ARTHUR was taken to the huge mediaeval fortress
at the harbour's mouth. He found prison life
fairly endurable. His cell was unpleasantly damp
and dark; but he had been brought up in a palace
in the Via Borra, and neither close air, rats, nor
foul smells were novelties to him. The food, also,
was both bad and insufficient; but James soon obtained
permission to send him all the necessaries of
life from home. He was kept in solitary confinement,
and, though the vigilance of the warders
was less strict than he had expected, he failed to
obtain any explanation of the cause of his arrest.
Nevertheless, the tranquil frame of mind in which
he had entered the fortress did not change. Not
being allowed books, he spent his time in prayer
and devout meditation, and waited without impatience
or anxiety for the further course of events.
One day a soldier unlocked the door of his cell
and called to him: "This way, please!" After two
or three questions, to which he got no answer but,
"Talking is forbidden," Arthur resigned himself
to the inevitable and followed the soldier through
a labyrinth of courtyards, corridors, and stairs, all
more or less musty-smelling, into a large, light
room in which three persons in military uniform
sat at a long table covered with green baize and littered
with papers, chatting in a languid, desultory
way. They put on a stiff, business air as he came
in, and the oldest of them, a foppish-looking man
with gray whiskers and a colonel's uniform,
pointed to a chair on the other side of the table
and began the preliminary interrogation.
Arthur had expected to be threatened, abused,
and sworn at, and had prepared himself to
answer with dignity and patience; but he was pleasantly
disappointed. The colonel was stiff, cold
and formal, but perfectly courteous. The usual
questions as to his name, age, nationality, and
social position were put and answered, and the
replies written down in monotonous succession.
He was beginning to feel bored and impatient,
when the colonel asked:
"And now, Mr. Burton, what do you know
about Young Italy?"
"I know that it is a society which publishes a
newspaper in Marseilles and circulates it in Italy,
with the object of inducing people to revolt and
drive the Austrian army out of the country."
"You have read this paper, I think?"
"Yes; I am interested in the subject."
"When you read it you realized that you were
committing an illegal action?"
"Certainly."
"Where did you get the copies which were
found in your room?"
"That I cannot tell you."
"Mr. Burton, you must not say 'I cannot tell'
here; you are bound to answer my questions."
"I will not, then, if you object to 'cannot.'"
"You will regret it if you permit yourself to
use such expressions," remarked the colonel. As
Arthur made no reply, he went on:
"I may as well tell you that evidence has come
into our hands proving your connection with this
society to be much more intimate than is implied
by the mere reading of forbidden literature. It
will be to your advantage to confess frankly. In
any case the truth will be sure to come out, and
you will find it useless to screen yourself behind
evasion and denials."
"I have no desire to screen myself. What is it
you want to know?"
"Firstly, how did you, a foreigner, come to be
implicated in matters of this kind?"
"I thought about the subject and read everything
I could get hold of, and formed my own
conclusions."
"Who persuaded you to join this society?"
"No one; I wished to join it."
"You are shilly-shallying with me," said the
colonel, sharply; his patience was evidently beginning
to give out. "No one can join a society by
himself. To whom did you communicate your wish
to join it?"
Silence.
"Will you have the kindness to answer me?"
"Not when you ask questions of that kind."
Arthur spoke sullenly; a curious, nervous irritability
was taking possession of him. He knew by
this time that many arrests had been made in both
Leghorn and Pisa; and, though still ignorant of
the extent of the calamity, he had already heard
enough to put him into a fever of anxiety for the
safety of Gemma and his other friends. The
studied politeness of the officers, the dull game of
fencing and parrying, of insidious questions and
evasive answers, worried and annoyed him, and the
clumsy tramping backward and forward of the
sentinel outside the door jarred detestably upon
his ear.
"Oh, by the bye, when did you last meet Giovanni
Bolla?" asked the colonel, after a little more
bandying of words. "Just before you left Pisa,
was it?"
"I know no one of that name."
"What! Giovanni Bolla? Surely you know him
--a tall young fellow, closely shaven. Why, he
is one of your fellow-students."
