I was in Naples, master of my own
time, at the romantic age of twenty-two
years. After finishing my collegiate
course, my father, a banker of the city
of New York, advised me to travel a year
in Europe, and satisfy the craving of
youth for sight-seeing and adventure, and
then return and settle down for life.
Shortly after, with my passport and letter
of credit, I sailed for England, spent
some time in London, went to Paris, and
thence departed for Italy.

I had been in Naples a week, had obtained
my permit to remain, and had
visited several places of note, when a series
of rather curious, remarkable and
romantic adventures began, of which I
propose to give a true and faithful account.

One calm, lovely evening in May, as I
was nearing the suburbs of the city, on
my return from a short excursion I had
that day made on foot, a carriage passed
me at a rapid pace, going in the same di-
rection as myself. In a minute or so it
was lost among a grove of trees; but
scarcely had it disappeared from my
view, ere I was startled by a piercing
scream, followed by a loud cry for help in
a different voice, and then the sharp report
of some two or three firearms.

I had read and heard much of the boldness
of Italian brigands, and I at once
conjectured that the party in the carriage
was being assailed by some of these pests
of the country. Though armed with a
good revolver, and naturally as courageous
as men in general, I think if I had
stopped a single moment to reflect on the
consequences, I should have kept out of
danger; but as it was I acted solely on
an impulse, and darted forward to the
assistance of those in distress.

As I entered among the trees, I dimly
saw some dark object a head of me, which
proved to be the carriage, and heard
several voices speaking excitedly in Italian.
Though I could understand the
language nearly as well as a native, I
could not at first distinguish anything
that was said; but I soon caught the

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words, spoken in the clear, loud tone of
command:

“Quick, comrades! take what you can
get and be off for we are in danger here!”

“Come on!” I shouted, as if calling to
my companions; “we have the villains
in a trap at last.”

As I spoke, I discharged my revolver
in the air, hoping thus to frighten the
robbers. My ruse succeeded, and, much
to my satisfaction, the rascals all fled at
my approach.

On coming up to the carriage, I found
the door open and a man lying on the
ground and groaning. The driver was
on his seat, with the reins in his hand,
and I fancied was looking on too calmly
to be honest himself.

“What is all this, sirrah?” I exclaimed
in Italian.

“His excellency resisted, and I'm afraid
the robbers have killed him,” replied the
man on the box.

“Well, it seems you at least made no
resistance!” returned I, rather sharply.

“No, your excellency, I am an Italian,
and know better than to resist the brigands,”
coolly replied the fellow.

I was about to tell him I thought him
one, but changed my mind and asked:

“Who is this gentleman?”

“An Englishman, your excellency.”

“A stranger here?”

“He has been some months in Naples.”

“Has he a dwelling here?”

“Yes, on the bill”

“We must get him to it then as soon
as possible. Is there not a lady here? I
thought I heard a female voice.”

“San Gennaro!” exclaimed the man;
“I hope the rascals have not killed her!”

I thrust my head into the carriage, and
found a lady leaning back in one corner
and very still. I took hold of her and
asked her if she was hurt. She did not
move or answer.

“Either killed or fainted,” said I.

The man on the ground now groaned
heavily, and seemed to make a feeble attempt
to get up. In a moment I was
bending over him, with my hand upon
his breast. I felt something warm and
wet, and knew it was his blood. He probably
had been shot and might be dying.

“Villains!” he now exclaimed in Italian,
evidently supposing me to be one of
the robbers; “take all we have, but—”

“I am a friend, come to assist you, sir,'
I said in English.

“What? I don't understand!” he returned,
apparently not a little surprised
to hear himself addressed in his native
tongue.

“You have been assailed by some cowardly
ruffians, and I fear dangerously
hurt; but they all fled at my approach,
and I am now here to render you what
service I can.”

“Sure you're not one of the cursed
thieves?”

“Sir,” returned I, rather sharply, “I
will charitably suppose you are not aware
of the insult conveyed in your language—
or, in other words, that you do not
know what you are saying!”

