I promessi sposi. English

by Alessandro Manzoni

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  The Cardinal Frederick was engaged in study, as was his custom,preparatory to the hour of divine service, when the cross-bearerentered, 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 whichwe are unable to repeat to our readers. "He is without, in person, andasks 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 inimmediately."

  "But----," replied the chaplain, "does your lordship know who this manis? It is the famous outlaw ----."

  "And is it not a happy circumstance for a bishop, that such a man shouldhave come to seek him?"

  "But----," insisted the chaplain, "we never dare speak of certainthings, because my lord says they are idle tales. However, in this caseit appears to be a duty----. Zeal makes enemies, my lord, and we knowthat 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 strictcorrespondence with other villains, as desperate as himself, and who,perhaps, have sent him----"

  "Oh! what discipline is this!" said the cardinal, smiling; "the soldiersexhort the general to cowardice!" Then, with a grave and pensive air, heresumed, "Saint Carlo would not have deliberated a moment, whether heshould receive such a man; he would have gone to seek him. Let him enterimmediately; he has already waited too long."

  The chaplain moved towards the door, saying in his heart, "There is noremedy; these saints are always obstinate."

  He opened the door, and reaching the hall, where he had left theecclesiastics, he beheld them collected together in one corner of theroom, and the Unknown standing alone in another. As he approached him,he eyed him keenly to ascertain whether he had not arms concealed abouthis person. "Truly, before introducing him, we might at leastpropose----," but his resolution failed him. He spoke--"My lord expectsyour lordship. Be kind enough to come with me." And he led the way intothe presence of Frederick, who came forward to meet the Unknown with apleased and serene countenance, making a sign to the chaplain to quitthe room.

  The Unknown and the cardinal remained for some moments silent andundecided; the former experienced at the same time a vague hope offinding some relief to his internal torments, and also a degree ofirritation and shame at appearing in this place as a penitent, toconfess 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 thecardinal's face, he was seized with an irresistible sentiment ofrespect, which increasing his confidence, and subduing his pride withoutoffending 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 norwasted by years; his eye was grave and piercing, his brow serene andpensive; his countenance still shone with the animation of youth,notwithstanding the paleness of his face, and the visible traces itpresented of abstinence, meditation, and laborious exertion. All hisfeatures indicated that he had once been more than ordinarily handsome;the habit of solemn and benevolent thought, the internal peace of a longlife, love for mankind, and the influence of an ineffable hope, hadsubstituted for the beauty of youth, the more dignified and superiorbeauty of an old age, to which the magnificent simplicity of the_purple_ added an imposing and inexpressible charm. He kept his eyes fora few moments fixed on the Unknown, as if to read his thoughts; andimagining he perceived in his dark and troubled features somethingcorresponding to the hope he had conceived, "Oh!" cried he in ananimated voice, "what a welcome visit is this! and how I ought to thankyou for it, although it fills me with self-reproach."

  "Reproach!" cried the Unknown, in astonishment; but he felt re-assuredby his manner, and the gentleness of his words, and he was glad that thecardinal had broken the ice, and commenced the conversation.

  "Certainly, it is a subject of self-reproach that I should have waitedtill 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 mycountenance--do you believe I could have felt it, at the sight of oneunknown to me? It is you who are the cause of it--you, whom it was myduty to seek--you, for whom I have so wept and prayed--you, who are thatone of my children (and I love them all with the whole strength of myaffections)--that one, whom I would most have desired to see andembrace, if I could have ever dared to indulge the hope of so doing. ButGod alone can work miracles, and he supplies the weakness and tardinessof his poor servants."

  The Unknown was amazed at the kindness and warmth of this reception;agitated and bewildered by such unlooked-for benevolence, he keptsilence.

  "And," resumed Frederick, more affectionately, "you have some good newsfor me; why do you hesitate to tell it me?"

  "Good news! I! I have hell in my soul, and how can I bring _you_ goodnews! Tell me, tell me, if you know, what good news could you expectfrom 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, notleaving you a moment of repose, and at the same time drawing you towardshim, and imparting a hope of tranquillity and of consolation; ofconsolation which shall be full and unlimited, as soon as youacknowledge _Him_, confess your sins, and implore his mercy!"

  "Oh! yes, yes; something indeed oppresses, something consumes me. ButGod--if it be God, if it be He, of whom you speak, what can he do withme?"

