am!” cried he, “there is so much—so much—that I can

only weep over. But at least, there are some things but just undertaken,

that I can arrest—yes, there is at least one evil that I can repair.”

He then briefly related, in the most energetic terms of self-execration,

the story of Lucy, with the sufferings and terrors of the unfortunate

girl; her entreaties, and the species of frenzy that her supplications

had excited in his soul; adding, that she was still in the castle.

“Ah! let us lose no time!” cried Frederick, moved with pity and

solicitude. “What happiness for you! You may behold in this, the pledge

of pardon! God makes you the instrument of safety to her, to whom you

were to have been the instrument of ruin. God has indeed blessed

you!—Do you know the native place of the unhappy girl?”

The Unknown named the village.

“It is not far from this,” said the cardinal; “God be praised! And

probably——” so saying, he approached a table, and rang a little bell.

The chaplain entered, with an unquiet look; in amazement he beheld the

altered countenance of the Unknown, on which the traces of tears were

still visible; and glancing at that of the cardinal, he perceived,

through its wonted calmness, an expression of great satisfaction,

mingled with extraordinary solicitude. He was roused from the

astonishment which the contemplation excited, by a question of the

cardinal, if, among the curates in the hall, “there was one from ***?”

“There is, most illustrious lord,” replied the chaplain.

“Bring him hither immediately,” said Frederick, “and with him, the

curate of this parish.”

The chaplain obeyed, and went to the hall where the priests were

assembled. All eyes were turned towards him. He cried aloud, “His most

illustrious and reverend lordship asks for the curate of this parish and

the curate of ***.”

The former advanced immediately, and at the same time was heard, amidst

the crowd, a _me?_ uttered in a tone of surprise.

“Are you not the curate of ***?” said the chaplain.

“Certainly; but——”

“His most illustrious and reverend lordship asks for you.”

“Me?” replied he, and Don Abbondio advanced from the crowd with an air

of amazement and anxiety. The chaplain led the way, and introduced them

both to the presence of the cardinal.

The cardinal let go the hand of the Unknown as they entered, and taking

the curate of the parish aside, related in few words the facts of the

story, asking him if he knew some kind female, who would be willing to

go to the castle in a litter, to remove Lucy thence; a devoted,

charitable woman, capable of acting with judgment in so novel an

expedition, and of exerting the best means to tranquillise the poor

girl, to whom deliverance itself, after such anguish and alarm, might

produce new and overwhelming apprehensions. After having reflected a

moment, the curate took upon himself the affair, and departed. The

cardinal then ordered the chaplain to have a litter prepared, and two

mules ready saddled. The chaplain quitted the room to obey his orders,

and the cardinal was left alone with Don Abbondio and the Unknown. The

former, who had kept himself aloof, regarding with eager curiosity the

faces of the Unknown and the cardinal, now came forward, saying, “I was

told that your illustrious lordship wished to see me; but I suppose it

was a mistake.”

“There is no mistake;” replied Frederick, “I have both a novel and

agreeable commission to give you. One of your parishioners, whom you

have regarded as lost, Lucy Mondella, is found; she is near this, in the

house of my good friend here. I wish you to go with him, and a good

woman whom the curate of this parish will provide, and bring the poor

girl, who must be so dear to you, to this place.”

Don Abbondio did his best to conceal the extreme alarm which such a

proposition caused him; and bowed profoundly, in sign of obedience,

first to the cardinal, and then to the Unknown, but with a piteous look,

which seemed to say, “I am in your hands; be merciful: _parcere

subjectis_.”

The cardinal asked him of Lucy’s relations.

“She has no near relation but her mother, with whom she lives,” replied

Don Abbondio.

“Is _she_ at home?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Since,” replied Frederick, “this poor child cannot yet go home, it

would be a great consolation for her to see her mother; if the curate of

this village does not return before I go to church, I beg you will

desire him to send some prudent person to bring the good woman hither.”

“Perhaps I had better go myself,” said Don Abbondio.

“No, no; I have other employment for you.”

“Her mother,” resumed Don Abbondio, “is a very sensitive woman, and it

will require a good deal of discretion to prepare her for the meeting.”

“That is the reason that I have named some prudent person. You, however,

will be more useful elsewhere,” replied the cardinal. He could have

added, had he not been deterred by a regard to the feelings of the

Unknown—“This poor child needs much to behold some person whom she

knows, after so many hours of alarm, and in such terrible uncertainty of

the future.”

