Great was the laughter that arose among the party as each one mounted his gallant steed, and turned to look upon his companion. Jeers, and jokes, and light chaff arose, and the boys found no end of fun in this new adventure. But Uncle Moses wasn't able to see any fun in it at all. He sat with an expression on his face that would have done honor to a martyr at the stake, and the boys respected him too much to include him in their good-natured raillery.

The Italian boy took David's donkey by the ear, and started. David's donkey, in spite of his appearance of obstinacy, followed without resistance, and trotted nimbly off, the Italian boy running easily by his side. The other donkeys followed. As they had no bridles and no saddles, some of the party had a little difficulty in preserving their balance, but managed to do so by grabbing the coarse hair of the donkey's mane. The pace was a rapid one, and it was wonderful to see how well the Italian boy kept up with them without losing breath, or slackening it. This he did for a long time.

Among those who cared nothing for saddle or bridle was Bob. On the back of a donkey he felt as comfortable as though he was sitting in an easy-chair. As they trotted along the road, Bob sat with his arms folded, and his legs now hanging loosely, now drawn up in front of him, and at other times pretending that he had a side-saddle. At length he became discontented with the subordinate position that he was occupying, in merely following in the rear of a leader like David. He was a far better rider than David, and his donkey a far better donkey than the leading one. With the ambitions desire to obtain the post of honor for himself, he beat, pounded, and kicked at his donkey. For a long time this had no effect whatever; the donkey not only was not stimulated by it, but he did not even seem to be conscious of it. At last Bob determined to resort to other methods. Drawing a pin from his shirt collar, where it was filling the place of a lost button, he stuck it two or three times in the donkey's flanks.

This was too much. The patience of Bob's donkey had reached its farthest limit. It could endure it no more.

With a wild bound the donkey sprang forward, and in three paces had cleared the way to the first. Another leap, and he was beyond them.

The donkey ran like a race-horse. His slender, sinewy limbs seemed as fitted for running and for speed as the limbs of an antelope. His head was down, his neck arched, his tail in the air, and his long, rapid strides bore him with astonishing velocity far ahead and far away.

The Italian boy tittered a cry of dismay, and stopped short. The donkey which he was holding stopped also, and the others did the same. The Italian boy looked with a face of consternation after the runaway. All the rest looked with vague fears in the same direction, and with a half hope that Bob might stop the animal, or turn him.

"E perduto!" exclaimed the Italian boy; and though they did not understand Italian, yet there was something in his tone, and look, and gesture, which told them the meaning of those words—"He's lost!"



CHAPTER VI.

Flight of Bob.—Difference between a tame Donkey and a wild Ass.—Carried off to the Mountains.—The Headlong Course.—The Mountain Pass.—The Journey's End.—Ill-omened Place.—Confounded by a new Terror.—The Brigands.

When the donkey first bounded off, the feelings of Bob were nothing but pure, unmitigated delight. As his spirited animal, roused from his indifference, burst through the crowd and reached the head, Bob's heart swelled with triumph. As he rushed along the road, far ahead of the rest, his triumph increased. He turned his head, and waved his hands to his friends. Then he waved his cap in the air, and shouted, "Hurrah!" Then he rode side-saddle fashion for a little while, then he drew both legs up in front, and then he indulged in a series of absurd and fantastic tricks.

All this Bob did because he supposed that he was riding ahead of his friends, and that they were following him, and admiring him. He had not made any calculation as to the great rate of speed at which his donkey was carrying him, and had no idea how quickly he was leaving all the rest behind. So, while he had been indulging in his pranks for the amusement of those whom he supposed to be following him, he was, in reality, already beyond the reach of their eyes.

For his donkey was an animal very far superior to the common herd. He was not a donkey—he was an ass—spirited, slender, sinewy, and fleet as a race-horse. There was something so peculiarly easy in the ass's gait that it deceived the rider. It seemed to him to be a gentle ambling trot, or something midway between that and a canter. In reality this easy pace was exceedingly swift, and before long Bob was out of sight of his friends. This discovery burst upon him as he turned, with the intention of shouting back some nonsense to them, when, to his utter amazement and consternation, he saw no signs of them whatever.

It must be confessed that the shock which this discovery gave to Bob was a very powerful one. He looked all around in anxious curiosity, with the endeavor to comprehend his situation. His first thought was, that some accident had happened to the party which was delaying them; but soon he became aware of his own tremendous progress, and understood the true state of the case'. He was now in a place where the road ran straight for over a mile. At the end of this it turned. As Bob reached this turning-place, he looked back again, and far away, just at the entrance upon the straight piece of road, he saw the party coming. A few seconds and he was once more carried out of sight.

And now Bob began to feel that his situation was a serious one. It was not pleasant to be carried away in this manner, in a strange country, on the back of an animal like this. Had it been a runaway horse, he would have felt less troubled. He would, in fact, have felt quite at home, for he had been frequently run away with on horseback. He understood horses, but of asses he knew nothing. A horse was to some extent a sensible animal. He would run away, and in due time would come to a pause. But an ass! Was an ass possessed of any sense of decency—any conscience? Would the well-known obstinacy of the ass be shown on an occasion like this? and would this ass, merely out of that obstinacy, keep on running for all the rest of the day? It was a startling thought.

Bob all this time had been making desperate efforts to stop the ass. He was considerably embarrassed by the fact that there was no bridle, and no way of getting at the ass, so as to exert his strength upon him. He tried various ways. First he pulled at his long ears. For this the ass cared not a whit. He did not seem to be conscious of it. Then he wound his hands about his neck, and tried to pull his head back. The effect was useless. Bob's strength was unavailing. He could no more move that bent and stubborn neck, than he could straighten the crooked fluke of an anchor. Then he pounded wildly upon the neck, shoulders, and flanks of the ass, and kicked against his sides. This, too, was useless, for his puny blows seemed to affect the animal no more than so many puffs of wind. Then Bob tried other means. He sat upright, and suddenly called, in a short, sharp, peremptory voice, "Whoa!" This he repeated over and over, but without any success; and at length he reflected that whoa was English, a language which, of course, an Italian ass could not understand.

While Bob had been putting forth these efforts, the ass bad been flying along at an undiminished rate of speed, and the country swept past him on either side. He passed long lines of trees by the roadside, he saw field after field flit by, and the distant hills went slowly along out of the line of his vision. Hitherto he had met with no one at all along the road, nor had he seen any cattle of any kind. His efforts to arrest the ass had been fruitless, and he gave them up, and looked forward for some opportunity to get assistance. He remembered that the road had no towns or inns between Paestum and Salerno, and he began to fear that he would be carried all the way to the latter place before he could stop.

His fears, however, were unfounded; for now an event occurred which made him full of other thoughts. It was a sudden change in the course of his flight. Thus far they had been going along the main road. Now, however, they came to a place where a road led away on the right, apparently to the mountains. Without the slightest pause or hesitation, but with undiminished speed, and the headlong flight of one familiar with the way, the ass turned from the main road, and ran into this side road.

The anxiety and fear which Bob had thus far felt were trifling, indeed, compared with the emotions that now seized upon him. Thus far he had not felt altogether cut off from his friends. He knew all the time that they were behind him, and that at the worst he could not be carried farther than Salerno, and that they would come up with him there, and thus they would all be reunited before dark. But now he was suddenly carried off helplessly from the main road, and in a moment seemed severed from his friends. Where was he going? When would the ass stop?

Before him arose the mountainous country, not many miles away, the declivities in some places slight and gradual, in other places abrupt. Cultivated spots appeared here and there, and white villages, and old castles. It was not, however, an inviting country, and the nearer he drew to it the less he liked it. The road here was not so broad, and smooth, and easy as the one he had just left, but was narrow and rough. At length he reached the skirts of the mountains, and the road now began to ascend. After a while it grew somewhat steeper, and decidedly rougher. And now Bob found, to his immense relief, that the pace was at last beginning to tell upon the tough sinews of the fiery animal which he bestrode. The ass could not keep up such a pace while ascending the mountain. Gradually his speed slackened, and Bob at length began to look about for a soft place, where he could jump.

But by this time the road entered what looked like a pass among the mountains. On one side the hill rose, wooded in some places, in others rocky; while on the other side it went down steep for about thirty, feet, where a mountain torrent brawled, and dashed over its rocky bed. It was about here that the ass slackened his pace sufficiently for Bob to jump from his back; but just here it was impossible to jump without the risk of breaking some of his bones, and he was not yet quite desperate enough to run such a risk as that. As the road went on through the pass, it grew narrower and steeper, quite impassable for carriages, and Only fit for travellers on horse or foot. The farther on it went, the rougher and steeper it became, and it went on with many a winding. No houses appeared, except at a great distance, and those which did thus appear seemed separated by deep valleys from the place where he was.

