“Poor Pietro, my brother, was so excited by the general joy, and so enthusiastic about the event, that he insisted on going about from place to place to see the different objects, and mark how the people had contrived to make their old town so picturesque. At last we reached the piazza, but it was to witness a scene that jarred grievously with the festivity. It appeared that the old widow Eisingarde, though repeatedly called on to illuminate, had sternly resisted the demand. To the loud cry of ‘lights, lights!’ no answer was given, and at length the mob, grown indignant that the great dark mass of building should seem to rebuke by its sullen aspect the popular joy, assailed it with a shower of stones.
“Almost in an instant every window was smashed, the very framework was broken in some places, and the massive door resounded with the huge stones hurled against it in impotent fury. Long after destruction had done its chief work, the anger of the populace showed itself in desultory assaults, and cries and yells of triumph and derision made the old piazza ring again.
“‘You have done enough, far more than enough,’ cried my brother, rebukingly, to the mob: and it was only by pleading his sickness as an excuse, that I succeeded in saving him from their vengeance. I carried him away, and got him safely housed within the inn.
“Not exactly caring to face the people next morning, whose temper I could not well calculate on, I resolved that we should start an hour before daylight. It was, then, a little before two o’clock that we prepared for the road. The night was starlight, but not bright; indeed large inky masses of cloud streaked the sky in several places, and seemed to threaten rain. The air, too, was oppressive, like that which precedes a summer storm. My brother was unusually nervous and irritable: he continued to dwell upon the theme that had irritated him, and spoke harshly and severely of the popular demonstration. Our way led through the piazza, so late the scene of outrage and tumult, but now utterly deserted. There was not a single person to be seen there.
“‘In Heaven’s name, what did they, what could they want?’ cried he, growing more and more excited as he spoke. ‘Did they expect that the poor bereaved widow should light her house, and show symbols of rejoicing in her windows? Did they imagine she was to display for them some transparency of young Italy—some gaudy allegory of victory! She who, perhaps, might have had a son in that same field of carnage? Is it out of that heart of misery they want signs of joy? Good Heavens,’ cried he, ‘what is that?’ for now a scream burst forth so fearfully wild and terrible, that we clutched each other as we heard it, and our blood seemed chilled with terror. ‘You heard it?’ said he. ‘You heard it as well as I did?’ for he was afraid lest it was some freak of his own excited brain.
“‘Yes, I heard it. Come away, Pietro. Let us leave this, the place oppresses me.’
“‘O God, look there!’ cried he, and as he said, he raised his arm and pointed to the great balcony over the gate, and where now an officer in Austrian uniform was standing, his whole uniform all covered with blood. One hand above his head held his cap, as though cheering on his men. A blaze of light around him made everything distinct as at noonday. This was suddenly extinguished, and the figure was gone.
“‘Did you see it, brother?’ whispered Pietro, as he lay at my feet; but I never answered.
“With all the strength I could muster, I whipped the beast to move on, and we drove away at full gallop, not halting till we had left miles between us and the town. My brother never rallied from that shock: he is alive, but his faculties have left him! and to all seeming unconscious he sits all day without speaking, though now and then a fearful shudder will pass over him, showing that the agony of that dreadful night has not died out from his memory.
“In the ‘Mantua Gazette’ of June 3rd, where the casualties of Magenta are given, stands the name, ‘Lieut. Eisingarde, killed by a grape-shot.’”
As the priest finished, he turned away; so I stole out into the piazza to take one more look at the old house ere I parted with it for ever. I asked myself if I could bear to hear that cry and see that figure, but I own that with all my craving desire for the supernatural, I said “No!” and as I left the spot, only prayed it might never come to me in my dreams.
END OF VOL. VII.
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS, LONDON.