It appeared strange, however, that Don Abbondio should not have inferred

it from his manner, or that he should not have thought so himself; the

reluctance he evinced to comply with the request of the cardinal

appeared so out of place, that the latter imagined there must be some

secret cause for it. He looked at the curate attentively, and quickly

discovering the fears of the poor man at becoming the companion of this

formidable lord, or entering his abode, even for a few moments, he felt

an anxiety to dissipate these terrors; and in order to do this, and not

injure the feelings of his new friend by talking privately to Don

Abbondio in his presence, he addressed his conversation to the Unknown

himself, so that Don Abbondio might perceive by his answers, that he was

no longer a man to be feared.

“Do not believe,” said he, “that I shall be satisfied with this visit

to-day. You will return, will you not, in company with this worthy

ecclesiastic?”

“_Will_ I return!” replied the Unknown: “Oh! if ever you should refuse

to see me, I would remain at your door as a beggar. I must talk to you,

I must hear you, I must see you, I cannot do without you!”

Frederick took his hand, and pressing it affectionately, said, “Do us

the favour, then, the curate of the village and myself, to dine with us;

I shall expect you. In the mean time, whilst you are gathering the first

fruits of repentance and compassion, I will go and offer supplications

and thanksgivings to God with the people.”

Don Abbondio, at this exhibition of confidence and affection, was like a

timid child, who beholds a man caressing fearlessly a rough-looking

mastiff, renowned for his ferocity and strength. It is in vain that the

master assures him the dog is a good quiet beast: he looks at him,

neither contradicting nor assenting; he looks at the dog, and dares not

approach him, lest the good beast might show his teeth, if only from

habit; he dares not retreat, from fear of the imputation of cowardice;

but he heartily wishes himself safe “at home!”

The cardinal, as he was quitting the room, still holding the Unknown by

the hand, perceived that the curate remained behind, embarrassed and

motionless, and thinking that perhaps he was mortified at the little

attention that was paid to him, compared with that which was bestowed on

one so criminal, he turned towards him, stopped a moment, and with an

amiable smile said, “Signor Curate, you have always been with me in the

house of our Father; but this man _perierat, et inventus est_.”

“Oh! how I rejoice at it!” said the curate, bowing to them both very

reverently.

The archbishop passed on, and entering the hall, the admirable pair

presented themselves to the eager gaze of the clergy who were there

assembled. They regarded with intense curiosity those two countenances,

on which were depicted different, but equally profound emotions. The

venerable features of Frederick breathed a grateful and humble joy; in

those of the Unknown might be traced an embarrassment blended with

satisfaction, an unusual modesty, a keen remorse, through which,

however, the lingerings of his severe and savage nature were apparent.

More than one of the spectators thought of that passage of Isaiah, “The

wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with

the kid.” Behind them came Don Abbondio, whom no one noticed.

When they had reached the middle of the apartment, the servant of the

cardinal entered, to inform him that he had executed the orders of the

chaplain, that the litter was ready, and that they only waited for the

female whom the curate was to bring. The cardinal told him to inform Don

Abbondio when the curate should have arrived, and that afterwards all

would be subject to his orders and those of the Unknown, to whom he bade

an affectionate farewell, saying, “I shall expect you.” Bowing to Don

Abbondio, he directed his steps, followed by the clergy in procession,

to the church.

Don Abbondio and the Unknown were left alone in the apartment; the

latter was absorbed in his own thoughts, impatient for the moment to

arrive when he should take _his_ Lucy from sorrow and prison; for she

was indeed _his_ Lucy, but in a sense very different from the preceding

night. His countenance expressed concentrated agitation, which to the

suspicious eye of Don Abbondio appeared something worse: he looked at

him with a desire to begin a friendly conversation. “But what can I say

to him?” thought he. “Shall I repeat to him that I rejoice? I rejoice!

at what? That having been a demon, he has formed the resolution to

become an honest man? A pretty salutation, indeed! Eh! eh! _however_ I

should arrange my words, my _I rejoice_ would signify nothing else! And

can one believe that he has become an honest man all in a moment!