Bob could have easily dismounted from the donkey now; but he hesitated. He thought with some dismay upon the distance that lay between him and the main road. He thought that his friends must have passed beyond the place where he turned off, and that if he did go back he could not hope to meet them. Besides, to go so long a distance on foot was too formidable a task just now. He hoped that the ass had some aim in directing his course here, and that he was seeking his home. Perhaps that home was close by. Perhaps it was some village in the mountains. If so, he might be able to obtain a mount for Salerno, and still reach that place before night was over.

He hoped thug to find help—to get a horse or an ass, and also something to eat, and thus set forth for Salerno. As the road wound on, and as he traversed it, he looked eagerly at every projecting cliff before him; and as he rounded each projection he still looked forward eagerly in search of the place, whether house or village, where he might obtain the help of which he stood in need. But the road continued lonely. He saw no houses, no villages, in its vicinity. He met with no living things, whether men or cattle. It was the loneliest path he had ever traversed.

At last he rounded a projecting spur of the mountain; and here he beheld a scene which was more promising. A little distance off there was a bridge, which crossed the torrent. Beyond this the mountains sloped away in an easy declivity, where appeared several houses. On the other side of the bridge were two men. The sight filled Bob with joy, and fearing that the ass might once more take it into his head to run, he at once leaped off the animal's back, and walked towards the bridge. The ass, freed from his weight, trotted briskly away, and Bob followed. The noise of me ass trotting over the bridge roused the two men, and they walked across and caught him. One of them then held him, and the other walked towards Bob.

As the latter approached, Bob noticed that he was dirty and bearded, and rather shabby. He had a coarse jacket, with brass buttons; a red flannel shirt, which was open, and disclosed a hairy breast; and coarse leather breeches with leggings. A conical felt hat was on the top of his head. Thusfar he was simply the counterpart of hundreds of other peasants in this part of the country, shepherds, drovers, wine-sellers, etc., such as he had encountered during his drive. But in one important respect ne was different.

He had a gun in his hand.

This gun at once made him seem more than a simple peasant. It made a profound impression upon Bob. And as the Italian approached, with his eyes fixed on the new comer, a strange and very natural suspicion was roused in Bob's mind.

"It's a brigand!" he thought. "I'm lost!"



CHAPTER VII.

The Lurking-place of the Brigands.—The captive Boy.—The hideous Household.—The horrible old Hag.—The slattern Woman.—The dirty Children.—The old Crone and the evil Eye.—Despondency of Bob.—Is Escape Possible?—Night.-Imprisoned.—The Bed of Straw.—Outlook into the Night from the Prison Windows.

A brigand!

Such was the appalling thought that came to the mind of Bob, as the Italian advanced towards, him. As he came closer, his face became more distinctly revealed. It was not a face which reassured him. Heavy, shaggy black eyebrows, from beneath which gleamed black and fiery eyes, a skin browned by the hot, Italian sun, and white teeth, that glistened from behind a vast matted mass of tangled beard and moustache,—such was the face that appeared. It seemed an evil and sinister face—a face that revealed a cruel and treacherous soul. No wonder that Bob's heart sank within him as he saw himself confronted by one like this.

The Italian stood looking at him with sharp and close scrutiny. Then he said something.

Bob could not understand him, and tried to explain by signs that he had lost his way, and that the donkey had run away with him. He also pointed to himself, and said, "Americano," and waved his hand in the direction of the road up which he had come, and said, "Salerno." This was very well for Bob, especially when his anxiety of mind is taken into account, and his signs seemed intelligible to the Italian. He looked at Bob carefully, and finally seemed to make out an explanation of his appearance, which satisfied him, after which he motioned to him to follow, and walked back towards the bridge. Bob's first impulse was to rush away, and run as fast as his legs could carry him; but the thought of the Italian's gun checked the impulse, and he followed.

Meanwhile, the other brigand, who had caught the ass, stood stroking it and examining it. The animal seemed perfectly quiet and docile; altogether a changed animal, different far from that wild beast that had torn Bob away from all his friends, and thrown him here among these dread associates. This other man had very much the same general appearance as the first one. His beard was reddish, and his eyes were smaller, the general expression of his face was more sinister, as Bob thought, and though he had no gun, yet he seemed none the less formidable.

The two men stood talking together for some time. One of them seemed to be narrating to the other Bob's account of himself, as he had understood it from the signs that had been made. After this they seemed to be discussing the subject of Bob and the ass, for they looked at him and at the animal from time to time during their conversation. At length they seemed to have made up their minds about the subject, for they stopped talking; and motioning Bob to follow, they walked away, leading the ass with them.

Again a strong impulse rose in Bob's mind to fly; but again the dread of being shot at prevented him. He therefore followed as before.

There was in this place a circular sweep of hills enclosing a valley, through which the brook ran. Crossing this by a bridge, the road wound along a gentle declivity, and not very far away were one or two houses. One of these was two stories high, much dilapidated, and looked as though it might once have been a wind-mill, or something of that sort. It stood on the edge of the torrent, and the door-way was towards the road. The other buildings seemed to be barns of some sort, or sheep-folds. The grassy declivity spread away till it reached a steeper ascent, and here there began a forest which covered the mountain-sides.

Towards this old mill Bob was led by his captors. As he drew near he saw some dirty children at play, in front of the door-way. Soon an old woman came out, followed by another, who was younger. The old woman was a hideous old crone. Her hair was a matted gray mass, her teeth were gone, and her face was pinched, and so seamed with wrinkles, that she looked as though she might be over a hundred years old. The other woman was very dirty and slatternly. She had a dirty baby in her arms; her hair was in disorder, her face was greasy and smouched, and a filthy cloth, which might once have been white, was on her head. The women and children were all barefoot. As Bob approached, they all stared at him with the most intense curiosity; the two women stood still and stared; the children stopped their play and stared; and there was something in the glow and glitter of all these fiery, black, Italian eyes which seemed horrible to poor Bob, and made his flesh fairly creep.

The men then began to talk to the women, evidently explaining about Bob and the ass; and as they talked the eyes of all of them were most of the time fixed upon these two. As for the children, they glared for a time with very evil looking faces at Bob; but at length the ass seemed to offer superior attractions to them, for they made a rush at it, climbed on its back, pulled at its ears and tail, and tormented it in various ways. Strange to say, this animal, that had punished poor Bob's little trick so fearfully, showed no resentment whatever at his present treatment, but stood there, no longer the fiery wild ass, but the very living image of a patient donkey.

Bob stood there looking upon the scene with his heart sinking within him, yet by no means despairing. He had too high a spirit and too stout a heart to give up so soon; and as he stood there, in the power of this evil company, he turned over in his mind a hundred different modes of escape. If he could once effect his escape from these people, he might easily go back by the mountain path. But how could he escape? That was the difficulty. Thus far, to his amazement, they had not inflicted any cruelty upon him, nor had they tied his hands; but that was, no doubt, owing to their contempt for him, and their conviction that he would not venture to fly. All that Bob had ever heard about the manners and customs of Italian brigands now came to his mind—how they detain their prisoners subject to a ransom, treating them well enough until the ransom comes, but if it fails, then inflicting upon them the most horrible cruelties. To Bob it now seemed certain that they intended to hold him for ransom, and that they would treat him well till he should be freed. As he felt certain about obtaining his ransom, he began to feel less anxious, and his bold and enterprising spirit began to conceive various ways by which he might baffle the brigands.

At length one of the men went off, and the younger of the women went into the house. The brigand with the gun remained, and talked for a little while with the old woman. It was evident to Bob, by the glances which they threw at him, that he was the subject of their conversation. To him the old woman was by far the most obnoxious of the whole crowd. The slatternly woman, the dirty, impish children, the brigands,—all these were bad enough; but the old woman was far worse to his imagination. There was in her watery eyes, in the innumerable wrinkles of her leathery skin, in her toothless jaws, something so uncanny that he almost shuddered. She reminded him of some of those witches of whom he had read, who, in former and more superstitious ages, were supposed to have dealings with the evil one, and whose looks certainly sustained such a supposition. To Bob, at that time, it seemed that if ever any one did in reality have dealings with the evil one, that one was the old hag behind him. To him she seemed a witch; he thought of her as a witch; and if she had at that time put on a peaked hat, straddled a broomstick, and flown off through the air, it would scarcely have surprised him.

At length the brigand went off, and the old woman came up to Bob. At her approach Bob involuntarily shrank back a step or two. The old hag fixed her small, watery eyes on him, mumbled with her toothless jaws, and after a few efforts croaked out something in Italian, followed by some gestures with her hands, which Bob understood to convey a general assurance of safety. For this he was prepared, since his mind was now fixed upon the idea that he would be kept for a ransom. Then the old woman came nearer, and put one of her thin, bony, shrivelled hands on his shoulder. The touch was like the touch of a skeleton, and suggested horrible thoughts to poor Bob. A thrill of disgust and terror shot through him; but he stood it, for he did not like to show his disgust, for fear of offending his hideous companion. The old woman, then standing before him with her hand on his shoulder, looked at him for a long time in silence. Bob looked back at her, and it seemed to him that he had never seen in all his life, such a hideous face. The wrinkles were now more plainly visible, the jaws seemed to be more retreating, the cheeks were sunken, the cheek-bones projecting, the eyes, small and weak, showed tears that slowly trickled down.

