the devil’s this?” said he aloud; “some traitorous dog has played the spy!” They then searched with less ceremony the rest of the house, putting every thing out of its place. Meanwhile those at the doorway heard a light step approaching in the street,—they kept very quiet, thinking it would pass on; but, behold! it stopped exactly in front of the cottage! It was Menico, who had come in haste from the convent, to warn Agnes and her daughter to escape from the house, and take refuge there, because—the because is already known. He was surprised to find the door unbolted, and entering with a vague sentiment of alarm, found himself seized by two ruffians, who said in a menacing tone, “Hush! be quiet, or you die!” He uttered a cry, at which one struck him a blow on the mouth, the other placed his hand on his sword to inspire him with fear. The boy trembled like a leaf, and did not attempt to stir; but all at once was heard the first sound of the bell, and immediately after, a thundering peel burst forth. “The wicked are always cowards,” says a Milanese proverb; alarmed at the sound, the bravoes let go in haste the arms of Menico, and fled away hastily to the old house, to join the main body of their comrades. Menico, finding himself free, also fled, by the way of the fields, towards the belfry, naturally supposing he would find some one there. As to the other villains above stairs, the terrible sound made the same impression on them; amazed and perplexed, they hit one against the other, in striving to find the nearest way to the door. Nevertheless, they were brave, and accustomed to confront any known danger; but here was something unusual, an undetermined peril, and they became panic-struck. It now required all the superiority of Griso to keep them together, so that there should be a retreat, and not a flight. He succeeded, however, in assembling them in the middle of the court-yard. “Halt, halt,” cried he, “pistols in hand, knives ready, all in order, and then we will march. Cowards! for shame! fall behind me, and keep together.” Reduced to order, they followed him in silence.
We will leave them, in order to give an account of Agnes and Perpetua, whom we left at the end of the little lane, engaged in conversation. Agnes had managed to draw the latter off to some distance, by dint of appearing to give great heed to her story, which she urged on by an occasional “Certainly; now I comprehend; that is plain; and then? and he? and you?” In the midst of an important part of her narrative, the deep silence of the night was broken by the cry of Don Abbondio for “help!” “Mercy! what is the matter?” cried Perpetua, and prepared to run.
“What is the matter? what is the matter?” cried Agnes, holding her by the gown.
“Mercy! did you not hear?” replied she, struggling to get free.
“What is the matter? what is the matter?” repeated Agnes, holding her firmly by the arm.
“Devil of a woman!” exclaimed Perpetua, still struggling. Then was heard at a distance the light scream of Menico.
“Mercy!” cried Agnes also, and they both ran at full speed; the sound of the bell, which now succeeded, spurred them on. Perpetua arrived first, and, behold, at the door, Tony, Jervase, Renzo, and Lucy, who had found the stairs, and, at the terrible sound of the bell, were flying to some place of safety.
“What is the matter? What is the matter?” demanded Perpetua, out of breath, of the brothers. They answered her with a violent push, and fled away. “And you! what are you here for?” said she then to Renzo and Lucy. They made no reply. She then ascended the stairs in haste, to seek her master. The two lovers (still lovers) stood before Agnes, who, alarmed and grieved, said, “Ah! you are here! How has it gone? Why did the bell ring?”
“Home, home!” said Renzo, “before the people gather.” But Menico now appeared running to meet them. He was out of breath, and hardly able to cry out, “Back! back! by the way of the convent. There is the devil at the house,” continued he, panting; “I saw him, I did; he was going to kill me. The Father Christopher says you must come quickly.—I saw him, I did.—I am glad I found you all here,—I will tell you all when we are safe off.”
Renzo, who was the most self-possessed of the party, thought it best to follow his advice. “Let us follow him,” said he, to the females. They silently obeyed, and the little company moved on. They hastily crossed the churchyard, passing through a private street, into the fields. They were not many paces distant, before the people began to collect, each one asking of his neighbour what was the matter, and no one being able to answer the question. The first that arrived ran to the door of the church: it was fastened. They then looked through a little window into the belfry, and demanded the cause of the alarm. When Ambrose heard a known voice, and knew, by the hum, that there was an assemblage of people without, he hastily slipped on that part of his dress which he had carried under his arm, and opened the church door.
“What is all this tumult? What is the matter? Where is it?”
“Where is it? Do you not know? Why, in the curate’s house. Run, run.” They rushed in a crowd thither; looked,—listened. All was quiet. The street door was fastened; not a window open; not a sound within.
“Who is within there? Holla! holla! Signor Curate, Signor Curate!”
Don Abbondio, who, as soon as he was relieved by the flight of the invaders, had retired from the window, and closed it, was now quarrelling with Perpetua for leaving him to bear the brunt of the battle alone. When he heard himself called by name, by the people outside, he repented of the rashness which had produced this undesired result.
“What has happened? Who are they? Where are they? What have they done to you?” cried a hundred voices at a time.
“There is no one here now; I am much obliged to you.—Return to your houses.”
“But who has been here? Where have they gone? What has happened?”
“Bad people, bad people, who wander about in the night; but they have all fled.—Return to your houses. I thank you for your kindness.” So saying, he retired and shut the window. There was a general murmur of disappointment through the crowd. Some laughed, some swore, some shrugged up their shoulders and went home; but at this moment a person came running towards them, panting and breathless. He lived at the house opposite to the cottage of Lucy, and had witnessed from the window the alarm of the bravoes, when Griso endeavoured to collect them in the court-yard. When he recovered breath, he cried, “What do you do here, friends? The devil is not here, he is down at the house of Agnes Mondella. Armed people are in it. It seems they wish to murder a pilgrim; but who knows what the devil it is?”
“What! what! what!” And then began a tumultuous conversation. “Let us go. How many are there? How many are we? Who are they?—The constable! the constable!”
“I am here,” replied the constable, from the midst of the crowd, “I am here, but you must assist me; you must obey.—Quick;—where is the sexton? To the bell, to the bell. Quick; some one run to Lecco to ask for succour.—Come this way.” The tumult was great, and as they were about to depart for the cottage of Agnes, another messenger came flying, and exclaimed, “Run, friends;—robbers who are carrying off a pilgrim. They are already out of the village! On! on! this way.”
In obedience to this command they moved in a mass, without waiting the orders of their leader, towards the cottage of Lucy. While the army advances, many of those at the head of the column, slacken their pace, not unwilling to leave the post of honour to their more adventurous friends in the rear. The confused multitude at length reach the scene of action. The traces of recent invasion were manifest,—the door open, the bolts loosened, but the invaders, where were they? They entered the court, advanced into the house, and called loudly, “Agnes! Lucy! Pilgrim! Where is the pilgrim! Did Stephano dream that he saw him? No, no, Carlandrea saw him also. Hallo! Pilgrim! Agnes! Lucy! No reply! They have killed them! they have killed them!” There was then a proposition to follow the murderers, which would have been acceded to, had not a voice from the crowd cried out, that Agnes and Lucy were in safety in some house. Satisfied with this, they soon dispersed to their homes, to relate to their wives that which had happened. The next day, however, the constable being in his field, and, with his foot resting on his spade, meditating on the mysteries of the past night, was accosted by two men, much resembling, in their appearance, those whom Don Abbondio had encountered a