"The villain is too clever by half," said the Marquis, "but really I am uncommonly well pleased it has turned out so; now you can have no possible excuse for making a noise. Take the writer's advice if you are wise, for whoever he be his advice is sound and good."

"I am really perplexed what I should do: I must go and talk it over with the Countess; meantime we must inform the authorities here about the savage murder last night, but I will not let out a word about my midnight adventure. If you will take a weed, I will go and see Ellen, and join you again presently."

The Marquis, conformably to advice, lighted his havanna and poured out a tumbler of light wine, anathematizing the country that produced no beer, and calmly enjoyed his "_otium c.u.m dignitate_," whilst the Countess and her husband were busy talking over the case, and deciding what the next move should be. In about half an hour the Earl again entered the study.

"Well, Arranmore, we are at last come to a decision: we leave this immediately, first for Naples, and then England. In London I shall privately obtain the best legal advice as to the course I should pursue, and we shall then quietly await the _denouement_. I think I need not in any way be the prime mover, but time must elapse before the excitement of the case is pa.s.sed away, and we are able dispa.s.sionately to consider its _pros_ and _cons_."

"Well, I congratulate you, my dear fellow! I for one shall be glad to leave for the old country, for I have paid you a long visit, and am anxious to be back at Claremont, and see my boy--at the Easter holidays; he is getting on capitally at Eton; I heard from him to-day."

"Oh did you? you generally hear pretty regularly, I think; he is a fine fellow, and we must have him up to Scotland in the summer. Dear me, Arranmore, if he and Augusta took a fancy to each other what a nice thing it would be!"

"Ha! I have long thought of that as a likely match; I hope I shall live to see them married. Faith! broadlands, and fair owners would meet.

Augusta promises to grow a rare prize, and Arthur, dear fellow, he is getting up to me in height, though only twelve last October," said the Marquis, considerably overrating the young Anak's height.

A week after this conversation a travelling carriage drew up at the Villa Reale with the Earl, his wife, and daughter, and the Marquis, who was in high spirits at the thoughts of being homeward bound; he was to leave on the succeeding day, the rest following in a fortnight, as the Earl's yacht was then undergoing some slight repairs, and would not be ready before. On the next day Lord Arranmore left for Ireland, _via_ Ma.r.s.eilles. After seeing his friend off, the Earl called on the Count d'Azalia, prefect of police, to inquire if the whereabouts of Adrian Vardarelli were known, intending, if he could gain the information, to try and obtain an interview. Here he learned a piece of intelligence he was least prepared for. Scarcely had he named his brother than the Count, rubbing his hands together with joy, exclaimed--

"Ah, Signore, do I know where he is? Santa Maria, do I not! safe at last in prison!"

"In prison? impossible! in prison? how did you capture him?" asked the Earl, growing very pale.

"He gave himself up, the rascal; he will never more trouble the State with his atrocious villanies. He has a.s.sa.s.sinated Luigi, his brother, and now we are only waiting the king's pleasure, before he pays the penalty of his crimes with his life. He will tell nothing about his comrades, but the rack will find him a tongue. But my Lord, you are ill, what is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing, a pa.s.sing faintness; I'll thank you for a gla.s.s of water."

The Earl drained the cooling beverage, and then asked, "Could I see this prisoner? in what gaol is he confined?"

"My Lord! see the prisoner, and why? Santa Maria, he is in no place suited for my Lord to enter, a felon in chains--ah! it is impossible, I fear."

"I have reasons for wishing to see this man, he is connected with my family in an extraordinary way."

"Well, my Lord, you are too well known here to incur suspicion, but you must be accompanied with soldiers, and also with a padre acquainted with the English language. There is no intention of prying into your conversation; and any secrets, if not affecting the State, will remain as safe with the holy man as if from the confessional. It is a form we cannot depart from."

"This would be extremely unpleasant to me, Monsieur le Comte; if I give my word of honour there is nothing to affect the prisoner's security, could I not see him alone? I do not doubt the honour of your priests, but not belonging myself to the Catholic persuasion I should be as well satisfied without one; it is in a family matter only the prisoner is useful to me."

"Well, Signore, as a friend, and as a great favour, I will give you a permit to see him for an hour or two: as he voluntarily gave himself up there is no fear of his trying to escape; if you will wait a few minutes I will write a permission."

"Given himself up, in a dungeon heavily chained, tortures and death in prospect, and he my brother! he the scion of a n.o.ble race, the true possessor of lands, t.i.tle, and riches! to what has he fallen!" thought the Earl, as he watched the Count pen the permit.