Suddenly the old hag gave a low groan, which Bob attributed to some pain or other, and turned away. He noticed that she was trembling, and thought it was the weakness of her extreme old age. He was puzzled by these movements of hers, and felt sure that they meant no good. After a few minutes she, turned again, and beckoned to him to follow. She led the way into the house. On reaching the door Bob hesitated, and stood without looking in. He saw a large apartment occupying all the lower story of the old mill, with some rude seats and rough beds. A long ladder led up to the upper story. The old woman beckoned for him to come in, and Bob did not like to refuse. So he went in. She then brought forth some cold mutton and black bread, which she offered him. Bob was ravenously hungry; but at that moment an idea came to him—a suspicion that was created by the very sinister aspect and very singular behavior of the old crone. The suspicion was, that it was drugged or poisoned. This suspicion was not at all in accordance with the idea that they were keeping him for a ransom, but it was an irrepressible one, and though hungry, he did not dare to eat. So he shook his head. Upon this the old hag took the things away, and Bob went out again.

The dirty children had been playing with the donkey all this time, and still kept up their sport but in the midst of their sport they still had curiosity enough to keep their eyes from time to time upon the strange boy who had come thus suddenly into their midst. The furtive, sinister glances of their wicked black eyes had something uncanny in them, which made Bob feel more uncomfortable than ever. He took a seat upon a stone in front of the house, on one side of the door-way, and looked all around. The mountains arose there, rising first gently in an easy acclivity, and then sweeping up with a greater incline. Their sides, and even their summits, were here all covered with forests. On the left he could see the bridge over which the road passed—the road that led to safety. Could he but escape for a few moments from the eyes of his jailers, he might be saved. And why not? Two women, and some dirty children—why should he care for such guards as these? One rush, one leap, and he would be free. Willingly would he walk all the way to Salerno. Anything would be welcome after such a captivity as this.

But Bob was doomed to disappointment; for just as he had made up his mind to fly, just as he was looking all around to see if the coast was clear, he saw, to his deep distress, the two brigands approaching from the outhouse. They were carrying something which, on nearer approach, turned out to be a sheep, which they had just killed. Of course all thoughts of flight now departed, and Bob could only deplore his own stupidity in allowing that one chance of escape to pass away.

After this they began to boil portions of the sheep in a pot; and soon the savory odor of a stew filled the room, and came to Bob's nostrils. As he was half starving, the delicious odor excited the utmost longing to taste it, and he at once began to feel rather satisfied that he had not fled. He felt that a flight after dinner would be far better. In due time the dinner was ready. It was a stew,—mutton, with vegetables, cooked deliciously,—and Bob's hunger was so great that if it had been worse cooked it would have been a banquet. He had no fears of poison, no suspicions of drugging, for the whole family prepared to partake' of the repast—the two brigands, the old hag, the slatternly woman, and the dirty children. The stew was poured out into a huge wooden platter; they used no plates, but dipped with their fingers. The sight awakened a little disgust in Bob, but he was too hungry to be squeamish, and he succeeded in picking out various morsels which had not been touched by the dirty hands of his companions.

During the repast Bob noticed that they all kept looking, from time to time, at him, and their furtive glances met his eyes whenever he turned them. The old woman sometimes seemed to devour him with a greedy, hungry sort of gaze, that was very horrible. It was an ogrish look, and Bob's appetite was somewhat checked by the horror that he found in her eyes, and he was unable to have that free play with the repast which he might otherwise have had.

After the repast Bob once more went outside, hoping now to have the opportunity which he had missed before. The dirty children went outside too. The two brigands followed, and occupied themselves with various employments. Escape from such surroundings as these was impossible. At length one of the brigands mounted the ass, and rode away down the road by which he had come. This circumstance seemed suspicious to Bob at first, but afterwards he thought that perhaps he had gone to Salerno to get the ransom.

After this, darkness came on so suddenly that he was amazed. He had already noticed that the twilight in Italy was very much less than that to which he had been accustomed at home, but had never been so impressed by it as now. There seemed but a minute Between day and night It was quite bright, and then in a wonderfully short time it became dark.

Upon this they all entered the house. Bob had to go with the rest. The room was feebly illuminated by a small oil lamp. Bob noticed that they fastened the door with a huge chain. The fastening of that door was ominous to him, and the clanking of that chain smote him to the heart, and echoed drearily within his soul. It seemed to him now like real imprisonment, shut in here with chains and bars, within this stone prison.

Soon they all prepared to retire; and the brigand who had first met Bob beckoned to him, and taking the lamp, climbed the ladder to the upper story. Bob followed him. The upper story was about eighteen feet above the lower one. On reaching it, Bob saw that it was all one apartment. There was no bed here, or bedding, or furniture of any description whatever. Sheep-skins hung from the rafters, and dried mutton, and some vegetables. In one corner was a pile of straw. To this the brigand pointed, and Bob went over there. He understood that he was to pass the night on this pile of straw. Once more Bob looked all around as he stood there by the straw. He saw the farther end of the room in dark shadows; he saw the articles hanging from the rafters. He noticed, also, that there were two windows, one in front and the other in the rear. In these windows there were no sashes. They were open to the night air. One glance sufficed to show him this.

The brigand now said something which Bob supposed to mean good night, so he very civilly said the same in English. The brigand grinned, and then descended the ladder, taking the lamp with him.

On his departure, Bob's first act was to take off his boots. He then felt his way along the wall to the front window, for it was so intensely dark inside and outside, that not a thing was visible. Reaching the window, he put his head out and looked down. He could see nothing. All was the very blackness of darkness. He looked up to the sky. All there was blackness also and darkness. Then he looked down again. If he had only some means of getting down, he could venture the descent; but he had nothing. There were no sheets here for him to tie together; he could not make a rope out of that straw strong enough to bear his weight. To jump down was not to be thought of, for he knew very well that at least twenty feet separated him from the ground.

He turned away from the window in despair, and groping his way back to his rude bed, he sat upon the straw, and gave himself up to his gloomy and despondent thoughts.



CHAPTER VIII.

The worn-out Captive.—Light Slumbers.—Fearful Wakening.—The stealthy Step.—The overmastering. Horror.—The lone Boy confronted by his Enemy.—The hungry Eyes.—Is it real, or a Nightmare?—The supreme Moment.

The darkness of the night and the impossibility of escape filled Bob with the most gloomy and distressing thoughts, which at first quite Overcame him. But at length other thoughts came, which were of a less distressing character. His mind once more reverted to the idea that he was held for ransom, and that for the present, at least, he was in safety; and not only so, but well cared for. These people certainly had given him of their best. They had made him share at the common meal, and though this bed of straw was not very elegant, it was at least comfortable, and was no worse than they themselves used to sleep upon.

He flung himself down upon the straw, and found that it was a soft and a refreshing couch. Far better was this fresh straw than any formal bed could have been, for in such a house as that, a mattress or a bed would certainly have been hideous thing, as dirty, as greasy, and as squalid as the people of the house. On the whole, Bob was pleased with his bed of straw, and with its clean, fresh smell.

Escape being thus cut off for the present, Bob's frame of mind grew more placid. As long as he entertained the idea of immediate flight, his mind was constantly on the strain; but now, when that idea had been dismissed, he grew calmer, and thought over his circumstances with more deliberation. He remembered that one of the brigands had already gone away, and, as he supposed, to Salerno. If so, he would, no doubt, either see his friends, or at least hear from them, some time on the following day.

The more he considered his situation, the more free from all immediate danger did it seem, and the more did his hopes increase. He looked forward with eager hope, to the following day. That would, without doubt, bring him news of his friends, or, perhaps, restore him to liberty. Under the pleasant influence of thoughts like these, his mind grew more calm and cheerful every moment, and passed into a state of tranquil contentment Besides, he was tired, and his weariness brought on drowsiness. As long as his excitement lasted, he could not feel the drowsiness; but now, as calmness returned, the weariness and sleepiness became stronger, and by degrees overpowered him.

Gradually the thoughts of his mind became intermingled with the fancies of dreams, and blended the realities around him with things at a distance. All was still, outside and inside. No sound whatever arose from below. The family seemed all asleep. At last Bob dozed off also, and passed into the land of dreams.

