Seeing my stricken face. Miss Perkins became repentant.
“Forgive me for speaking so roughly. Really, I must learn to watch my tongue, there is no excuse—”
“No,” I said. “You were right. How does Antonio…I suppose he trained himself to use his left hand?”
“Yes, doesn’t he do beautifully? I had quite a good talk with him; such an opportunity to improve my Italian. He speaks the beautiful Tuscan dialect. And he told me about some interesting antiquities which we will see on today’s trip. Did you know that your grandfather’s estates are situated in the old kingdom of the Etruscans? A fascinating people! They are frequently mentioned by Roman writers, but only in the last thirty years have their ruins come to light. I had no idea…”
I thought she had dragged the Etruscans—whoever they were—into the conversation in order to distract me from my painful thoughts. But I did Miss P. an injustice. The Etruscans were just as interesting to her as the other subjects she had mentioned since we met, and during the course of the day I learned a great deal about them. According to Miss Perkins, the country through which we were passing had once been part of their powerful empire, which had dominated central Italy in the seventh and sixth centuries B.C., and had later ruled Rome. She babbled on about Mr. Dennis and Mrs. Hamilton Gray, who had written books about Etruscan antiquities; and once I thought she was going to fall out the coach window when we passed a rugged cliff in which we could see strangely regular openings, like doors cut into the rock. Miss Perkins explained that they were just that—the doors to ancient Etruscan tombs, which, like many dwellings of the dead, had been built in imitation of real houses.
“Fascinating!” she exclaimed, after I had pulled her back into the coach and, with difficulty, persuaded her to retain her seat. “I do hope there are tombs on your grandfather’s land. He may allow me to do some digging, if indeed he has not excavated himself, like Prince Buonaparte and the Duchess of Sermoneta. Only imagine, dear Francesca, the thrill of discovering a princess’s tomb, like the one General Galassi found in 1836. You know of it, of course?”
“No,” I said, with affectionate resignation. “But I suspect you are going to tell me about it.”
She did, and at some length. My initial prejudice soon gave way to interest; for what girl could resist the allurement of buried treasures, rich jewels, and mystery?
Like all pagans, who did not possess the Christian’s assurance of a spiritual heaven, the Etruscans placed the vain adornments of life in the tombs of their dead—food and drink, cosmetics, weapons, jewels. Naturally most of the tombs were robbed; and although one must condemn the robbery as morally reprehensible, one must also admit that the thieves had common sense, on their side. They could eat the food and sell the gold, which was more than the dead person could do.
However, the tomb to which Miss Perkins had referred somehow escaped discovery until modern times. There had been two burials in the sepulcher. One had been that of a warriors. His weapons were buried with him, along with many other beautiful and curious objects. In the inner chamber of the tomb there had been another body. It had long since fallen into dust, but the ornaments it had worn to the grave still lay on the ground, where they had fallen when the flesh and bone crumbled. They were all of massive gold—headdress, breastplate, necklaces and chains, ear-rings and bracelets and brooches. The delicacy of the workmanship was unsurpassed in its skill; indeed, according to Miss Perkins, modern jewelers would not have been able to duplicate some of the work. I could not help being thrilled by the description of the long-dead princess’s parure, and for a while afterwards I peered from the window as eagerly as Miss Perkins, looking for Etruscan tombs.
As the day waned, so did my enthusiasm. Even Miss Perkins fell silent; and after we had dined on the contents of a basket prepared for us by the innkeeper, she dozed off. I have to confess that she snored. But this did not prevent me from following her into slumber.
I was awakened with a shock as the carriage gave a violent lurch and stopped, so suddenly that I was thrown from my seat. Dizzy with sleep, I struggled to right myself, hearing a medley of sounds that filled me with alarm. The rapid pound of horses’ hooves mingled with shouts and curses and the explosions of firearms. Before I had time to recover my wits or my upright position, the carriage door was wrenched open. I couldn’t see who had opened it; Miss Perkins, her bonnet askew but her courage high, blocked my view.