"There are many students in the university
whom I don't know."
"Oh, but you must know Bolla, surely! Look,
this is his handwriting. You see, he knows you
well enough."
The colonel carelessly handed him a paper
headed: "Protocol," and signed: "Giovanni
Bolla." Glancing down it Arthur came upon his
own name. He looked up in surprise. "Am I to
read it?"
"Yes, you may as well; it concerns you."
He began to read, while the officers sat silently
watching his face. The document appeared to
consist of depositions in answer to a long string of
questions. Evidently Bolla, too, must have been
arrested. The first depositions were of the usual
stereotyped character; then followed a short account
of Bolla's connection with the society, of the
dissemination of prohibited literature in Leghorn,
and of the students' meetings. Next came
"Among those who joined us was a young Englishman,
Arthur Burton, who belongs to one of
the rich shipowning families."
The blood rushed into Arthur's face. Bolla had
betrayed him! Bolla, who had taken upon himself
the solemn duties of an initiator--Bolla, who had
converted Gemma--who was in love with her!
He laid down the paper and stared at the floor.
"I hope that little document has refreshed
your memory?" hinted the colonel politely.
Arthur shook his head. "I know no one of that
name," he repeated in a dull, hard voice. "There
must be some mistake."
"Mistake? Oh, nonsense! Come, Mr. Burton,
chivalry and quixotism are very fine things in
their way; but there's no use in overdoing them.
It's an error all you young people fall into at first.
Come, think! What good is it for you to compromise
yourself and spoil your prospects in life over
a simple formality about a man that has betrayed
you? You see yourself, he wasn't so particular
as to what he said about you."
A faint shade of something like mockery had
crept into the colonel's voice. Arthur looked
up with a start; a sudden light flashed upon his
mind.
"It's a lie!" he cried out. "It's a forgery! I
can see it in your face, you cowardly----You've
got some prisoner there you want to compromise,
or a trap you want to drag me into. You are a forger,
and a liar, and a scoundrel----"
"Silence!" shouted the colonel, starting up in a
rage; his two colleagues were already on their
feet. "Captain Tommasi," he went on, turning to
one of them, "ring for the guard, if you please,
and have this young gentleman put in the punishment
cell for a few days. He wants a lesson, I see,
to bring him to reason."
The punishment cell was a dark, damp, filthy
hole under ground. Instead of bringing Arthur
"to reason," it thoroughly exasperated him. His
luxurious home had rendered him daintily fastidious
about personal cleanliness, and the first effect
of the slimy, vermin-covered walls, the floor
heaped with accumulations of filth and garbage,
the fearful stench of fungi and sewage and rotting
wood, was strong enough to have satisfied the
offended officer. When he was pushed in and the
door locked behind him he took three cautious
steps forward with outstretched hands, shuddering
with disgust as his fingers came into contact with
the slippery wall, and groped in the dense blackness
for some spot less filthy than the rest in which
to sit down.
The long day passed in unbroken blackness and
silence, and the night brought no change. In the
utter void and absence of all external impressions,
he gradually lost the consciousness of time; and
when, on the following morning, a key was turned
in the door lock, and the frightened rats scurried
past him squeaking, he started up in a sudden
panic, his heart throbbing furiously and a roaring
noise in his ears, as though he had been shut
away from light and sound for months instead of
hours.
The door opened, letting in a feeble lantern
gleam--a flood of blinding light, it seemed to him
--and the head warder entered, carrying a piece of
bread and a mug of water. Arthur made a step
forward; he was quite convinced that the man
had come to let him out. Before he had time to
speak, the warder put the bread and mug into his
hands, turned round and went away without a
word, locking the door again.
Arthur stamped his foot upon the ground. For
the first time in his life he was savagely angry.
But as the hours went by, the consciousness of time
and place gradually slipped further and further
away. The blackness seemed an illimitable thing,
with no beginning and no end, and life had, as it
were, stopped for him. On the evening of the
third day, when the door was opened and the head
warder appeared on the threshold with a soldier,
he looked up, dazed and bewildered, shading his
eyes from the unaccustomed light, and vaguely
wondering how many hours or weeks he had been
in this grave.