His sleep was not heavy. Many things conspired to keep his senses somewhat on the alert even in that slumber of his, and he was in that condition which is called sleeping with one eye open. The fact is, the extraordinary excitement of his donkey ride, and especially of his last adventure in thus falling into captivity, had so roused his faculties, so affected his nerves, and so sharpened his senses, that even in his sleep there still predominated the thoughts and the purposes of his waking hours.

In this state he remained for some time, sleeping, yet vigilant, the body gaining rest and refreshment, but the wary soul on the alert, as though to guard against danger.

How long this sleep continued, whether minutes or hours, Bob could never afterwards remember; but with a sudden shock through all his nerves, he opened his eyes. He was lying, as he had flung himself on the straw, on his back, with his head elevated against a bundle of straw, in such a way that he could see the length of the room.

It was a noise that he heard. He listened breathlessly, and looked with all his eyes.

Around him all was dark. It might be near morning, or it might be early night; he could not tell. All was still, outside and inside—the blackness of darkness and the stillness of death.

Yet now, in the midst of that black darkness and that deathly stillness, he became aware, of a sight and a sound.

It was a low, creaking sound, which was repeated at short intervals, accompanied by a sliding, shuffling noise. It sounded in the direction of the opening by which the ladder led up from below. Looking there, he saw a ray of light, faint and flickering, yet visible enough in that deep darkness; and as the grating, shuffling sounds succeeded one another at regular intervals, even so did the faint, flickering ray of light grow brighter and brighter.

As Bob looked at this and took it all in, one thought came to him in an instant,—

Somebody was coming up the ladder!

The thought went through him with a pang.

Somebody is coming up the ladder!

Who?

What for?

That mysterious somebody was coming slowly and stealthily. It was the tread of one who wished to come unobserved.

On waking out of sleep suddenly, the mind is often confused; but when, after such a sudden awakening, it is confronted by some horrible presence, the shock is sometimes too great to be endured. So was it with Bob at this time. His awaking had been sudden; and the horror that he found in the object that now presented itself was, that the shuffling sound that arose from the ladder was the step of Doom,—and the mysterious visitant was stealing towards him to make him its prey. There arose within him an awful anticipation. His eyes fixed themselves upon the place where the light was shining; all his soul awaited, in dreadful expectation, the appearance of the mysterious visitor, and as the stealthy step drew nearer and nearer, the excitement grew stronger, and more painful, and more racking.

At length the figure began to emerge above the opening.

Bob's eyes were fixed upon the place.

He saw first the light. It emerged above the opening—an old oil-lamp held in a bony, grisly, skinny hand. Then followed an arm.

Bob's excitement was now terrible. His heart beat with wild throbs. His whole frame seemed to vibrate under that pulsation which was almost like a convulsion.

The arm rose higher! Higher still!

It was coming!

There arose a matted shock of greasy, gray hair. The light shone down upon it as it was upheld in the bony hand. The hair came tip, and then, gradually, a face.

That face was pale as ashes; it was lean and shrivelled; the cheeks were sunken; the cheek bones projected; and a million wrinkles were carved upon the deep-seamed brow and corrugated cheeks. Over that hideous face the gray hair wandered. Bob's blood seemed to freeze within his veins. The old fable tells of the Gorgon, whose face inspired such horror that the beholder stiffened into stone. So here. Bob beheld a Gorgon face. He felt petrified with utter horror!

As the face came up it was turned towards him. It emerged higher and higher, and at length stopped about a foot above the opening. Here it fixed its gaze upon Bob, bending itself forward, and holding forth the light as far as possible, so that it might light up the room, and peering through the gloom so as to see where Bob was.

There seemed something indescribably evil, malignant, and cruel, in those bleary eyes which thus sought Bob out, fastened themselves upon him, and seemed to devour him with their gaze. There was a hideous eagerness in her look. There was a horrible fascination about it,—such as the serpent exerts over the bird. And as the bird, while under the spell of the serpent's eye, seems to lose all power of flight, and falls a victim to the destroyer, so here, at this time, Bob felt paralyzed at that basilisk glance, and lost all power of motion. He could not speak. He tried to scream. No cry came. He was dumb with horror. He was like one in a nightmare; but this was a waking night-mare, and not the fanciful terrors of dreamland.

But the horror was too great to be endured. He closed his eyes tight, and thus shut out the sight.

But though he shut out the sight, he could not shut oat sound; and soon he became aware of something which brought a fresh terror over his soul.

It was a stealthy step.

It was advancing towards, him.

Slow, cautious, cunning, yet steady, and nearer and still nearer, came the awful step! Bob opened his eyes, to assure himself once more of the worst. He opened them by a resistless impulse.

The figure was now half way between the opening and the bed. The old hag stood now fully revealed. Her bleary eyes were fixed on Bob. One hand upheld the flickering lamp, and in the other was a sharp weapon.

Bob closed his eyes in an anguish of horror. He was dumb. He could utter no cry. He could not move. The blow was coming. The destroyer was here, yet he could not make one motion to ward off that blow. His brain whirled, his heart seemed to stop beating.

There was a terrible moment of dumb, motionless, breathless expectancy.

The old woman knelt by his side.

She put the lamp on the floor.

Then she reached out one of her long, lean, bony, skinny, shrivelled hands, and took Bob by the hair of his head, while with the other she raised her sharp weapon.



CHAPTER IX.

The Cavalcade in Pursuit.—Hopes and Fears.—Theories about the lost Boy.—A new Turn to Affairs.—Explanations.—On to Salerno.—Inquiries.—Baffled.—Fresh Consternation and Despondency.—The last Hope.

Meanwhile the party on donkeys trotted along the road after Bob. At the exclamation from the donkey boy they had all experienced a shock; but soon they recovered from it, and the shock only served as a stimulus to make them push the donkeys onward more rapidly. They rode on for some time without making any remarks, each one looking eagerly forward to see if Bob might reappear; but he had vanished behind a turn in the road, and as they advanced, there were other turns to be encountered, and so they were unable to see him. This began to create uneasiness. At first they all had hoped that Bob would be able to stop the ass, or that the animal, after indulging his paces for a short time, would stop of his own accord; but the farther they went, the more they became convinced that this affair had something serious in it.

At length they reached that long, straight piece of road already mentioned. At one end of this was a rising ground; as they ascended this and reached its summit, they looked ahead, and there, far away before them, was a single rider. They recognized Bob at once. He was more than a mile away; but the sight of him filled them all with joy, and they at once stimulated their donkeys to greater exertions. In spite of the distance that intervened, they all shouted as loud as they could; but of course the distance was too great, and their cries were lost before they reached nearly as far away as Bob. In a short time he turned in the road, and passed out of sight.

They now rode on for a long time, and at length came to the road that led to the mountains, up which Bob had gone. This road was not even noticed by them. They had passed other roads of the same kind, which, like this one, led to the mountains, and attached no more importance to this than to those. In the minds of some of them, however, these side-roads suggested a fear, that Bob's ass might have turned off into some one of them; but of course, as they were all alike, they could not conjecture which one would have been taken by the runaway. As they rode on, they still looked ahead. At every turn in the road they still expected to see the fugitive; and it was not until the donkeys themselves gave signs of fatigue, that they were willing to slacken their pace. But the nature of these donkeys was, after all, but mortal; like other mortal things, they were subject to weakness and fatigue; and as they were now exhausted, their riders were compelled to indulge them with a breathing space, and so they slackened their pace to a walk.

And now they all began to consider the probabilities of Bob's fortunes.

"I'm afraid something's happened," said Clive. "Perhaps he's been thrown."

"Thrown?" cried Frank, cheerily. "Why, if so, we would have found him long ago. But the idea of Bob being thrown from any animal that ever lived is simply absurd. Hell stick to that donkey as long as the donkey runs."

"It seems to me," said David,—who was a very thoughtful and observant boy,—"it seems to me that the donkey may have taken some of those roads that go off to the mountains."

"Pooh!" said Frank. "Why should the donkey take the trouble to do anything of that sort? A runaway animal don't generally indulge in freaks of that kind. He generally goes it blind, and runs straight ahead along the road that happens to be before him."

"But perhaps he lives among the mountains," said David, "and, in that case, he would merely be running home."

"I don't believe that," said Frank. "I hold that it requires some thought for an ordinary donkey to quit the high road, and take one of those by-roads."

"Not if a by-road leads to his home."

"But how could his home be there," objected Frank, "when we found him away down there near Paestum?"

"Easily enough," said David. "I dare say they were going home at the very time we came up with them."

"I wish we could ask the boy about it," said Clive. "He could tell as just what we want to know."

"Yes," said Frank; "but, unfortunately, we couldn't understand all of it."

David heaved a sigh.

"How I wish," he exclaimed, "that I had studied Italian before I came! But from this time forth, I'm determined not to rest till I've learned the language."