“Bless my soul, I believe not!' he
muttered, “for my head sings like a teakettle.
Ah! I've a wound in my breast I find.”

“Yes, sir you should get to a surgeon
as quick as possible!” said I, placing my
arnts under his and assisting him to rise.
“If you will get into the carriage. I will
have you driven into the city with all
speed.'

“No, sir—home! home!”

“As you please.”

“Georgine?” he called; “Georgine

[figure description] Page 003.[end figure description]

Delamere? where are you? Heaven preserve
us! have they killed the girl too?”

“There is a lady in the carriage who is
very still, but I hope she has only fainted.”

“Quick, quick, then—see to her and
don't mind me!”

“If you will get into the carriage, Mr.
Delamere, I will render her what assistance
I can while you are being driven
home, and thus no time will be lost.”

“You've got some sense I find,” he
said, as he fairly stumbled into the vehicle.

I followed him, closed the door, and
shouted to the coachman in Italian.

“Drive home, man, and don't spare
your horses!”

In another moment we were whirling
over the smooth road.

“Georgine dear? Georgine?” exclaimed
the wounded man, in a tone of the
deepest anxiety.

“Here!” groaned a female voice.

“Bless my soul, she's alive!” was returned
in a tone of joyful relief.

“Oh, uncle, are you here and alive
too?”

“Yes, and worth twenty dead men yet,
as the scoundrels will find some day if I
can catch them? Are you hurt, Georgine?”

“Only frightened, I believe, dear uncle.
And you?”

“Well, my head's bruised, and there's
a wound in my breast; but I'll do well
enough, so don't be scared, my poor
puss!”

“Had you not better stanch the wound
in your breast, Mr. Delamere?” said I.

“My name's not Delamere, sir,” he
replied, “but Blakely—Chester Blakely.
I've got my handkerchief there. Thank
you.”

“We are not alone then it seems?” observed
the lady, evidently much surprised
at hearing my voice, for it was too dark
in the carriage for her to see me.

“No, there's somebody here that we'll
have to thank for coming to our rescue
and frightening off the robbers,” replied
the uncle. “I don't know his name yet,
and haven't seen his face; but if he's not
a young American, I'm much mistaken.”

`Why do you think me a young American,
Mr. Blakely?” I queried, in some
surprise.

“Because an old head would have staid
away; from America, I know, by your
accent.”

“You are right, Mr. Blakely, and it
proves you a shrewd observer. I am
twenty-two years of age, from the city of
New York, and my name is Alfred Thornton.”

`May Heaven bless you, Mr. Thornton,
for the generous deed that has saved
our lives!” said the lady, in a voice that
to me sounded sweetly melodious.

“Tell us all about it, Alfred!” said Mr.
Blakely. “Excuse me! but I always call
young men by their Christian names. If
you don't like it, call me Chester.”

“When I feel like retaliating for the
liberty I will,” returned I, not a little
amused at his idea of an equivalent, and
believing I had found a rather eccentric
character.

I then stated the facts of my coming to
his assistance, as I have already given
them to the reader, and was again rewarded
by the thanks of the young lady,
expressed in the same sweet tones as before.

For a few moments Mr. Blakely made
no further remark, and then said abruptly:

“Alfred, you can't see me but I'm

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a blunt-mannered, gray-haired, baldheaded
Englishman, having some friends
and a good many enemies. I feel the
worse for my abuse to-night, and so I'll
spare my words and come to the point.
You're going home with us now, and you
can stay there, if you like, till one of us
gets tired of the other. This is my niece
here, Georgine Delamere, a sister's child,
an orphan, who's living in my family, and
a good little girl, not yet out of her teens.
I've got a wife and daughter who make
some pretense to fashion, consider Georgine
a poor relation, have got more pride
than is good for them, and don't like
Americans at all. Now if you find them
any way disagreeable, you must charge
the blame on them, and not on Georgine
or me. That's all.”

“Am I to understand, after this statement,
that you wish me to accompany
you home, Mr. Blakely?”

“If I hav'n't frightened you—yes.”

“Then, sir, I will not leave you till I
put you under the surgeon's care at
least.”