"This way, please," said the cool business voice
of the warder. Arthur rose and moved forward
mechanically, with a strange unsteadiness, swaying
and stumbling like a drunkard. He resented the
warder's attempt to help him up the steep, narrow
steps leading to the courtyard; but as he reached
the highest step a sudden giddiness came over him,
so that he staggered and would have fallen backwards
had the warder not caught him by the shoulder.
. . . . .
"There, he'll be all right now," said a cheerful
voice; "they most of them go off this way coming
out into the air."
Arthur struggled desperately for breath as another
handful of water was dashed into his face.
The blackness seemed to fall away from him in
pieces with a rushing noise; then he woke suddenly
into full consciousness, and, pushing aside
the warder's arm, walked along the corridor and
up the stairs almost steadily. They stopped for a
moment in front of a door; then it opened, and before
he realized where they were taking him
he was in the brightly lighted interrogation
room, staring in confused wonder at the table and
the papers and the officers sitting in their accustomed places.
"Ah, it's Mr. Burton!" said the colonel. "I
hope we shall be able to talk more comfortably
now. Well, and how do you like the dark cell?
Not quite so luxurious as your brother's drawing
room, is it? eh?"
Arthur raised his eyes to the colonel's smiling
face. He was seized by a frantic desire to spring
at the throat of this gray-whiskered fop and tear it
with his teeth. Probably something of this kind
was visible in his face, for the colonel added immediately,
in a quite different tone:
"Sit down, Mr. Burton, and drink some water;
you are excited."
Arthur pushed aside the glass of water held out
to him; and, leaning his arms on the table, rested
his forehead on one hand and tried to collect his
thoughts. The colonel sat watching him keenly,
noting with experienced eyes the unsteady hands
and lips, the hair dripping with water, the dim
gaze that told of physical prostration and disordered nerves.
"Now, Mr. Burton," he said after a few minutes;
"we will start at the point where we left off; and
as there has been a certain amount of unpleasantness
between us, I may as well begin by saying that
I, for my part, have no desire to be anything but
indulgent with you. If you will behave properly
and reasonably, I assure you that we shall not
treat you with any unnecessary harshness."
"What do you want me to do?"
Arthur spoke in a hard, sullen voice, quite different
from his natural tone.
"I only want you to tell us frankly, in a straightforward
and honourable manner, what you know
of this society and its adherents. First of all, how
long have you known Bolla?"
"I never met him in my life. I know nothing
whatever about him."
"Really? Well, we will return to that subject
presently. I think you know a young man named
Carlo Bini?"
"I never heard of such a person."
"That is very extraordinary. What about
Francesco Neri?"
"I never heard the name."
"But here is a letter in your handwriting, addressed
to him. Look!"
Arthur glanced carelessly at the letter and laid it
aside.
"Do you recognize that letter?"
"No."
"You deny that it is in your writing?"
"I deny nothing. I have no recollection of it."
"Perhaps you remember this one?"
A second letter was handed to him, and he saw
that it was one which he had written in the autumn
to a fellow-student.
"No."
"Nor the person to whom it is addressed?"
"Nor the person."
"Your memory is singularly short."
"It is a defect from which I have always
suffered."
"Indeed! And I heard the other day from a
university professor that you are considered by no
means deficient; rather clever in fact."
"You probably judge of cleverness by the police-spy
standard; university professors use words in a
different sense."
The note of rising irritation was plainly audible
in Arthur's voice. He was physically exhausted
with hunger, foul air, and want of sleep; every bone
in his body seemed to ache separately; and the
colonel's voice grated on his exasperated nerves,
setting his teeth on edge like the squeak of a slate
pencil.
"Mr. Burton," said the colonel, leaning back
in his chair and speaking gravely, "you are again
forgetting yourself; and I warn you once more
that this kind of talk will do you no good. Surely
you have had enough of the dark cell not to want
any more just for the present. I tell you plainly
that I shall use strong measures with you if you
persist in repulsing gentle ones. Mind, I have
proof--positive proof--that some of these young
men have been engaged in smuggling prohibited
literature into this port; and that you have been
in communication with them. Now, are you going
to tell me, without compulsion, what you know
about this affair?"