"I think it right to inform you," said he, as he received the pa.s.s, "it is likely I may ask the life of this Adrian Vardarelli; he is not what he seems, Comte, he is not an Italian, and I have reason to believe that more hangs on that man's life than you are aware, and possibly the British Government may relieve you of the charge. I say I believe it only, I am not quite certain, but my interview with him will tell me all; meantime there is no chance of his immediate execution is there?"

"No, my Lord, it would not take place for months. There seems some mystery about this man. I have heard before he is an Englishman."

"He is, and I have reason to believe he is a great Englishman,--a man of rank and importance."

"Ah! that would be strange, but you will not be able to see him till the evening; it is against usual regulations, and must be done under the shadow of night; and, my Lord, you will tell no one of this permit."

"I will not, not even my wife. To-morrow I will come and see you again, and if he turns out what I believe him to be, as I said, his life must be spared until the Britannic minister has corresponded with his Majesty's government. I wish you a good day, Monsieur le Comte, and am much obliged for your kind services."

True to his promise, not even the Countess was made a confidante; she observed there was something on her husband's mind, and even inquired if all was right, but seeing his desire not to be interrogated, forbore asking more. About eight at night he told the Countess he had an engagement, and also bade her not to be alarmed if he was rather late in returning. Soon after he left in a close carriage and drove to the Castel Capuano, the ancient palace of the Swabian dynasty, now used as a court for the different tribunals--the Court of the First Instance, the Criminal Court, and Court of Appeal. Beneath the palace are dark dungeons in which many a captive has pined,--justly in requital for his crime, or unjustly, and that often, as the victim of injured innocence.

At the palace the Earl's carriage stopped; he descended and was met by the Count, who to his surprise led him through the intricate pa.s.sages, and then descended to the deep vaults below. A soldier of the guard carried a torch before them, and at last stopped before a heavily iron-clamped door, and taking a huge bunch of keys fitted one into the ponderous lock, and, turning it with difficulty, next unbarred and unchained this portal of captivity, and allowed the huge door to swing back on its rusty hinges with a grating, harsh creak. Two more soldiers with lanterns and muskets joined them, and the Count and turnkey then motioned the last mentioned to stand near the door, and the Earl also to enter. He did so, the great gate was again closed, he heard the bars drawn across, the chains coupled, the ma.s.sive key turn in the wards of the lock, and the footsteps of the Count and his attendant fade away. An involuntary shudder pa.s.sed through him as he felt himself actually within the walls of one of those dread prisons, and in a cell that the captive's voice vainly strives to pierce, whether innocent or guilty.

One of the guards then addressed him, warning him he had not too much time, and had better not waste it; giving him also a lantern, and pointing to the darkest corner of the dungeon as the spot where the bandit lay. He received the lantern, and walked forward to the point indicated; by its glimmering ray he saw that the floor was uneven, and in many places so damp it resembled a marsh. The walls were old and mouldy, the moisture glistening on the huge stones of which they were built; near the floor were many bolts of mouldy iron, built into the masonry, and from them depended rusty chains, dragging their long length on the damp cold floor, or rather soil, beneath his feet. As he pursued his way down the great dungeon he came on a dread relic--a skeleton still bound by the gyves and fetters that held it a living prisoner long years ago. A shudder again ran through him: who had that victim been?

was it man or woman? he was not anatomist enough to tell; had the victim been guilty, or innocent, a n.o.ble or peasant? who should say. He pa.s.sed on; the opposing wall now appeared; in the corner, on a bed of maize-straw, a chained prisoner was stretched; could that be his brother? he turned the lantern's glare on his features; he almost started back; it was as if the Captain lay before him; never had the resemblance seemed so striking before. The light, blinding the captive, caused him to pa.s.s his hand over his eyes. The Earl could see him, he could not see who his visitor was, perhaps a messenger of death. Still the Earl gazed on him, still he could hardly summon resolution to speak.

It was years since he had seen that face,--years of trouble, danger, exposure, hardship; vices had left their trace behind, they had not swept away old likenesses. Last time he had seen that man was, when, tiger-like, he stood over Ellen Ravensworth, and shot the servant who saved his (the Earl's) life. And here he lay, pale, dejected, hungry, bound, with the sentence of death weighing on him, and his own dark thoughts for a prison friend.

What a fall! what an end! The gay gallant young soldier, the ardent lover, what had he come to? first abductor, then murderer, escaping from prison and just doom--not to repent, not to reform, but to sink, step by step, to descend bar by bar, the ladder of infamy till he was now on the very ground, a condemned felon. And this is my brother still, and he is cold, and in prison, and I have come to visit him, and must speak.

"L'Estrange," said he at last, "I grieve to find you here."

