CHAPTER III.

A stormy angry night; the wind weeping and whistling high up in the sky, and a thick stifling vapor crawling over the earth--over the whispering muddy river; winding in and out the gay palace like a poisonous serpent. Near to this sickening river was a cracked ruined house through the crevices in the walls of which might be observed a flickering light.

No house was near this wretched hut, which was called an inn. Within this place lived the ruffian who had accosted Rigoletto on the night when his daughter was stolen away. He was cleaning a leathern belt and singing softly at his work.

Who are these wayfarers, toiling along the dark road to the ruined inn? They are the fool and his daughter.

She still loved the duke; and the fool, hoping to kill the awful passion, had brought her to this lonely spot. He told her to creep softly to the house, and look in through the broken door. As she did so, the duke himself, now in a new disguise, came quickly along, and up to the door. She shrank back from him, and he passed into the inn, ordering a room and wine.

Then as she and her father stood shivering near the door, he began singing in dispraise of woman. They saw the brigand lay upon the table some bottles and glasses. That done, he struck the low ceiling several times, and immediately a girl came running into the room--a gipsey girl who danced about the streets. The duke ran to her as she avoided him, and the brigand came cautiously out upon the road.

“Shall he live, Signor Rigoletto?” whispered the ruffian.

“Wait--wait,” replied the father. And both men spoke so softly, that Gilda did not hear. She did not care to hear, as she looked once more on him whom she had so dearly loved when she thought him a poor student.

“Good,” said the bandit, and went out slowly into the darkness.

Then as the two stood there miserably, the duke began laughing and chatting with the gipsey girl. Soon Gilda was weeping, as was also her father. Yet still within the hut continued the laughter and the singing.

“Thou art sure now, he loves thee not--thou art sure now. Hear me: we will leave this country at once. Go thou home, dress thyself in the clothing of a nobleman, my child, and fly to Verona. Thou knowest where to go when thou art there. I will come to thee to-morrow.”

“Now--come with me now.”

“Now? No, not now.” He spoke with terrible hesitation.

The girl kissed her father and went towards their house. Through the gloom he watched her and saw her pass the garden gate. Then he searched about for the bravo. The assassin was lounging at the corner of the house, and at a motion from the fool he came forward.

Eagerly Rigoletto put money into his hand, saying the rest should be his when the man was dead. Then he turned away, saying that at midnight he would return.

The bravo carelessly replied that he had no need of help, he could, alone, cast the body into the river.

“No,” said the fool, suddenly stopping; “let that be my portion of the work.”

“Good,” said the assassin, carelessly; “who is he?”

“His name is Crime and mine is Punishment.”

The bravo shrugged his shoulders, and then carelessly opened the door of the hut, and entered, while the fool turned, and with downcast head, moved slowly away, afraid to go home till the vengeance was completed.

Loud roared the storm; the lightnings lit up the hovel, and the wavering thunder rolled incessantly. Yet had the assassin no fear.

The duke said he should remain all night, and bade the new comer leave them. But the gipsey girl prayed the young duke to depart. Said the bravo, he should be glad to place his room at the stranger’s disposal, and he hid the golden money the fool had given him.

The duke attended by the bravo, ascended a ricketty flight of stairs to a room, more dilapidated, if possible, than the one below.

Saying it was like sleeping in the open air, the noble flung down his hat and sword, fell upon the bed, and was soon asleep.

The ruffian by that time was drinking the wine the duke had left. At last he said slowly--“Go up, and if he sleeps, bring away his sword.”

The gipsey girl obeyed sorrowingly, for the stranger was so handsome that she had grown to feel some pity for him.

As she stole up the stairs another girl was near at hand--the wretched Gilda; who, disguised in the clothes of a page, came creeping towards the inn.

Nearer and nearer till she was close to the door and pressing it. Looking through the crevice, she saw the girl coming down with the sword glittering in her hand.

“Do not kill him--do not kill him,” cried the gipsey girl.

“Kill him!” cried the fool’s daughter.

There, still listening, she heard the gipsey tempt him, saying, that when the fool came back he could take his money and kill him. But the bravo angrily cried that his honor was dear to him; he would not kill the fool, he would slay the stranger. Rigoletto had paid him well.

Gilda shuddered as she listened; so her father had paid the bravo to kill the duke.

Again the gipsey girl prayed for the stranger’s life. Again the assassin refused. At last he said quickly that if a traveller came past he would slay him in his place--the fool could not tell who might be in the sack.

Then the gipsey wept as she said there was no hope of a traveller passing while the storm raged so fiercely.

Why does she tremble and draw back from the crevice? What? shall this woman, this dancing gipsey, weep and pray for him? And shall she, Gilda, do nothing to save him? Who is this woman that she should weep for him? Will she--this gipsey--die for his sake? Yet she, Gilda, could. Again she looked, and saw the gipsey still kneeling and weeping. Then she would die for his sake. Thus her love and jealousy had lost her.

The next moment she had entered--the storm raging more fiercely than before.

Walking proudly and fearlessly through the night air, came the fool, sure that by this time his vengeance was complete--the vengeance for which he had waited an age of grief.

Forth from the hut came the bandit, dragging a heavy sack. There he lay, then--dead; there was the chinking of money over the still burden, and there the bravo had left the fool alone with the destroyer. “So then,” thought Rigoletto, “here was the great duke, lying dead at his, the poor fool’s feet.” Then he thought he should like to see the face of his enemy, before he cast him into the black waters.

Yet no, he would not like to see his face; so he began drawing away the sack, when--merciful powers!--he heard the voice of the duke singing gaily, as he moved away, saved, in the distance.

“But then whose body lay at his feet? Whose?”

With a might of horror, he tore open the mouth of the sack; and there, within it, lay--his daughter!

“My daughter! Heaven! my Gilda! Yet no, she is now on her way to Verona. Is this a dream? Oh, no! no dream. My daughter! oh, my daughter!”

In an agony of grief he ran to the door of the hut, and beat at it, when he heard a voice--_her_ voice--calling to him.

“SHE LIVES--SHE LIVES! OH! SHE LIVES!”

He was down at her side again, tearing her from the shameful sack with his trembling hands.

“My father! oh, my father!”

“‘Tis thou, and they have stricken thee.”

“They have stabbed me--here--here.”

And wearily she pressed her hands about her heart, as the wretched man drew back, saying to himself, that he--he himself had killed her.

She was silent for a moment, still wearily pressing her breast.

“Speak--speak to me! oh, daughter!”

“I am almost too weak to speak, dear father. Lay thy hand upon my head, and bless me. If I may always think of thee, I will. Near my mother, I will pray for thee--near my mother.”

What is this with which he is suddenly stricken; what conviction is growing on his mind as his eyes grow yet wilder, and he grasps his throat with his trembling hand?

“My child, do not leave me. Have pity on me, tarry yet a little longer--leave me not in the world alone--oh I--and I am thy father--bid thee stay!”

She does not answer. He bends over her, as the dread conviction forces itself upon him.

“DEAD! DEAD! DEAD!”

He wraps his hands round his head, looks wildly to the lowering sky, and cries:--

“THE CURSE--THE UNDYING CURSE!”

Then he speaks no more.

Mercy for him as--his breath grows thick--mercy for him as he clasps his helpless hands together prayerfully. Mercy--mercy!

His faults are not all his own. He hath but mocked the world as it hath mocked him! Who would not hate where he is scorned? Oh--many are forgiven who have sinned more deeply.

See the clasped hands--the bloodless lips. Mercy--mercy!

So at last it hath fallen on him--the grace of forgiveness.

I PURITANI. (BELLINI.)

THE PURITANS.