  These words were uttered in a tone of despair; but Frederick calmly andsolemnly replied, "What can God do with you? Through you he can exhibithis power and goodness. He would draw from you a glory, which none othercould render him; you, against whom, the cries of the world have beenfor so long a time raised--you, whose deeds are detested----" (TheUnknown started at this unaccustomed language, but was astonished tofind that it excited no anger in his bosom, but rather communicated toit a degree of alleviation.) "What glory," pursued Frederick, "willaccrue to God? A general cry of supplication has risen against youbefore his throne; among your accusers, some no doubt have beenstimulated by jealousy of the power you have exercised; but more, by thedeplorable security of your own heart, which has endured until this day.But, when _you_ yourself shall rise to condemn your life, and becomeyour own accuser, then, oh! then, God will be glorified! And you askwhat he can do with you? What am I, feeble mortal! that I should presumeto tell you what are his designs respecting you; what he will do withthis impetuous will, and imperturbable constancy, when he shall haveanimated and warmed it with love, hope, and repentance? Who are you,feeble mortal, that you should think yourself able to execute andimagine greater things for the promotion of evil and vice, than God canmake you accomplish for that of good and virtue? What can God do withyou? Forgive you! save you! accomplish in you the work of redemption!Are not these things worthy of him? Oh! speak. If I, an humblecreature--I, so miserable, and nevertheless so full of myself--I, suchas I am,--if I so rejoice at your salvation, that to assure it, I wouldjoyfully give (God is my witness) the few years that remain to me inlife, Oh! think! what must be the love of Him who inspires me with thethought, and commands me to regard you with such devotion as this!"

  The countenance and manner of Frederick breathed celestial purity andlove, in accordance with the vows which came from his mouth. The Unknownfelt the stormy emotions of his soul gradually calming under suchheavenly influence, and giving place to sentiments of deep and profoundinterest. His eyes, which from infancy "had been unused to tears
, becameswoln;" and burying his face in his hands, he wept the reply he couldnot utter.

  "Great and good God!" cried Frederick, raising his hands and eyes toheaven, "what have I ever done--I, thy unprofitable servant--that thoushouldst have invited me to this banquet of thy grace,--that thoushouldst have thought me worthy of being thy instrument to theaccomplishment of such a miracle!" So saying, he extended his hand totake that of the Unknown.

  "No!" cried he; "no! Approach me not! Pollute not that innocent andbeneficent hand! You know not what deeds have been committed by the handyou would place within your own!"

  "Suffer," said Frederick, taking it with gentle violence,--"suffer me toclasp this hand, which is about to repair so many wrongs, to scatter somany blessings; which will comfort so many who are in affliction, whichwill 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 whomare 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; "theyare in safety on the mountain. I must now remain with the one which waslost. These people are perhaps now more satisfied than if they had thepoor bishop with them; perhaps God, who has visited you with the richesand wonders of his grace, may even now be filling their hearts with ajoy, of which they divine not the cause; perhaps they are united to uswithout knowing it; perhaps the Holy Spirit animates their hearts withthe fervour of charity and benevolence; inspires them with a spirit ofprayer; with, on your account, a spirit of thanksgiving of which you arethe unknown object."

  So saying, he passed his arm around the neck of the Unknown, who, afterresisting a moment, yielded, quite vanquished by this impulse ofkindness, and fell on the neck of the cardinal, in an agony ofrepentance. His burning tears dropped on the stainless purple ofFrederick, and the pure hands of the bishop were clasped affectionatelyaround him, who had hitherto been only habituated to deeds of violenceand treachery.

  The Unknown, after a long embrace, covering his face with his hands,raised his head, exclaiming, "Oh! God! Thou who art truly great andgood! I know myself now; I comprehend what I am; my iniquities are allbefore 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 horriblelife!"

  "God accords to you this grace," said Frederick, "to attract you to hisservice, to strengthen you to enter resolutely the new way he has openedto 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 canonly 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 unfortunategirl; her entreaties, and the species of frenzy that her supplicationshad excited in his soul; adding, that she was still in the castle.