Assertions prove nothing; it is so easy to make them! But, nevertheless,

I must go with him to the castle! Oh! who would have told me this, this

morning! Oh! if ever I am so happy as to get home again, Perpetua shall

answer for having urged me to come here! Oh! miserable that I am! I must

however say something to this man!” He had at least thought of something

to say,—“I never expected the pleasure of being in such respectable

company,”—and had opened his mouth to speak, when the servant entered

with the curate of the village, who informed them that the good woman

was in the litter awaiting them. Don Abbondio, approaching the servant,

said to him, “Give me a gentle beast, for, to say truth, I am not a

skilful horseman.”

“Be quite easy,” replied the valet, with a smile; “it is the mule of the

secretary, a grave man of letters.”

“Well,” replied Don Abbondio, and continued to himself, “Heaven preserve

me!”

The Unknown had advanced towards the door, but looking back, and seeing

Don Abbondio behind, he suddenly recollected himself, and bowing with a

polite and humble air, waited to let him pass before. This circumstance

re-assured the poor man a little; but he had scarcely reached the little

court, when he saw the Unknown resume his carbine, and fling it over his

shoulder, as if performing the military exercise.

“Oh! oh! oh!” thought Don Abbondio, “what does he want with this tool?

That is a strange ornament for a converted person! And if some whim

should enter his head! what would become of me! what would become of

me!”

If the Unknown had had the least suspicion of the thoughts that were

passing in the mind of his companion, he would have done his utmost to

inspire him with confidence; but he was far from such an imagination, as

Don Abbondio was very careful not to let his distrust appear.

They found the mules ready at the door: the Unknown mounted one which

was presented to him by a groom.

“Is she not vicious in the least?” asked Don Abbondio of the servant,

with his foot in the stirrup.

“Be quite easy, she is a lamb,” replied he. Don Abbondio climbed to the

saddle, by the aid of the servant, and was at last safely mounted.

The litter, which was a few steps in advance, moved at a call from the

driver, and the convoy departed.

They had to pass before the church, which was crowded with people, and

through a small square, which was filled with villagers from abroad, who

had not been able to find a place within the walls of the church. The

report had already spread; and when they saw the carriage appear, and

beheld the man who a few hours before had been the object of terror and

execration, a confused murmur of applause rose from the crowd. They made

way to let him pass; at the same time each one endeavoured to obtain a

sight of him. When he arrived in front of the church, he took off his

hat, and bowed his head in reverence, amidst the tumultuous din of many

voices, which exclaiming “God bless you!” Don Abbondio took off his hat

also, bent his head, and commended himself to the protection of heaven;

and, hearing the voices of his brethren in the choir, he could not

restrain his tears.

But when they reached the open country, in the windings of the almost

deserted road, a darker veil came over his thoughts; there was nothing

that he could regard with confidence but the driver, who, belonging to

the establishment of the cardinal, must certainly be honest, and

moreover did not look like a coward. From time to time they passed

travellers crowding to see the cardinal. The sight of them was a

transient balm to Don Abbondio; but still he approached this formidable

valley, where they would meet none but the vassals of the Unknown! And

what vassals! He desired more than ever to enter into conversation with

his companion, to keep him in good humour; but, seeing him preoccupied,

he dared not attempt to interrupt his thoughts. He was then obliged to

hold colloquy with himself, of which we will transcribe a part for the

benefit of the reader.