“How dare you?” she demanded indignantly. “What is the meaning of—”
The speech ended in a gasp as she fell forward. A man’s hand had seized her and unceremoniously pulled her out of the carriage. Now seriously alarmed, I followed her out with more haste than dignity.
Poor Miss Perkins, blinking and rumpled, was held by the arm by the ruffian who had removed her from the carriage. He was tall and redheaded; his crimson jacket, dirty white breeches, and tall plumed hat matched the costume worn by half a dozen other men who surrounded the carriage. All carried muskets. One of these weapons was leveled at our driver, whose rotund face had lost its healthy pink color.
The fact that the men were soldiers did not reassure me as to their intentions. I had never seen more villainous faces.
I had removed my bonnet earlier; my hair curled damply around my face and neck. I pushed it back, knowing that I did not present a very imposing appearance, but too angry to care.
“Let go of her at once,” I cried.
The man did so; but as his eyes swept over me I realized that he had not been responding to my order. He had simply found a new interest.
“Be careful,” said Miss Perkins in a low voice. Then, as the man reached out for me, she stepped between us and spoke to him in a sharp voice. She spoke English; to my surprise the man answered in the same language, and in a rich Irish brogue.
“Will you be listenin” to the tongue of the old bitch,” he exclaimed. “Don’t be interfering now, you lads; I saw the little darlin’ first… Only see the golden hair of her!” And, pushing Miss Perkins rudely aside, he caught a strand of my hair in his dirty fingers.
At that interesting moment another of the soldiers called out—not in English, but in French—and the Irishman released me. A man on horseback appeared from beyond the carriage.
The rider was obviously an officer. His uniform, in contrast to those of his men, was a model of military neatness. His cuirass and helmet had been polished till they shone. The waving plume in his helmet was as snowy white as his tightly fitting breeches. The gold epaulets and the gold-hilted sword slung at his side confirmed his rank, and even the dust of the road did not hide the fact that his boots were of the finest leather.
“Thank heaven,” said Miss Perkins, with a sign of relief. At once she cried out to the officer, in French. “Your assistance, sir, if you please! Or does the Holy Father allow his soldiers to molest helpless Englishwomen?”
Leaning forward, one arm on the pommel of his saddle, the officer inspected us with insolent deliberation before replying.
“You travel, madame, through a troubled country at a troubled time. You must expect some slight inconvenience. We are on the track of a dangerous criminal. Have you seen such a man?”
“We have seen no one,” Miss Perkins replied.
“Then you will not object if we search your carriage, to make sure no one is hidden there?”
“You doubt my word?” Miss Perkins demanded. “I had always been led to believe that Roman officers were gentlemen.”
“They are soldiers first,” was the curt reply. “Even now, madame, some of my men pursue two suspicious characters who are following your carriage. They must have been guilty, or they would not have fled at the sight of us.”
“Yet I have heard that the sight of papal soldiers is not always welcome,” said Miss Perkins. “Even to the innocent.”
The officer’s lips tightened.
“Stand aside, madame. Corporal, inspect the carriage.”
One of the men saluted and moved forward. With a shrug Miss Perkins stepped out of his way.
“A helpless woman must yield to bullies,” she said. “Be assured, sir, that the British consul will hear of this.”
“The British consul is some distance from here,” said the officer. “I advise you not to be so free with your tongue, madame.”
I thought this very good advice, and dared to poke Miss Perkins in the ribs, a gesture she ignored. I couldn’t imagine why she was being so belligerent. Her speeches were provocative; yet my anxious ear seemed to detect an underlying note of uncertainty, as if she were worried about something other than the perilous situation in which we found ourselves.
The search of the carriage was quite thorough. The soldier even lifted the seats. Finally he descended and saluted again.
“No one, sir.”
“I told you so,” said Miss Perkins.