Uncle Moses was deeply distressed at Bob's disappearance. He had only one idea in his mind. He told the other boys what it was. It was the idea of brigands. They had met poor Bob; they had seized him, and had carried him off to their lurking-places in the mountains. Even now he was in captivity. And the heart of Uncle Moses yearned over the poor prisoner. He expressed these fears in a few words, for he was too agitated to say much.

Clive and David both shook their heads over this, and thought there was something in it. Both of them now thought that Bob might have been carried by his donkey to the mountains; and, if so, his capture by brigands would be almost certain. To them, these mountains seemed to be full of them; the whole population, in their opinion, was a community of brigands.

Clive had also another idea. It was this. The driver had deserted them and had gone off vowing vengeance. He had gone to the mountains, and returned with a band of brigands to capture all of them. They had met Bob, seized him, and taken him off.

At all this Frank laughed.

"Pooh!" said he. "I don't see why you should go out of your way to torment yourselves about nothing at all. It all seems plain enough to me. The donkey has run off, and intends to keep running till he drops. There's a long, straight, smooth road before him, and he'll stick to that without bothering his head about by-roads or mountains. And if he's obstinate enough, I don't see why he shouldn't keep on running till he gets to Salerno. And it's my opinion, if we don't pick him up on the road, well find him at Salerno when we get there."

"O, that's all very well," said Clive, "but think how certain you were about the driver—"

He was interrupted by the sound of galloping horses and rolling wheels. The sound came from behind. At once they all turned their heads. Emerging from behind a torn in the road, they saw two horses galloping at full speed, and drawing a carriage. The driver was whipping the horses furiously, and calling and shouting. The carriage was empty. In a moment they recognized the truth. It was their carriage and their driver.

They all stood still, and looked in surprise, and the carriage rolled swiftly up. The driver at once stopped the horses, and jumped to the ground. Then, coming to the boys, he burst forth into a strain of the most profuse and vehement apologies. He implored them to forgive him, and began to explain the cause of his absence from the place where they had left him.

It seems that he found this place an inconvenient one, and had driven across the fields for about half, a mile, to some trees. Here he had taken his horses out, and allowed them to feed. He himself lay down in the carriage, and took a siesta. He overslept himself. On awaking, he was horrified to find how much time had passed, and at once proceeded to search for the horses. But during his sleep they had both wandered off, and could not be found until after a long search. When at length he was ready, and had driven back, he found to his horror that they were not there. Thinking that they were still among the ruins, he had gone over the whole place, which took up still more time. At last he saw that they must have left. He at once drove off. Knowing that they were on foot, he expected every minute to catch sight of them. He drove on for miles without seeing any trace of them, and at length came to the conclusion that they had, perhaps, found the carriage of some other visitors, and had obtained seats in that. He knew that they must have gone, and could only account in that way for their rapid progress.

This explanation of the driver was perfectly satisfactory to them all, and their joy at getting the carriage again was so great that they excused his unfortunate slumbers. The driver also, on his part, had now forgotten all about his sulks, and was the same genial and companionable soul as before. On learning about Bob's mishap, he at once assured them that the donkey must have run along the road, and that they would undoubtedly soon catch up with him. So the whole party got into the carriage, the driver whipped up the horses, and away they went towards Salerno.

Mile after mile was traversed.

Still there were no signs of Bob,

"Something's happened," said Clive.

"He's been carried to the mountains," said David.

"It's the brigands!" groaned Uncle Moses.

"O, it's all right," said Frank, confidently. "That donkey's a regular race-horse. We'll find him at Salerno."

At length they reached Salerno. They drove up to the hotel.

No signs of Bob!

Hurrying in, they made inquiries, and found that he had not come. This filled them all with the greatest concern; and the driver, and the landlord, and all others who heard of it, asserted that he must have been carried to the mountains. It was now dark. Nothing more could be done; and so they could only resolve to drive back on the following day, and make a more careful search after the lost boy.



CHAPTER X.

The captive Boy and his grisly Visitant.—The Hand on his Head.—Denouement.—The Brigand Family.—The old Crone.—The Robber Wife.—The Brigand Children.—A Revolution of Feeling.—The main Road.—The Carriage.—In Search of Bob.

Paralyzed with terror, dumb with horror, Bob lay motionless and almost breathless; and the grisly old hag reached out her long, lean, thin, bony, withered, shrivelled hand, and took his hair, while with the other hand she raised her sharp weapon.

She took his hair very lightly and tenderly; so lightly, indeed, that Bob was just conscious of her touch; and though he expected that he would be torn from his bed and struck dead the next instant, yet this fate was delayed.

She took his hair then in her hand very gently and tenderly, and in her other hand she raised the sharp weapon.

Now, the sharp weapon was a pair of sheep-shears.

These shears she held forward, and with them she snipped off, as noiselessly as possible, a lock of Bob's hair.

She pressed the lock of hair to her thin lips, looked at it steadfastly for some time, pressed it once more to her lips, and then put it in the folds of her dress.

Then kneeling by Bob's side, she looked at him long and earnestly. She bent over him, and looked down upon him. She laid the shears upon the floor, clasped her withered hands together, and gazed upon the boy. He lay still. His eyes were closed; but the delay of his fate and the snip of the shears in his hair bad roused him somewhat from his abyss of terror. He opened his eyes wide enough to see what was going on. He could not see the old woman's face, but he saw her kneeling, and he saw her thin hands clasped before her, like one in prayer, and tremulous.

The old woman bent over him; and if Bob could have seen her face he would have known that this old creature was an object of any other feeling rather than fear. Pale it was, that face that was over him, and wrinkled, and emaciated; but there was upon it a softened expression—an expression of yearning and of longing. That which at a distance had seemed to his frightened fancy a hungry, ghoulish look, was now nothing more than the earnest, fixed gaze of a love that longed to be satisfied—a gaze like that of a bereaved mother who sees some one who reminds her of her lost boy, and looks at him with a look of unutterable yearning. So, now, it was with this poor old decrepit creature. Perhaps in her past life some son had been torn from her, of whom Bob reminded her, and she had come now to feast herself with his face, which reminded her of her lost boy, to take a lock of his hair, to bow down over him in speechless emotion. Here, then, she knelt, her poor hands clasping each other tremulously, her aged breast heaving with repressed sighs, while from her weak eyes there fell tears which dropped upon the face of the boy.

Those tears had a wonderful effect.

As Bob's half-opened eyes saw the old woman's attitude, his grisly terror left him; his heart regained its ordinary pulsation; the tremendous pressure that had been upon his soul was removed; warm, and fresh, and free, his young blood sped through his veins, and all his frame was quickened to a bounding life and vigor. By the force of this reaction he was roused from his stony lethargy, his paralysis of horror, and his presence of mind was restored. Then there came those tears which fell upon his face. This completed the recovery of his self-command. It did more. It assured him that he was an object, not of murderous fury, but of tender love, and that the one whom he had feared had come, not with purposes of cruelty, but with yearnings of affection. Why this should be he knew not; he was content to know that it was so; and in this knowledge all fear died out. Bat even now he felt somewhat embarrassed, for the old woman was evidently only giving way to her emotion because she believed him to be asleep; and thus he was an unwilling witness of feelings which she supposed to be seen by none. In this there seemed to be something dishonorable, and he wished the scene to end. He chose to do so therefore by making a few movements without opening his eyes; that is, he changed his position several times, turned himself over and back again, and thus gave signs of waking. Upon this the old woman silently took her lamp and shears, and left the apartment by the way she had come.

So ended the adventure.

The effect produced upon Bob was a varied one. He still felt the consequences of that horror into which he had fallen, that spasm and convulsion of terror which had seemed to turn him to stone, yet the relief that had been found was inexpressibly sweet. In spite of the pain which still lingered about his heart, there came a calmer and happier frame of mind; the pain itself also gradually died out, and its only result was a general languor. So commonplace a termination to what seemed a terrible event made his whole situation and his other prospects seem commonplace, and he even began to think that his captors might turn out to be as commonplace as the old woman.

He fell again into a deep sleep, and did not wake till it was broad day. On descending, the people all respectfully bade him good morning. Breakfast was ready, consisting of black bread, stew, and some coffee. Outside, the view was superb; the rising sun had not yet ascended high enough to shine down into the valley, but the glowing heavens, and the shadows of the mountains, and the light green of the little space nearest, with the darker green of the forests that clothed the mountain-sides, all made the spectacle a memorable one.

Bob's whole state of mind was more healthy, and cheerful, and hopeful than it had been. Everything appeared bright and favorable. The old woman, as he looked at her this morning, did not seem to be at all repulsive. Her face was shrivelled, it is true, and her eyes were weak; but she looked gentle and mild, and treated him with very great favor and attention. The slatternly woman did not seem worse than any other Italian peasant woman. The children were dirty, no doubt; in fact, very dirty; but then they were brown, and healthy, and merry, not inclined to mischief, and quite respectful to him. In short, Bob found himself surveying his situation and its surroundings with much complacency, and he began to feel that he had misjudged these people altogether the night before.