The convict started up to a sitting posture; his wild eyes dilated, his hair seemed to stand, his whole frame shook, and as he clanked his gyves together the Earl thought he had never seen anything so dreadful, or any picture so like Apollyon bound.

"Ha!" cried the wretched man; "it only wanted this to complete the sum of misery; you are come to glory over my fall, to reproach me for my base attempts on Ellen, to throw my crimes in my teeth; but hear me before G.o.d--the G.o.d I have scoffed at, and all my life offended--I wished not to slay your brother, I knew not what I did; and yet it was he who brought me here--he who led me on from folly to sin, from sin to vice, from vice to crime--he who has destroyed me soul and body. Yes, abuse me for abusing friendship, mock at my woe, I have deserved it well."

"I have not come to reproach you, nor taunt you with crimes which, had it not been for a restraining Providence, I might have done myself. I came to tell you I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and to see what I can do for you, to treat you as a brother, as you are."

"To treat me as a brother!" said the unhappy man, with a look of extreme surprise. "No, no, no; do not treat me as a brother, that were worse still. Taunt me with my crimes, I can bear it; with my ingrat.i.tude to you,--to you who were ever a friend; crush the viper who stung his benefactor beneath your feet, but treat me not as a brother, I cannot bear that; leave me to perish as I deserve."

"Listen, Edward L'Estrange, I speak not allegorically, I speak plainly.

I come to treat you as a brother, because you _are_ my brother; you may have striven to hurt me, but you have really done me no harm, I have no cause for feeling angry. I regret your unhappy life, I mourn over your many and deep crimes, I hate the sin, I can love the sinner: take my hand, my brother, for I feel sure I shall prove you to be so--take it as it is given."

"I cannot," replied the wretched man, "I cannot do so; you are the first who has spoken a kind word for years; the first who has cared for the outcast. I honour, I love you for it, but I cannot take your hand, it would be defilement to you, agony to me; let light and darkness embrace first."

"The sinless One--our great example and guide--ever sought sinners; take my hand, I intreat you, and forgive me as I forgive you from my heart. I know unintentionally I have been the prime cause of your stumbling, let me be the first to recover you, and lead you back to virtue. Now listen to me--I have much to say to you, and when you have heard all you will take the hand you still refuse; first answer me a few questions--do you know who was your father?"

"I never saw him,--my birth is wrapt in mystery. I have heard he was some great man, and I was the unrecognized son of some one of rank in England; my early life I have told you. One only clue, or what might be a clue to the secret I have got, it is this." As he spoke he drew out a small steel casket. "It is locked; when I received it I swore never to open it till on my death bed. I am on my death bed now but I have not yet opened it; there is the key, you may unlock it."

"I will then open it," said the Earl.

He did so, and produced a small vellum on which the truth was engraved in the following words:

"This is to certify that he who was commonly known under the name of Edward L'Estrange was first born son of Richard, 17th Earl of Wentworth, Arthur Plantagenet Vere de Vere, Viscount de Vere, who was reported to have been drowned, but was carried off by me, William Hermiston, _alias_ Mad Helder, _alias_ Bill Stacy, and brought up as a pirate till rescued by the captain of the Arethusa, and afterwards adopted by him and named Edward L'Estrange. That this is true can be sworn by me, by Farmer Forbes, Jeanet Forbes, his wife, and many others if required.

"Signed, BILL STACY."

The Earl then handed it to the unfortunate man, who by the dim light deciphered the writing.

"You will know now why I sought you,--why I called you my brother, and why I asked your forgiveness?"

"Oh! this is awful news," exclaimed Viscount de Vere, as we shall now call him, without giving him the t.i.tle he was rightful possessor of, as it would only make confusion. "And I have been a fratricide, and all my life waged war against my family!"

He covered his face with his hands, and his thoughts were burning, intense, horrible!

"That miscreant Bill! If I ever saw him again--and you think it is reliable. Ha! how often have I heard about Arthur de Vere, and his strange loss: little I thought it was I. And the Towers my own house, and you all brothers and sisters, and I have made some wretched, and slain my brother, and disgraced my race and name! Would G.o.d I had filled that little empty coffin I have seen in the vaults at Dun Edin Towers!

Oh! if I had been drowned. Why did I live to become the monster of guilt I am?"

"It is useless to sigh over what is done; you must try and reform and make the future redeem the past. Yours has been a wayward fate,--born to rank and honour which you never succeeded to, born with a mind meant for better things, a rich soil on which not flowers, but weeds, have luxuriated! The victim of bad men, you have sunk to infamy; but 'though your sins be as scarlet' recollect they may be made 'white as snow!' the greatest sinner may yet repent!"

"Too late--too late." They were the only words the hapless man could utter, so overwhelmed was he at first by the intelligence.