  "Ah! let us lose no time!" cried Frederick, moved with pity andsolicitude. "What happiness for you! You may behold in this, the pledgeof pardon! God makes you the instrument of safety to her, to whom youwere to have been the instrument of ruin. God has indeed blessedyou!--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! Andprobably----" so saying, he approached a table, and rang a little bell.The chaplain entered, with an unquiet look; in amazement he beheld thealtered countenance of the Unknown, on which the traces of tears werestill 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 theastonishment which the contemplation excited, by a question of thecardinal, 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, thecurate of this parish."

  The chaplain obeyed, and went to the hall where the priests wereassembled. All eyes were turned towards him. He cried aloud, "His mostillustrious and reverend lordship asks for the curate of this parish andthe curate of ***."

  The former advanced immediately, and at the same time was heard, amidstthe 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 airof amazement and anxiety. The chaplain led the way, and introduced themboth to the presence of the cardinal.

  The cardinal let go the hand of the Unknown as they entered, and takingthe curate of the parish aside, related in few words the facts of thestory, asking him if he knew some kind female, who would be willing togo to the castle in a litter, to remove Lucy thence; a devoted,charitable woman, capable of acting with judgment in so novel anexpedition, and of exerting the best means to tranquillise the poorgirl, to whom deliverance itself, after such anguish and alarm, mightproduce new and overwhelming apprehensions. After having reflected amoment, the curate took upon himself the affair, and departed. Thecardinal then ordered the chaplain to have a litter prepared, and twomules ready saddled. The chaplain quitted the room to obey his orders,and the cardinal was left alone with Don Abbondio and the Unknown. Theformer, who had kept himself aloof, regarding with eager curiosity thefaces of the Unknown and the cardinal, now came forward, saying, "I wastold that your illustrious lordship wished to see me; but I suppose itwas a mistake."

  "There is no mistake;" replied Frederick, "I have both a novel andagreeable commission to give you. One of your parishioners, whom youhave regarded as lost, Lucy Mondella, is found; she is near this, in thehouse of my good friend here. I wish you to go with him, and a goodwoman whom the curate of this parish will provide, and bring the poorgirl, who must be so dear to you, to this place."

  Don Abbondio did his best to conceal the extreme alarm which such aproposition 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: _parceresubjectis_."

  The cardinal asked him of Lucy's relations.

  "She has no near relation but her mother, with whom she lives," repliedDon Abbondio.

  "Is _she_ at home?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Since," replied Frederick, "this poor child cannot yet go home, itwould be a great consolation for her to see her mother; if the curate ofthis village does not return before I go to church, I beg you willdesire 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 itwill 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 haveadded, had he not been deterred by a regard to the feelings of theUnknown--"This poor child needs much to behold some person whom sheknows, after so many hours of alarm, and in such terrible uncertainty ofthe future."

  It appeared strange, however, that Don Abbondio should not have inferredit from his manner, or that he should not have thought so himself; thereluctance he evinced to comply with the request of the cardinalappeared so out of place, that the latter imagined there must be somesecret cause for it. He looked at the curate attentively, and quicklydiscovering the fears of the poor man at becoming the companion of thisformidable lord, or entering his abode, even for a few moments, he feltan anxiety to dissipate these terrors; and in order to do this, and n
otinjure the feelings of his new friend by talking privately to DonAbbondio in his presence, he addressed his conversation to the Unknownhimself, so that Don Abbondio might perceive by his answers, that he wasno longer a man to be feared.

  "Do not believe," said he, "that I shall be satisfied with this visitto-day. You will return, will you not, in company with this worthyecclesiastic?"

  "_Will_ I return!" replied the Unknown: "Oh! if ever you should refuseto 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 usthe 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 firstfruits of repentance and compassion, I will go and offer supplicationsand thanksgivings to God with the people."

  Don Abbondio, at this exhibition of confidence and affection, was like atimid child, who beholds a man caressing fearlessly a rough-lookingmastiff, renowned for his ferocity and strength. It is in vain that themaster assures him the dog is a good quiet beast: he looks at him,neither contradicting nor assenting; he looks at the dog, and dares notapproach him, lest the good beast might show his teeth, if only fromhabit; 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 bythe hand, perceived that the curate remained behind, embarrassed andmotionless, and thinking that perhaps he was mortified at the littleattention that was paid to him, compared with that which was bestowed onone so criminal, he turned towards him, stopped a moment, and with anamiable smile said, "Signor Curate, you have always been with me in thehouse of our Father; but this man _perierat, et inventus est_."