But other things were yet in store which were to redeem still more the character of these people. He was standing outside the house after breakfast, when, to his surprise, he saw the second "brigand" approach. He knew that he had not had time to go to Salerno and return; so he saw that he could not have been to Salerno at all. He seemed to Bob to be going there now, for he was mounted on a donkey, and led another by the bridle. The one which he led was no other than the ass which had carried Bob to this place.

Bob's only thought at seeing this was, that the "brigand" was now setting forth for Salerno, and was about to take the donkey with him, either to sell it, or to return it to the owner, and get a reward. But this idea was not left long in his mind.

The first "brigand" came out, and the two men talked to one another, after which they turned to Bob, and the first brigand explained to him that he was to mount the donkey. He pointed to the animal, smiled, waved his hand towards the road by which Bob had come, and uttered the word "Salerno."

Bob's heart gave a wild leap; he could scarcely believe what he heard; but the faces of the two men were smiling, and they continued to nod, and gesticulate, and repeat the word "Salerno." They looked like two benevolent farmers, and Bob wondered how he could ever have seen anything malignant in their very good natured faces.

Of course there was nothing to do now but to hurry away to his friends. Yet Bob was not willing to take too abrupt a leave. He remembered the old woman, and thought with a softened heart about her emotion. He went back into the house, and shook hands with her for good by. He even knew enough Italian to say "Addio." The old creature was much softened and burst into tears. Bob gave her one of his cuff-buttons as a souvenir, for he had nothing else to give, and the cuff-button was an uncommonly elaborate affair; and he had the satisfaction of seeing that the old woman took it as though it was of inestimable value. He then went around among them all, shook hands with all of them, from the slatternly woman down to the smallest of the dirty children, and gave each one of them something—to the woman, a pencil case; to one child, his pocket knife; to another, a watch key; to a third, a shirt stud; to a fourth, a memorandum book; and to the fifth, a handkerchief.

"Brigand" number two was going to accompany him, and it was now evident to Bob that the delay which had taken place in his restoration to his friends was probably owing to the fact that they had to wait to procure bridles, or another donkey. It only remained for him now to bid good by to "brigand" number one, which he did with great earnestness, and cordiality, and fervor; presenting him at the same time with his neck-tie, a very brilliant piece of satin, which the Italian received with a great flourish, and profuse expressions of thankfulness. Bob had several times regretted his ignorance of the Italian language since his arrival in the country, but never had his regrets been more sincere than on this occasion. Had he been able to speak Italian he would have made a speech then and there, and have invited them all, from the old woman down to the smallest child, to come and visit him and his friends either at Salerno, or at Naples, or in far-off America. But alas! Bob's tongue was tied, and so the invitation remained unuttered. He did what he could, however, and utterly exhausted the whole language of signs in the attempt to express to them his thanks, and his good wishes for their happiness. The simple people seemed to comprehend him, for they were by no means dull, and gesticulated in return many things which seemed to convey the same meaning; and when at last Bob rode away, the humble inhabitants watched him until he passed out of sight.



CHAPTER XI.

The Return.—The tender Adieus.—Back to Salerno.—On to Castellamare.—A pleasant Scene.—An unpleasant Discovery.—David among the Missing.—Woes of Uncle Moses.—Deliberations over the Situation.—Various Theories.—The Vengeance of the Enemy.—Back to Sorrento in Search of the lost One.

Returning to the main road with his guide, Bob traversed the same way by which his donkey had carried him on the preceding day. His progress now was very different. It would not do to dash furiously down the narrow and steep mountain pathway; so they had to go at a slow pace, until they reached the plain. Bob's animal also had changed. He was no longer the fiery, wild ass of the day before, which had borne him helplessly away from his friends, but a tractable animal, with sufficient spirit, it is true, yet with all the signs of subordination and obedience. He obeyed the slightest touch of the bridle, and moved along after the rider in front of him, as quietly as though he was the most patient and gentle of the donkey tribe.

In two or three hours' time they reached the main road, and turning to the right, rode towards Salerno. Thus far Bob had not noticed much of his surroundings, but now his eyes gazed most eagerly upon the road ahead of him, for he expected to meet his friends. He rightly supposed that they would have driven to Salerno on the preceding day, hoping to find him there, and that they would drive back in search of him at the earliest dawn of another day.

Bob's conjecture turned out to be rights He had not ridden more than a mile when he saw a carriage approaching, which he soon recognized as belonging to his party. In it were his friends, who had recognized him as soon as they had caught sight of him, and whose joy at meeting with him again, and amazement at the sight of his companion, knew no bounds. The carriage stopped, and the boys flung themselves out, and tore Bob from the back of the donkey, and hugged him, and hustled him, and danced about him in their joy. Uncle Moses was not so quick as the others, and held back. Bat if his greeting was last, it was not least fervent, as Bob well knew by the moistened eye, the quivering lip, the tremulous voice, and the convulsive grasp of that venerable relative.

Then and there, on the road, Bob had to satisfy the hungry curiosity of his friends, and give them some sort of an outline of his adventures. The particulars he reserved until a future occasion. Bob's account of his friends in the mountains at once roused the enthusiastic interest of the whole party in their favor, and they all proceeded to shake hands with the Italian. Nor did they content themselves with this, for on the spot Uncle Moses and the boys made up a handsome purse, which they presented to him, not because he deserved it, exactly, but partly because they were so rejoiced at finding the lost boy, and partly on account of Bob's urgent appeal to them. For now Bob's sentiments about the humble people in the sequestered valley had undergone the last phase which was necessary to complete a perfect revolution of feeling; and he had come to regard them not by any means as brigands,—far from it,—but rather as a family of peaceful, innocent, harmless, affectionate, quiet, benevolent, warm-hearted, good-natured, hospitable, and virtuous peasants.

The Italian received the gifts with a series of gesticulations, by which he seemed to be invoking the blessing of Heaven upon them, and vowing endless gratitude; and after the boys and Uncle Moses had one by one shaken hands and bidden him good by, he still stood there, smiling, bowing, and gesticulating; and as they drove away, they saw him standing motionless in the road till they passed out of sight.

Bob's adventures had not been without some serious consequences, for the strain on his mind during the previous day, and especially the horror of the night, combined with the fatigues to which he had been subjected, had been somewhat too much for him. As soon, therefore, as the first excitement of the joyous meeting was over, a reaction took place, and he complained of utter weariness and exhaustion. As Bob was a boy who never complained except under sore pressure, the boys perceived that he was now in need of quiet and repose, and therefore tried to put a check upon their eager curiosity. On reaching Salerno, they put up at the hotel again, and gave Bob the opportunity of a long rest. Had it not been for Bob's adventure, they would by this time have been back in Naples; for their intention had been to go on from Paestum without stopping; but now they were forced to delay somewhat. Still they were anxious to resume the journey back, and as Bob seemed refreshed after a rest and a good repast, Uncle Moses thought they had better set out and go as far as they could before dark. The driver mentioned Castellamare as a convenient stopping-place, and it was thereupon decided to drive on as far as that place, and pass the night there.

They had passed through Castellamare before, when on their way to Sorrento, and again, when returning from that place, on their way to Salerno, so that it seemed quite familiar. But on quitting the carriage and looking out from the windows of the hotel, they were surprised to find how much the beauty of the place was enhanced by this new outlook. Before, they looked at it as hasty travellers, snatching a passing glance; but now they could take a leisurely survey. Before them was the Bay of Naples; on the right, the city with its suburbs, extending far along the shore; on the left, the isle of Capri; in front, the shores of Baiae; while in the rear was the verdant landscape, with a background of mountains, over which reigned supreme the gigantic form of Vesuvius, from whose summit was still floating the wrathful smoke cloud.

It was decided to pass the night here, and go on to Naples early on the following day. All the party were tired and went to rest at an early hour. The night was calm, and beautiful, and bright; and as they went to sleep, they were lulled by the plash of the waters as they gently rippled upon the pebbled beach.

Frank arose pretty early on the following morning, and found that David was already up, and had gone forth. The others were still asleep. Frank thereupon went forth for a walk, and one by one the others awaked also. They had ordered breakfast at an early hour, and they were to start immediately after. When Uncle Moses went down stairs he found breakfast ready, and departed to hunt up the boys. He found Frank, and Clive, and Bob, watching the driver groom the horses.

"Boys," said Uncle Moses, "breakfast's ready."

"All right, sir," said Frank; "we'll be along."

Upon this Uncle Moses went back, and after a few moments Frank, and Clive, and Bob entered.

"Where's David?" asked Uncle Moses.

"I don't know, sir."

"Well," said Uncle Moses, "I suppose he'll be along; so let's sit down and begin."

They all sat down.