Shortly after we entered a gateway,
dashed up among a grove of trees, and
stopped before a white dwelling, some
two or three of whose windows were
sparkling with lights. A servant in livery
was apparently waiting for the carriage,
and in a moment he had the door open.

“Quick, John, run for Dr. Graham, and
bring him here in all haste!” was the
startling order the man received from the
lips of Miss Delamere. “We have been
attacked by brigands, and your master is
dangerously wounded.”

“Oh, Miss Georgine!” cried the servant,
holding up his hands in horror.

“John, you rascal,” exclaimed his master,
“don't let puss frighten all the little
sense you've got out of you! I'm not
half so dead as I might be. If you'd
been driving, instead of Luigi, you'd
been killed. You ought to learn to drive
and try it once.”

“Oh, master!”

“There, be off, and don't frighten the
doctor!”

In a minute John had alarmed the inmates
of the dwelling; and before I could
assist Mr. Blakely out of the carriage, we
were surrounded by half-a-dozen persons,
some of them speaking excitedly.

I did not stop to answer any questions;
but, with the help of Luigi, who had now
condescended to get down from his box,
assisted Mr. Blakely into the dwelling,
and saw him comfortably placed upon a
bed, in an elegantly furnished chamber,
the windows of which were open, for the
weather in Naples in May is of summer
heat.

“Don't be frightened, anybody,” he
said to those crowding around him, “for
I'm sure I'm not badly hurt. Water!
water! get me some water!”

This was quickly brought by a female
servant, and soon after the wounded man
declared he felt much better.

In the light of the apartment I now saw
he was a short, stout man, with a full,
florid face, bald on the crown of his head,
and iron-gray hair at the sides. Just
above the right temple he had received a
wound from some dull instrument, probably
a club or musket, which had laid
open the flesh and caused an immense
swelling, and from which the blood had
run down one side of his face so as to
stain his garments. There was also an
ugly stain of blood on his waistcoat, from
a wound just below the right lung, made
I supposed by a bullet, and this was, I
feared, a dangerous one—though he kept

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up his spirits remarkably well, declared
it was nothing serious, and refused to
have it examined before the arrival of the
surgeon.

While waiting for the doctor, I had an
opportunity of observing the appearance
of those among whom I had been so unceremoniously
introduced. Three of
them were servants, whom I shall dismiss
without description. Of the others, one
was the wife, and another the daughter,
of the wounded man; and the third was
a young dandy, who chanced to be at the
dwelling on an evening visit. Mrs.
Blakely was a tall, stately, rather handsome,
and very haughty-looking brunette;
her daughter was what her mother might
have been at her age, say two-and-twenty;
and the dandy was a slender, effeminate
specimen of humanity, with light, curly
hair, blue eyes, and having a very downy
mustache on his upper lip, which he was
continually trying to twist into sharp
points at the corners, though unfortunately
the hair was only long enough to
afford him an imaginary hold. Neither
wife nor daughter seemed to be much affected
by the condition of the husband
and father, from which I judged they had
more pride than heart.

From the faces mentioned I turned to
that of Georgine Delamere, and was
struck with her loveliness, and the shrinking
timidity and affectionate anxiety with
which, standing back behind the others,
she seemed to regard her uncle, and which
so forcibly contrasted with the want of
feeling displayed by his nearer kin. I
remembered what he had told me, and I
could see that alone loved him; but,
being in a measure a dependent, or poor
relation, was kept under painful restraint
by her haughty female relatives. She
was slender and delicate, with a sweet,
pale, classic face, sunny hair and blue
eyes, and some years younger than her
cousin.

“Mrs. Blakely, this is my preserver,
Alfred Thornton, from America,” said the
wounded man, after a few questions had
been asked and answered.

The lady of the mansion bowed quite
stiffly.

“This is my daughter, Carile,” pursued
Mr. Blakely.

Another formal, fashionable, but somewhat
haughty inclination of the head and
body.

“And this,” continued the wounded
man, as if he were trotting out some animal,
“is the Hon. Augustus Drummerly,
a younger son, who may some day be a
lord.”