  "Oh! how I rejoice at it!" said the curate, bowing to them both veryreverently.

  The archbishop passed on, and entering the hall, the admirable pairpresented themselves to the eager gaze of the clergy who were thereassembled. They regarded with intense curiosity those two countenances,on which were depicted different, but equally profound emotions. Thevenerable features of Frederick breathed a grateful and humble joy; inthose of the Unknown might be traced an embarrassment blended withsatisfaction, 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, "Thewolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down withthe kid." Behind them came Don Abbondio, whom no one noticed.

  When they had reached the middle of the apartment, the servant of thecardinal entered, to inform him that he had executed the orders of thechaplain, that the litter was ready, and that they only waited for thefemale whom the curate was to bring. The cardinal told him to inform DonAbbondio when the curate should have arrived, and that afterwards allwould be subject to his orders and those of the Unknown, to whom he badean affectionate farewell, saying, "I shall expect you." Bowing to DonAbbondio, he directed his steps, followed by the clergy in procession,to the church.

  Don Abbondio and the Unknown were left alone in the apartment; thelatter was absorbed in his own thoughts, impatient for the moment toarrive when he should take _his_ Lucy from sorrow and prison; for shewas indeed _his_ Lucy, but in a sense very different from the precedingnight. His countenance expressed concentrated agitation, which to thesuspicious eye of Don Abbondio appeared something worse: he looked athim with a desire to begin a friendly conversation. "But what can I sayto 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 tobecome an honest man? A pretty salutation, indeed! Eh! eh! _however_ Ishould arrange my words, my _I rejoice_ would signify nothing else! Andcan 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, thismorning! Oh! if ever I am so happy as to get home again, Perpetua shallanswer for having urged me to come here! Oh! miserable that I am! I musthowever say something to this man!" He had at least thought of somethingto say,--"I never expected the pleasure of being in such respectablecompany,"--and had opened his mouth to speak, when the servant enteredwith the curate of the village, who informed them that the good womanwas 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 askilful horseman."

  "Be quite easy," replied the valet, with a smile; "it is the mule of thesecretary, a grave man of letters."

  "Well," replied Don Abbondio, and continued to himself, "Heaven preserveme!"

  The Unknown had advanced towards the door, but looking back, and seeingDon Abbondio behind, he suddenly recollected himself, and bowing with apolite and humble air, waited to let him pass before. This circumstancere-assured the poor man a little; but he had scarcely reached the littlecourt, when he saw the Unknown resume his carbine, and fling it over hisshoulder, 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 whimshould enter his head! what would become of me! what would become ofme!"

  If the Unknown had had the least suspicion of the thoughts that werepassing in the mind of his companion, he would have done his utmost toinspire him with confidence; but he was far from such an imagination, asDon Abbondio was very careful not to let his distrust appear.

  They found the mules ready at the door: the Unknown mounted one whichwas 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 thesaddle, 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 thedriver, and the convoy departed.

  They had to pass before the church, which was crowded with people, andthrough a small square, which was filled with villagers from abroad, whohad not been able to find a place within the walls of the church. Thereport had already spread; and when they saw the carriage appear, andbeheld the man who a few hours before had been the object of terror andexecration, a confused murmur of applause rose from the crowd. They madeway to let him pass; at the same time each one endeavoured to obtain asight of him. When he arrived in front of the church, he took off hishat, and bowed his head in reverence, amidst the tumultuous din of manyvoices, which exclaiming "God bless you!" Don Abbondio took off his hatalso, bent his head, and commended himself to the protection of heaven;and, hearing the voices of his brethren in the choir, he could notrestrain his tears.