When they were about half through breakfast, Uncle Moses began to wonder what was keeping David.

"Which way did he go, boys?" he asked.

"I didn't see him," said Frank.

"I didn't," said Clive.

"Nor I," said Bob.

"He was up before I was." said Frank, "and had gone out. I didn't see him at all. I only saw his empty bed, and found his clothes gone. I dare say he's gone off on a walk."

"O, he's all right," said Bob.

"Yes," said Uncle Moses, "I don't doubt it He's a very careful, quiet boy, I know; but he is always so punctual, that it seems kind o' odd for him to be so late."

"O, I dare say he's misunderstood about the hour," said Clive.

"Perhaps so," said Uncle Moses.

The boys now went on finishing their breakfast; but Uncle Moses began to fidget in his chair, and look around, and sigh, and gave other signs of growing uneasiness of mind. Feeling in himself, as he did, the care of all the boys, he never was altogether free from anxiety; and the various adventures which the boys had encountered, had not, in any way, tended to lessen his uneasy vigilance over them. Bob's last adventure, in particular, had wrought upon him most painfully, so that he was ten times more careful over his young and somewhat flighty charges than he had been before. The absence of David at such an important time seemed unaccountable. If it had been any one of the others, it would have been intelligible; but for David, who was the soul of order, regularity, and method, to fail an appointment, was something so extraordinary, that he could not but feel alarmed. Still he restrained himself, for he felt a little ashamed of his fears; and though he was evidently very restless, uneasy, and worried, he said not a word until the boys had finished their breakfast.

"I don't know what to make of it," said Uncle Moses at last, starting from his chair and going to the window. Standing there, he looked uneasily up and down the street, and then returned and looked earnestly at the boys.

"I don't know what to make of it, at all," he repeated. "Did you say you didn't see him, none of you? Didn't you see him, Clive?"

"No, sir," said Clive. "When I waked, all the boys were up."

"Didn't he say anythin last night about intendin to do anythin this mornin?"

"I didn't hear him say anything."

"O, I'm sure he's misunderstood about the hour," said Frank. "That's it He's off on a walk. I dare say he's found some old ruin; and if that's the case, he won't know anything about time at all. Put him in an old ruin, and he'd let all the breakfasts that ever were cooked wait before he'd hurry."

"Wal," said Uncle Moses, "there's somethin in that too. David's dreadful fond of old stones, and old bones, and tumble-down edifices, and old sticks an weeds. Why, he's all the time collectin; an if he keeps on, his baggage'll become nothin else but that."

Pleased with this thought, which brought up before his mind what to him was an inexplicable peculiarity of David, Uncle Moses drew a breath of relief.

"Wal," said he, "we'll have to wait patiently, till David's done with that there old ruin; an meantime I think I'll take a turn an see if I can see anythin of him."

Upon this Uncle Moses went out of the room, and down to the street. Reaching the street, he walked up and down the entire length of the town, looking eagerly in every direction, peering into the doors of houses, staring into space, scanning groves and vineyards, and every half minute taking out his watch and looking at it. At the end of about half an hour, he returned more troubled than ever, and met Frank, Clive, and Bob in front of the hotel.

"I can't find him anywhere," said he.

Thus far the boys had thought nothing of David's disappearance; but the deep anxiety of Uncle Moses now excited their alarm; and though, if left to themselves, they would have seen nothing to fear in the fact of David's being an hour or so behind time, yet, after all, they began to see that, in one like David, such conduct was most extraordinary; and in this foreign country, of whose ways they were so ignorant, there might possibly be danger in such absence. They at once began to comfort Uncle Moses; and then all of them volunteered to go in different directions and see if they could find him. Uncle Moses again set out, walking up the road in the direction of Sorrento; Frank went down the road; Clive took a by-road that led towards the hills; while Bob, who was rather weak yet, and not capable of much exertion, said that he would watch from the window of the hotel, and be at home, in case of David's return, to explain matters.

In this way they began their search, and Bob waited patiently in the hotel. After about an hour Uncle Moses came back. On finding that David had not returned, he looked unspeakably distressed; and when, after a short time farther, both Frank and Clive returned without any tidings of the fugitive, he began to look quite heartbroken.

Then they talked to the driver about it; but the' driver could give them no information whatever. They sent him over the hotel to question all the people, but this search was as vain as the others had been. There was no one in the hotel, from the big landlord down to the scullion, who could tell anything at all about David.

By the time all these examinations and searches had been made it was after ten o'clock. Breakfast had been served at seven, and seven was the hoar at which David should have been among them. He had been gone, therefore, more than three hours.

Even the boys now began to feel uneasy. Uncle Moses and all the boys began to rack their brains to find some way of accounting for David's absence.

"Did any of you ever hear of his walking in his sleep?" asked, Uncle Moses, in an agitated voice.

"No," said Bob, "never. I know he never did such a thing."

"He couldn't have taken a walk anywheres," said Uncle Moses, "or he'd been back long ago."

"O, yes; he wouldn't have started on a three hours' walk," said Clive.

"Perhaps he's tried a donkey ride, and been ran away with, like me," said Bob.

"O, no," said Frank, "he isn't fond of riding; he'd never get on the back of any animal, unless he had to."

"Did he say anything about—about—?"

Uncle Moses hesitated at the question which he was about to ask.

"About what, Uncle Moses?" asked Clive.

"About—bathing?" asked Uncle Moses, in a faltering voice.

"No," said Clive.

Uncle Moses drew a long breath.

"It would be dreadful dangerous," said he.

"But, Uncle Moses," said Clive, "David would never think of such a thing. He might go in if all of us fellows went in too, just for company; but he doesn't care enough about it to go in alone. The fact is, he doesn't care much for any kind of sports. He's too fond of books."

Uncle Moses sighed heavily.

"I wonder," said Bob, "if any of those Sorrento fellows have been about here, and seen him."

At this suggestion every one of them started, and stared at one another.

"Sorrento fellers?" repeated Uncle Moses.

"Do you think there's any chance?"

"O, I don't know," said Bob. "I only thought it might be possible. You see Dave made no end of a row there about that tassel that he took, and you know how we had to run for it. Well, you know Sorrento isn't very far from here, and I just thought that some of the Sorrento people might have seen us come here yesterday. If they did, they might have tried to pay up poor old Dave for what he did out there."

"It may be so," said Uncle Moses, with a groan. "The whole population were ravin mad, an we had hard enough work to get away."

"Well," said Frank, "it's the only thing that can account for Dave's absence. He may have taken a little stroll this morning, and fallen into the hands of some of those fellows. Perhaps they've been watching all night for the chance. They would watch, not only all night, but a fortnight, for the sake of revenge. There's no people so revengeful as the Italians. Poor Dave! What can we do? I'll go and ask the driver."

Saying this, Frank hurried out of the room and down stairs to talk to the driver about it. All the others followed. On suggesting this Sorrento theory to the driver, that worthy shook his head, and thought that there might be something in it. He evidently began to look upon David's absence as something very serious, and his seriousness over it only added to the anxiety of Uncle Moses and the boys.

"If this is so, we ought to drive off to Sorrento at once," said Frank, "before it is too late. If Dave is in their hands, he needs us now, and I only wish we had thought of this before."

"But he mayn't be there at all," said Bob, who generally had a mind of his own.

"Where else is he?"

"I don't know."

"There's no need for all of us to go," said Uncle Moses. "I'll go alone, and you boys stay here till I come back. But I don't know, either. I'm afraid to leave you. If David's got into trouble, how can any of you hope to escape? No, you must all come, for I declare I'm afraid to trust one of you out of my sight."

"But some of us ought to stay," said Bob, "for Dave may turn up all right, and how'll he know what's become of us?"

"Wal," said Uncle Moses, "I'll leave word for him here at the hotel."

"Yes." said Frank, "that's the best way. None of us want to dawdle our lives out in this place all day, and you don't want to leave any of us behind, Uncle Moses; so if we all go together, we'll all be satisfied."

A few minutes afterwards the carriage rolled out of Castellamare, carrying the party back to Sorrento.



CHAPTER XII.

The Waking of David.—A glorious Scene.—A Temptation.—David embarks upon the wide wide Sea.—Youth at the Prow and Pleasure at the Helm.—A daring Navigator.—A baffled and confounded Navigator.—Lost! Lost! Lost!—Despair of David.—At the Mercy of Wind and Sea.—The Isle of the Brigands.—The Brigand Chief.

On the morning of that day David had waked very early, feeling refreshed with his slumbers, and not at all inclined to prolong them. The others were all asleep, and the house was silent. As he lay he could hear the gentle ripple of the water upon the beach, and feel the sweet, balmy air of morning as it tanned his cheeks. For some little time he lay enjoying his situation, and then jumped out of bed and went to the window.

