post-station to order horses for Parma, that same night; they were to be at the palace by twelve o’clock. A low whisper ran through the knot of loungers who were standing around the post-house, and soon after the news was known throughout the town that Carlo Eisingarde was about to depart.
The carriage drove out from under the arched gate at midnight, and late as it was, there were several persons about, but no demonstration of popular feeling occurred: not a cry, not a word was uttered, as the horses wheeled into the piazza, and then the postilion suddenly stopped to relight one of the lamps that had gone out.
The crowd drew somewhat near, to observe what had befallen, and one man, more eager than his fellows, gave a look within the carriage.
“I was right,” muttered he, “he is not there.”
The carriage swept on, and all was once more quiet throughout the town.
Two hours later, when everything seemed tranquil, a light open carriage passed out from the back gate of the old palace, and took the road that leads to Sarzana. A messenger sent on in advance had the town-gates already open, so that in less than five minutes from its departure the carriage was whirling rapidly along over the smooth high road.
In the brief space it took to raise the portcullis at the gate, two men drew nigh the carriage, and as hastily disappeared. They did not follow the main road, but at a brisk pace took a mountain path to the left of it. The traveller, meanwhile, rolled along, and soon afterwards wrapped himself comfortably in his mantle, and fell asleep. He woke after a couple of hours by the noise of the change of horses, and feeling chilled by the night air, sprung out to walk.
When the postilions followed, they were surprised not to come up with him. They spurred the horses for about a mile or two, and then returning, cautiously watched the road as they went.
“You are looking for your traveller,” cried a man from a high ridge that overhung the road; “try at Ponte Serra; he was there a while ago.”
They hurried on, and reached the bridge; at first they saw nothing, but on peering over the crest of the arch, perceived the body of a man, on his face, in the dry torrent course beneath. It was Carlo Eisingarde, murdered: no less than eleven poignard wounds were found upon him.
From that day to this no clue has been found to his murderers. There was something awful in the cold and emotionless attitude of the people of Gariglano as the dead body was brought back and laid within the church. Horrible and unseemly as any triumph had been, yet it would perhaps have seemed less appalling than the stern unfeeling apathy that prevailed. The aspect of the brother, as he stood beside the catafalque, excited no pity. They gazed on his pale cheeks, and saw the tears course down them, positively indifferent.
The day Carlo Eisingarde was buried, Francesco left Gariglano, and never was seen there again. The old widow lived on in the palazzo, but was seen by none; and thus year after year passed, till men ceased to think or speak of them. Great and momentous events were indeed happening in the world. There was first the rash rising of ’48 with all its disasters, then came the wearisome ten years of national depression, and then the famous outburst of the French sympathy for Italy, and the glorious announcement that from the Alps to the Adriatic she was to be free.
The little that now remains to be told, the priest shall say in his own words.
“I had gone to visit a brother of mine who was Parroco at Lavenza, and who had caught a bad ague in the low marshy district around that village. I found him sadly worn and wasted, and so utterly imbued by the evil influences of the place, that there was nothing but a speedy removal to better air that could give him a chance of recovery. Poor fellow! like most sufferers from this malady, he had got to feel very indifferent about life; he consented to go when and where I wished; but it was with the apathy of one utterly indifferent, and to whom life offered nothing to care for or to hope.
“We set off at last homeward by easy stages; two miles a-day was as much as we could accomplish, and this only at early dawn or late evening, since the noonday heat overcame him completely, and even brought on fainting. It was thus that we passed Sarzana and Castelnuova and Razzano, and on the fifth evening drew nigh to Gariglano.
“‘Was it not here that the Baron Eisingarde was murdered many years ago?’ said my brother, as we came to the little bridge of Ponte Serra.
“I tried to dismiss the gloomy subject with a careless assent, but in vain; he would talk of it, and persisted in dwelling on the sorrowful story of that family, and the strange mystery which had shrouded every circumstance of that crime from discovery.
“‘Has there ever been anything heard of the other brother?’ asked he.
“‘Nothing beyond his being in the Austrian service. It was said that he was wounded at Novara, and decorated on the field for bravery. The last that I can remember of him was his being a colonel, and attached to Guilay’s staff.’
“‘Well, well,’ said my brother, compassionately, ‘he was never one of us: his German blood had never warmed to Italy, and in him treason is more pardonable than in many that we know of.’
“I was well pleased that we had got rid of the topic at last, and made all the haste I could to reach the town before the gates were closed.
“Had I been aware of it, I might have spared myself all fears on this score, for the Syndic had ordered that the gates should remain open during the night to permit the peasants to pass in and out freely to see the illuminations, Gariglano having that night illuminated for a great victory, no less a one than the battle of Magenta. Three of the townsfolk had fallen, but the patriotism of the place was above personal considerations, and their little town was ablaze with lights.
“The campanile, and the Syndic’s house, and the ‘Intendenza’ were really splendid, for it was not the old days of Austrian rule, but Gariglano was now Italian, and could dare to declare to the world its sympathies and its hopes.