  But when they reached the open country, in the windings of the almostdeserted road, a darker veil came over his thoughts; there was nothingthat he could regard with confidence but the driver, who, belonging tothe establishment of the cardinal, must certainly be honest, andmoreover did not look like a coward. From time to time they passedtravellers crowding to see the cardinal. The sight of them was atransient balm to Don Abbondio; but still he approached this formidablevalley, where they would meet none but the vassals of the Unknown! Andwhat vassals! He desired more than ever to enter into conversation withhis companion, to keep him in good humour; but, seeing him preoccupied,he dared not attempt to interrupt his thoughts. He was then obliged tohold colloquy with himself, of which we will transcribe a part for thebenefit 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 abustle themselves, they would make all mankind, if they could, join thedance with them! Is there not a fatality in it, that the mosttroublesome come to me,--to me who never meddled with any body; theytake me almost by the hair, and thrust me into their concerns! me! whodesire nothing, but to live tranquilly, if they will let me do so. Thismad knave
Don Roderick. What was there wanting to make him the happiestman 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 mustseek trouble for himself and his neighbour. He must set up, forsooth,for a molester of women,--the most silly, the most villanous, the mostinsane conduct in the world. He might ride to paradise in a coach; andhe prefers to go halting to the devil's dwelling. And this man beforeme," continued he, regarding him as if he feared he could hear histhoughts, "and this man, after having, by his villanies, turned theworld upside down, now turns it upside down by his conversion--if he isreally converted! Meanwhile, it is I who am to put it to the test! Somepeople always want to make a noise! Is it so difficult to act an honestpart, 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 alwaysbe in a bustle, even in doing penance! just as if one could not repentat home, in private, without so much noise,--without giving others somuch trouble.--And his illustrious lordship! to receive him all at oncewith open arms; to call him his dear friend, his worthy friend; tolisten to his least words as if he had seen him work miracles, to givehim his public approbation to assist him in all his undertakings; Ishould call this precipitation! And without any pledge or security, toplace a poor curate in his hands! A holy bishop--and he is suchassuredly--a holy bishop should regard his curates as the apple of hiseye. A little prudence, a little coolness, a little charity, are thingswhich, in my opinion, are not inconsistent with sanctity. And shouldthis be all hypocrisy? Who can tell the designs of such a man? To thinkthat I must accompany him into the castle? There must be some deviltryin it! Am I not unhappy enough? Let me not think of it. But how has Lucyfallen into the clutches of this man? It is a secret between him and mylord the cardinal, and they don't deign to inform me concerning it: Idon't care to meddle with the affairs of others, but when one's life isin danger one has a right to know something.--But poor Lucy--I shall besatisfied if she escapes. Heaven knows what she has suffered. I pityher, but she was born to be my ruin. And if this man is reallyconverted, what need has he of me? Oh! what a chaos! But Heaven owes meits protection, since I did not get myself into the difficulty. If Icould 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 likeHolofernes himself."

  In truth, the thoughts which agitated the Unknown passed over hiscountenance, 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 thegentle 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 whichwere reparable, and considered what remedies would be the safest andquickest. And this unfortunate girl! how much she has suffered! how muchhe had caused her to suffer! At this thought his impatience to deliverher increased, and he made a sign to the coachman to hasten.

  They entered at last into the valley. In what a situation was now ourpoor Don Abbondio! to find himself in this famous valley, of which hehad heard such black and horrible tales. These famous men, the flowerof the bravoes of Italy, these men without pity or fear, to see them inflesh and blood,--to meet them at every step! They bowed, it is true,respectfully, in the presence of their lord, but who knows what passedin 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 theUnknown, glancing with eager curiosity at his companion, and the litter.If the departure of their master alone, at the break of day, had beenregarded as extraordinary, his return was considered not less so. Is ita 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 notstir, however; knowing, from the countenance of their master, that theirsilence was what he desired.

  They reached the castle; the bravoes who were on the esplanade and atthe door, retired on both sides to leave the passage free. The Unknownmade a sign to them not to go farther off. Spurring his mule, he passedbefore the litter, and beckoning to Don Abbondio and the coachman tofollow him, he entered a first court, and thence a second: approaching asmall door, and with a gesture keeping back a bravo, who advanced tohold his stirrup, he said, "Remain there yourself, and let none approachnearer." He dismounted, and with the reins in his hand, drew near thewoman, who had withdrawn the curtains of the litter, saying to her in alow voice, "Hasten to comfort her; and make her understand at once thatshe is free, and with friends. God will reward you!" He then advanced tothe curate, and helping him to dismount, said, "Signor Curate, I willnot 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 DonAbbondio; drawing a full breath, which had been long pent up in hisbreast, he replied, "Your lordship jests, surely? But--but--" andaccepting the hand offered to him so courteously, he slid from thesaddle. The Unknown took the bridle, and gave both animals to the careof the driver, ordering him to wait there until their return. Taking akey from his pocket, he opened the little door, and followed by his twocompanions, the curate and the female, ascended the stairs.