"Pity my grey hairs! pity a father you have left sonless! spare me, oh! gentlemen, for God's sake! mercy! misericordia! for the sake of God--for the Virgin!" "Cease whining in your villainous Italian, and ask for mercy in good English, you drivelling old poltroon," cried Luigi, in that tongue, for he had hitherto spoken in Italian. He still held his prostrate foe by the arm with an iron grip, menacing death with his naked dagger. Had it not been for the dire reality and fatal signs of murder around, there was something almost ludicrous in the scene. Lying on his back, with his grey hair tangled and torn by his rough usage, his hands clasped together in beseeching agony, tears of terror streaming down his face, his countenance betraying awful fright, Mr. Lennox presented a remarkable contrast to the stern brigand, who, kneeling with one knee on his fallen captive, played with a shining dagger in one hand, whilst with the other he held his prisoner firm. The robber's countenance showed mingled contempt for his antagonist, if a resistless prisoner may so be called, and joy at having thus a foe in his power. But the scene was too terribly bloody for a smile; the father's foot rested against the body of his dead son, a little further off lay the corpse of the postilion with his limbs drawn together in the agony of his dying struggle, whilst fierce men on all sides cursed and swore as they dragged forth the baggage from the carriage, rudely breaking the lids, and scattering the articles on the road in their search for gold or precious things. Some of the band stood mute admirers of the scene of carnage and rapine, others were passionless lookers on, whilst one appeared to regard with horror the whole outrage. This solitary instance amongst a band infamous for its butcheries was Adrian Vardarelli. Leaning against his horse from which he had dismounted, he regarded the various incidents with a look approaching to disgust,--once when he saw the face of Mr. Lennox as he was torn from his carriage, this look changed to one of intense surprise; but again he reposed into his former state of indolent disapproval. When Mr. Lennox heard his native tongue spoken where he least expected it, and by one he least imagined to know it, a sudden feeling of joy thrilled through him. An Englishman, then, the captain of the band was, he knew it by his accent; he knew that some of the fiercest brigands had been his countrymen, but he felt a conviction, bad as he was, brutal as was his conduct, there was yet an appeal to his mercy as a fellow countryman, and he would try if there was not in his black heart a chord that responded. "Capitano," he cried, "I am an Englishman, so are you. Oh! for the sake of our mutual land--for the love of God and man--for the sake of England, your native home,--spare me, spare my daughter; take my money, take all, but save my life."