There was another circumstance which forced itself on Markham's observation: this was that the deepest sympathy existed in behalf of the prisoners who had been taken in the conflict near Ossore, and who, it seemed, had all been despatched to the fortress of Estella. Richard's prowess in rallying the troops also appeared to be well known; and on more occasions than one, during his wanderings in Castelcicala, did he find himself the object of the most flattering discourse, while those who eulogised him little suspected that the hero of their panegyric was so near. But it is not our intention to follow him through those wanderings. Suffice it to say that he found his journey more wearisome than he had anticipated; and that he was frequently compelled to avail himself of a carrier's van along the by-roads, or to hire a horse, in order to diminish the fatigues of his wayfaring. It was on the twelfth evening after he left Friuli, where he had parted with Morcar, that he crossed the river Usiglio at a ferry about four miles to the east of Pinalla. He was now only forty miles from the Neapolitan frontier; and in twenty-four hours more he fondly hoped to be beyond the reach of danger. He had partaken of but little refreshment during that day, for the nearer he approached the point where peril would cease and safety begin, the more anxious did he become. Having crossed the ferry, he inquired of the boatman the way to the nearest inn. A dreary by-lane was pointed out to him, with an intimation that it would lead to a small public-house, at the distance of about a mile. Richard pursued his way, and had proceeded about three hundred yards down the lane, which was shaded on either side by large chesnut-trees, when several individuals rushed upon him so suddenly that he had no time to offer any effectual resistance. He, however, struggled desperately, as two of the banditti (for such his assailants were) attempted to bind his arms with cords. But his endeavours to free himself from their grasp were vain and fruitless, and only provoked a rougher treatment at their hands; for one of the banditti drew a pistol from his belt, and with the butt-end of the weapon aimed a desperate blow at our hero's head. Richard fell, bleeding and insensible, upon the ground. * * * * * When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying in a comfortable bed. Putting aside the damask-silk curtains, he glanced anxiously around the room, which was sumptuously furnished. He fell back on his pillow, and strove to collect his scattered ideas. His head pained him: he raised his hand to his forehead, and found that it was bandaged. Then the attack of the banditti in the dark lane flashed across his mind; and he mechanically thrust his hand into his bosom. Alas! Armstrong's letter was gone! CHAPTER CLXXX. THE "BOOZING-KEN" ONCE MORE.