There was nothing very noticeable in
the words, but something in the tone and
manner of the speaker, which led me to
believe he did not regard the Hon. Augustus
as the greatest man im the world.

Mr. Thingumbob—I crave pardon, Mr.
Drummerly, I mean—seemed to think it
was all right, however; and first glancing
at the ladies, with a slight simper, and
giving his would-be mustache an imaginary
twist with his gloved fingers, he
bowed slightly, and started at me, and felt
for his eye-glass. He was got up externally
in the best style of the tailor's art,
and I was covered with dust; he was the
son of an English lord, and I was only an
unknown adventurer from the wilds of
America. I knew, therefore, he felt the
difference between us to be great—so
great, in fact, as to lead him to doubt
whether he ought to notice me or not.

Now a number of things had combined
to render me a little mischievous just

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then, and I determined to annoy the
dandy by seeming anxious to make the
most of his acquaintance. So, after looking
at him a few moments, in an admiring
sort of a way, I stepped forward,
presented my ungloved and somewhat
bloody hand, and said, in my blandest
manner:

“Honorable sir, I am delighted to have
the honor of greeting you in the hearty
manner with which we children of America
delight in honoring those we honor of
the Mother Country.”

With these words I seized the halfwithdrawn
hand, shook it well, and
squeezed it so hard that the owner
winced, and tears almost came into his
soft eyes.

“Weally,” he answered, in a drawling,
affected way, with what he intended for
cutting dignity, glancing at the ladies
with a kind of simper for their approval,
“you do me too much honaw—indeed
you do.”

“Not a bit of it,” returned I, bluntly.
“England, we all know, is the mother of
America, and grand-mother to the children
of America; and, of course, grandchildren
cannot do too much honor to
the children of their grand-mother, you
know. What would America be without
England, sir? and what would England
be without her aristocracy? and what
would her aristocracy be without some
noble representative like yourself?”

This little speech, so logically deep
that I could hardly comprehend it myself,
completely nonplussed my little hero,
an he answered, with considerable
confusion;

“Weally, I don't know—I don't,
weally.”

Neither did I.

I glanced at the bed, and saw that the
wounded man was secretly enjoying the
joke.

“Why do you look so frightened, Georgine?”
now spoke Mrs. Blakely, with
haughty sternness, compressing her thin
lips, as she suddenly turned upon her
niece.

“The poor child's been scared out of
her senses,” replied Mr. Blakely.

“Did she lose much?” was the sneering
rejoinder.

“Quite as much as you ever had,
madam,” was the cutting retort.

Instantly the poor girl was overwhelmed
with confusion, and I pitied her.

“You are very dusty at least, and may
retire and change your dress,” pursued
the unfeeling mistress of the mansion.

The fair object of her scorn seemed
only too glad of this dismissal, and immediately
left the apartment.

Shortly after, Dr. Graham made his
appearance—a stout, hale, intelligentlooking
Englishman, then a resident of
Naples on the hill, to whom I was presented
by the host as a young American
who had risked my life to save his, and
by whom I was received in a kind and
genial manner that quite won my good
opinion.

The doctor proceeded to examine the
wounds of his patient, at the same time
inquiring into all the particulars, and I
felt no little anxiety to know his professional
opinion of the case. Not to enter
into the matter in a technical way, it will
be sufficient to say that Mr. Blakely had
received no mortal hurt, though he had
been shot through the body, dragged out
of the carriage in a brutal manner, and
knocked senseless by a heavy blow on
the head from some blunt instrument.

[figure description] Page 007.[end figure description]

The doctor dressed his wounds and told
him he must keep himself perfectly quiet
for a few days, by which time he hoped
to see him about again as well as ever.

When I took my leave of Mr. Blakely
that night, not one of the ladies was
present. At his urgent request I promised
to call early on the following day.
By his orders his carriage was in waiting,
and I was soon whirled down to my
hotel in the heart of the crowded, noisy
city.

Somehow the pale, sweet, sad face of
Georgine Delamere went with me and
hovered around me in the dreams of my
chamber.