I was again left alone with the young bandit who had before guarded me:
he had the same gloomy air and haggard eye, with now and then a bitter
sardonic smile. I was determined to probe this ulcerated heart, and
reminded him of a kind of promise he had given me to tell me the cause
of his suffering.
It seemed to me as if these troubled spirits were glad of an
opportunity to disburthen themselves; and of having some fresh
undiseased mind with which they could communicate. I had hardly made
the request but he seated himself by my side, and gave me his story in,
as nearly as I can recollect, the following words.
THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER.
I was born at the little town of Frosinone, which lies at the skirts of
the Abruzzi. My father had made a little property in trade, and gave me
some education, as he intended me for the church, but I had kept gay
company too much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about the
place. I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasions, but
good-humored in the main, so I made my way very well for a time, until
I fell in love. There lived in our town a surveyor, or land bailiff, of
the prince's who had a young daughter, a beautiful girl of sixteen. She
was looked upon as something better than the common run of our
townsfolk, and kept almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally,
and became madly in love with her, she looked so fresh and tender, and
so different to the sunburnt females to whom I had been accustomed.
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