Immediately in front of him lay the Bay of Naples, a dark blue expanse, with its border of green shores and white cities, overhung by a sky whose hue rivalled that of the sea beneath. The beauty of the scene was so exquisite that it called him forth, and unable any longer to remain within doors, he dressed himself and walked out. On his way out he met no one, for all were still asleep. He had to unlock the door to let himself out, and when outside he saw that the street was as deserted as the interior of the hotel.

Standing at the door, he saw the eastern sky all ruddy and glowing. The sun was not yet up, but these hues indicated its approach, and announced that it was at hand. The fertile plains, all covered with vineyards, spread afar, extending from the outskirts of the town to the slopes of the mountains, which in the distance rose up grandly, their sides covered with groves, and resting in dark shadows. There, too, was Vesuvius, as ever, monarch of the scene; and the smoke that hung over its summit stood revealed in a black mass against the blue sky.

David left the hotel, and, after walking a few paces, turned his steps towards the sea-shore. Here the attractions were greater than on the land, for the blue expanse of water spread itself out before him, encircled by shores and islands, and all the congregated glories of the Bay of Naples were there in one view before his eyes. There was a beach here of fine pebbles, which sloped gently into the water, and upon this beach a number of boats were drawn up. After wandering along the beach for a little distance, David entered one of these boats, and sat down. It was a small boat, with: a mast and sail, the latter of which was loosely furled. Here David sat and looked out upon the water.

The glorious scene filled his whole soul with enthusiastic delight. Upon that deep blue surface his eye was attracted by several white sails far away, that moved to and fro. At that moment it seemed to him that to move thus over such a sea would be equal to a bird's flight in the blue of heaven; and as he watched the boats he longed to be in them.

Suddenly he thought of the boat in which he was. Could he not have a little sail up and down along the shore? True, he did not know how to sail a boat, but he could learn; and this seemed as good a time to learn as any other. He did not know the owner, but on his return he could pay him what the excursion might be worth. He could float over this glorious water, and move up and down within easy reach of the shore, so as to land whenever it might be desirable.

David was not at all an enterprising boy, or an adventurous one. He was essentially quiet, methodical, and conservative. It was not because this sail was a risky thing that he tried it, but rather because it seemed so perfectly safe. There was a breeze,—he felt it,—and the progress of the boats, afar off on the water, tantalized him and tempted him on. The result was, that without taking much time to think about it, David yielded to the inclination of the moment, and pushing the boat from the land into the water, he let loose the sail; and then seating himself in the stern, he prepared to glide over the water.

About sailing David knew absolutely nothing. He was not even acquainted with the theory of sailing; nor did he know, how, or on what principle, a sail-boat moves. About steering he was equally ignorant, nor did he know how a boat obeys its rudder. But he knew that the one who sails a boat sits in the stern, and holds the tiller; so David did the same, holding the tiller in his right hand, and the sheets in his left.

The wind was not very strong, and it happened to be blowing in such a way that, as he unfurled the sail, it filled at once, and the boat moved lightly and pleasantly along. The motion filled David with delight. He saw himself borne on past the shore, at a gentle rate, and felt that the moment was one of supreme happiness. Thus, holding sheet and tiller, he resigned himself to the joy of the occasion.

The wind was moderate, and there was nothing whatever in the movement of the boat to excite the slightest uneasiness. The wavelets dashed pleasantly against the bows, and the course of the boat remained sufficiently straight to keep her sail filled. David saw that whatever the secret of navigation might be, he had unconsciously stumbled Upon it; and finding that the boat was doing so admirably, he was very careful to hold the tiller straight, and not to move it to either side. So he leaned back, and luxuriated in the pleasant motion, and looked up at the deep blue sky that bent above him, and around at the wide expanse of water, the green verdurous hills, the vine-clad meadows, and the purple mountains.

From time to time he noticed, with satisfaction, that his course ran along the shore, parallel to it, as it appeared. He noticed, however, that he was now farther away from it than when he started; but as yet the distance did not seem excessive; in fact, it seemed on the whole preferable, since it gave him a finer view. Before him the shore ran on until it terminated on a headland, and David thought that this would be a good place to fix as the limit of his voyage.

Never was any human being more utterly out of place than David in this sail-boat, and never was any human being more serenely unconscious of his unfitness. David's frame of mind was one of calm, beatific enjoyment. He was quite unconscious of the increase of the distance between his boat and the shore, which grew greater every moment, and equally unobservant of the lapse of time. In times of great enjoyment the hours fly quickly by, and in David's high exaltation of feeling the time thus fled.

At length, even in the midst of his happiness, the sober practical thought obtruded itself of time and space. How long had he been out? How much time would he have? How far had he gone? He looked at his watch. To his utter amazement and consternation, he found that it was seven o'clock—the time fixed for breakfast. He had been sailing for two hours at least. As to distance, he could not grapple with that thought, but turned hastily, and looked back. That look gave him but little satisfaction. He could see a line of white at the skirts of the sea; but whether it was Castellamare, or Naples itself, he was unable to guess.

It was a wide, sharp; and painful awakening from his bliss and serene delight, and it was an effectual one. No more placid gliding now; no careless voyaging. Two hours! Seven o'clock! Already they were at breakfast, and waiting for him. They were wondering about his absence. And when could he join them again? Two hours! If it had taken two hours to come thus far, it would also take fully as much time to go back. Go back? And where should he go, or how could he get back?

Thus far, David's idea about his course, if he can be said to have had an idea, was, that it lay along the shore, and that somehow he could go back as easily as he had come. But now that the necessity for going back was upon him, he instantly became aware of his utter ignorance, for he had not the faintest idea how to turn the boat. There was no time for delay, however. Something had to be done, and that immediately. David knew this much at least, that a boat could be turned by means of the rudder; so he began to experiment upon this part of the vessel. He palled the rudder towards him. The boat turned, and as it turned the sail began to flap, and toss, and snap, in such a way that he grew exceedingly nervous. Suddenly a puff of wind came, and the sheets where whipped out of his nerveless hand, while the sail thus loosened blew forward.

David's heart quaked at this, and he knew not what to do. With some vague idea of bringing the boat back to her former position, and beginning all over again, he pulled the tiller first to one side and then to the other; but to his dismay he found that the boat no longer obeyed it. Then he tried to get possession of the sheets again, and, clumsily crawling forward, he managed to secure them; after which he crawled back to the stern, and clinging to the sheets, began, as well as his nervousness would allow him, to try a series of experiments. First, he pulled the tiller towards him. At this the boat came up to the wind, and resumed her former course. But this was the very course on which he did not wish to go; so he pushed the tiller from him. Upon this the boat fell away; and the flapping, jerking, whipping, and snapping, which had so alarmed him before, recommenced, and alarmed him more than ever. For some time he continued this, until at length, as he brought the boat up to the wind once more, there came a fresher puff than any which had thus far blown, and the boat lay far over on her side. Terrified out of his wits, David had just sense enough to put her off, and then dropping sheets and tiller, he sank back and looked all around in a panic.

This puff was the beginning of a somewhat stronger breeze—a breeze which would have rejoiced the heart of a sailor, but which carried nothing but terror to the heart of David. What to do now he did not know, nor for some moments did he even think. The wind to his inexperienced senses seemed a hurricane, and the wavelets seemed formidable waves. For a time he lay paralyzed in the stern, expecting every instant to be ingulfed; but as the time passed, and his doom was delayed, he began to recover himself, and think about what he should do next.

To him, in his terror and anxiety, the first necessity seemed to be to get rid of that dangerous sail. As it flapped in the wind it seemed to endanger the boat. At all hazards that must be furled or taken down. So once more, by a mighty effort, he crawled forward, and grasping the flying sheets, he drew them in, and tied the sail to the mast, performing, the work in a manner which was very clumsy, yet quite efficient. The upper part of the sail still remained free, bagging out a little, like a balloon; but the lower part was tied up in a way that would defy the tempest itself. After this David felt safer, and crawling back, he drew a long breath, and threw a fearful glance around.

Some time had been taken up with these experiments in navigation, and as David looked, he saw that the result had been not to bring him nearer to Castellamare, but to take him farther out from the shore. The nearest land to him now was an island, but what island he could not say. As his eyes wandered around, they saw nothing that was familiar. A mountain appeared over the land astern, and the smoke on its summit showed that it must be Vesuvius; but it had a different appearance altogether from that with which he was familiar. He could form no idea of the course which he had taken, and could only guess, in a general way, where Castellamare might be.

Some time before, he had been troubled at the thought that he would keep his party waiting; but now he had no trouble whatever on that score. His only trouble or anxiety was about himself. He felt as though he was in a position of tremendous danger, and was being tossed about by pitiless waves, which were hemming him in on every side, like ravening beasts of prey. In reality the pitiless waves were scarcely waves at all, the breeze was only moderate, and there was no possible danger; but David did not know this, and so he suffered as much as though his imaginary danger was real.