THERESA ABRUZZI. 189 



a courier who then passed, that his highness, from some unex- 

 plained cause, had deferred his journey till the following day. 

 They had no choice, therefore, but to remain at a wretched inn 

 of very questionable safety, or pursue their route to Terracina. 

 In this exigency, the count, whose chief fears were for his wealth 

 of which he carried as little as possible, decided on the latter 

 course ; and speed was too consonant to the feelings of Theresa 

 to meet with opposition from her, even had her apprehensions 

 been greater than they were. As nightfall approached, how- 

 ever, the timidity of the count increased. 



" We shall be late in Terracina, Theresa ; and, to say truth, I 

 like not this mountainous path ; it savours of danger. Nay, 

 nay, do n't be alarmed ; look, girl, to the end of the vista, and 

 see how gloriously the sun is setting — on Terracina, as I live, 

 and the sparkling sea behind it ! " 



It was indeed a scene of brilliant beauty, suggesting only 

 ideas of peace and innocence. Alas ! that the loveliest haunts 

 of nature should be profaned by the lawless rapacity of man I 

 They were already emerging from the pass, calmed and reassured, 

 when a band of brigands, fully armed and masked, rushed from 

 a cavern in the rock and demanded booty. The count, in tot- 

 tering haste, yet not without an inward struggle, handed the 

 contents of his purse, which to his astonishment, was fQriously 

 repulsed by the robber, while Theresa, terrified and trembling at 

 his violence, sunk half-fainting to the back of the carriage. 



"This is but mockery," cried one of the party, in a dissonant 

 voice; "we know you for the prince of Casti; your treasure, or 

 you die ! " 



" No, on my life, on my soul ! " 



"Perjure not yourself, old man; it will not save you here, 

 and may damn you hereafter, if priests speak truth." 



" No impiety," cried a hollow voice behind. 



" You are deceived, on my soul," exclaimed the count, in great 

 trepidation; " I am no prince ; I am a poor traveller, whom you 

 but vainly impede. — Drive on postillions." 



" At your peril ! " cried the brigand who had last spoken, and 

 who seemed the leader of the band, approaching the carriage 

 window : "we are not deceived, sir prince, and you escape us 

 not. Your treasure, or you die ! " 



" Do I dream ? " said the count — "that voice" — 



" Delay is death !" exclaimed the brigand, in a voice of thun- 

 der : " will you yield ? " 