“Is it not an astonishing thing that the saints, as well as the wicked,

have always quicksilver in their veins; and, not contented with making a

bustle themselves, they would make all mankind, if they could, join the

dance with them! Is there not a fatality in it, that the most

troublesome come to me,—to me who never meddled with any body; they

take me almost by the hair, and thrust me into their concerns! me! who

desire nothing, but to live tranquilly, if they will let me do so. This

mad knave Don Roderick. What was there wanting to make him the happiest

man in the world, but a little prudence? He is rich, young, respected,

courted; but happiness is a burthen to him, it seems; so that he must

seek trouble for himself and his neighbour. He must set up, forsooth,

for a molester of women,—the most silly, the most villanous, the most

insane conduct in the world. He might ride to paradise in a coach; and

he prefers to go halting to the devil’s dwelling. And this man before

me,” continued he, regarding him as if he feared he could hear his

thoughts, “and this man, after having, by his villanies, turned the

world upside down, now turns it upside down by his conversion—if he is

really converted! Meanwhile, it is I who am to put it to the test! Some

people always want to make a noise! Is it so difficult to act an honest

part, all one’s life, as I have? Not at all! but they prefer to murder,

kill, and play the devil.—Oh! unhappy man that I am! they must always

be in a bustle, even in doing penance! just as if one could not repent

at home, in private, without so much noise,—without giving others so

much trouble.—And his illustrious lordship! to receive him all at once

with open arms; to call him his dear friend, his worthy friend; to

listen to his least words as if he had seen him work miracles, to give

him his public approbation to assist him in all his undertakings; I

should call this precipitation! And without any pledge or security, to

place a poor curate in his hands! A holy bishop—and he is such

assuredly—a holy bishop should regard his curates as the apple of his

eye. A little prudence, a little coolness, a little charity, are things

which, in my opinion, are not inconsistent with sanctity. And should

this be all hypocrisy? Who can tell the designs of such a man? To think

that I must accompany him into the castle? There must be some deviltry

in it! Am I not unhappy enough? Let me not think of it. But how has Lucy

fallen into the clutches of this man? It is a secret between him and my

lord the cardinal, and they don’t deign to inform me concerning it: I

don’t care to meddle with the affairs of others, but when one’s life is

in danger one has a right to know something.—But poor Lucy—I shall be

satisfied if she escapes. Heaven knows what she has suffered. I pity

her, but she was born to be my ruin. And if this man is really

converted, what need has he of me? Oh! what a chaos! But Heaven owes me

its protection, since I did not get myself into the difficulty. If I

could only read in the countenance of this man what passes in his soul!

Look at him; now he looks like Saint Anthony in the desert, and now like

Holofernes himself.”

In truth, the thoughts which agitated the Unknown passed over his

countenance, as in a stormy day the clouds fly over the face of the sun,

producing a succession of light and shade. His soul, calmed by the

gentle language of Frederick, felt elated at the hope of mercy, pardon,

and love; but then he sank again under the weight of the terrible past.

Agitated and uneasy, he retraced in his memory those iniquities which

were reparable, and considered what remedies would be the safest and

quickest. And this unfortunate girl! how much she has suffered! how much

he had caused her to suffer! At this thought his impatience to deliver

her increased, and he made a sign to the coachman to hasten.

They entered at last into the valley. In what a situation was now our

poor Don Abbondio! to find himself in this famous valley, of which he

had heard such black and horrible tales. These famous men, the flower

of the bravoes of Italy, these men without pity or fear, to see them in

flesh and blood,—to meet them at every step! They bowed, it is true,

respectfully, in the presence of their lord, but who knows what passed

in their hearts, and what wicked design against the poor priest might,

even then, be forming in their brains.

They reached _Malanotte_; bravoes were at the door, who bowed to the

Unknown, glancing with eager curiosity at his companion, and the litter.

If the departure of their master alone, at the break of day, had been

regarded as extraordinary, his return was considered not less so. Is it

a prize which he conducts? And how has he taken possession of it alone?

And what is this strange litter? And whose is this livery? They did not

stir, however; knowing, from the countenance of their master, that their

silence was what he desired.

They reached the castle; the bravoes who were on the esplanade and at

the door, retired on both sides to leave the passage free. The Unknown

made a sign to them not to go farther off. Spurring his mule, he passed

before the litter, and beckoning to Don Abbondio and the coachman to

follow him, he entered a first court, and thence a second: approaching a

small door, and with a gesture keeping back a bravo, who advanced to

hold his stirrup, he said, “Remain there yourself, and let none approach

nearer.” He dismounted, and with the reins in his hand, drew near the

woman, who had withdrawn the curtains of the litter, saying to her in a

low voice, “Hasten to comfort her; and make her understand at once that

she is free, and with friends. God will reward you!” He then advanced to

the curate, and helping him to dismount, said, “Signor Curate, I will

not ask your forgiveness for the trouble you have taken on my account;

you suffer for one who will reward you well, and for this poor girl.”

His countenance not less than his words restored the courage of Don

Abbondio; drawing a full breath, which had been long pent up in his

breast, he replied, “Your lordship jests, surely? But—but—” and

accepting the hand offered to him so courteously, he slid from the

saddle. The Unknown took the bridle, and gave both animals to the care

of the driver, ordering him to wait there until their return. Taking a

key from his pocket, he opened the little door, and followed by his two

companions, the curate and the female, ascended the stairs.