Arthur bent his head lower. A blind, senseless,
wild-beast fury was beginning to stir within him
like a live thing. The possibility of losing command
over himself was more appalling to him than
any threats. For the first time he began to realize
what latent potentialities may lie hidden beneath
the culture of any gentleman and the piety of any
Christian; and the terror of himself was strong
upon him.
"I am waiting for your answer," said the colonel.
"I have no answer to give."
"You positively refuse to answer?"
"I will tell you nothing at all."
"Then I must simply order you back into the
punishment cell, and keep you there till you change
your mind. If there is much more trouble with
you, I shall put you in irons."
Arthur looked up, trembling from head to foot.
"You will do as you please," he said slowly; "and
whether the English Ambassador will stand your
playing tricks of that kind with a British subject
who has not been convicted of any crime is for him
to decide."
At last Arthur was conducted back to his own
cell, where he flung himself down upon the bed
and slept till the next morning. He was not put
in irons, and saw no more of the dreaded dark cell;
but the feud between him and the colonel grew
more inveterate with every interrogation. It was
quite useless for Arthur to pray in his cell for grace
to conquer his evil passions, or to meditate half the
night long upon the patience and meekness of
Christ. No sooner was he brought again into the
long, bare room with its baize-covered table, and
confronted with the colonel's waxed moustache,
than the unchristian spirit would take possession of
him once more, suggesting bitter repartees and
contemptuous answers. Before he had been a
month in the prison the mutual irritation had
reached such a height that he and the colonel
could not see each other's faces without losing
their temper.
The continual strain of this petty warfare was
beginning to tell heavily upon his nerves. Knowing
how closely he was watched, and remembering
certain dreadful rumours which he had heard of
prisoners secretly drugged with belladonna that
notes might be taken of their ravings, he gradually
became afraid to sleep or eat; and if a mouse ran
past him in the night, would start up drenched
with cold sweat and quivering with terror, fancying
that someone was hiding in the room to listen
if he talked in his sleep. The gendarmes were evidently
trying to entrap him into making some
admission which might compromise Bolla; and so
great was his fear of slipping, by any inadvertency,
into a pitfall, that he was really in danger of doing
so through sheer nervousness. Bolla's name rang
in his ears night and day, interfering even with his
devotions, and forcing its way in among the beads
of the rosary instead of the name of Mary. But
the worst thing of all was that his religion, like the
outer world, seemed to be slipping away from him
as the days went by. To this last foothold he clung
with feverish tenacity, spending several hours of
each day in prayer and meditation; but his
thoughts wandered more and more often to Bolla,
and the prayers were growing terribly mechanical.
His greatest comfort was the head warder of the
prison. This was a little old man, fat and bald,
who at first had tried his hardest to wear a severe
expression. Gradually the good nature which
peeped out of every dimple in his chubby face conquered
his official scruples, and he began carrying
messages for the prisoners from cell to cell.
One afternoon in the middle of May this
warder came into the cell with a face so scowling
and gloomy that Arthur looked at him in
astonishment.
"Why, Enrico!" he exclaimed; "what on earth
is wrong with you to-day?"
"Nothing," said Enrico snappishly; and, going
up to the pallet, he began pulling off the rug,
which was Arthur's property.
"What do you want with my things? Am I to
be moved into another cell?"
"No; you're to be let out."
"Let out? What--to-day? For altogether?
Enrico!"
In his excitement Arthur had caught hold of the
old man's arm. It was angrily wrenched away.
"Enrico! What has come to you? Why don't
you answer? Are we all going to be let out?"
A contemptuous grunt was the only reply.
"Look here!" Arthur again took hold of the
warder's arm, laughing. "It is no use for you to
be cross to me, because I'm not going to get
offended. I want to know about the others."
"Which others?" growled Enrico, suddenly
laying down the shirt he was folding. "Not Bolla,
I suppose?"
"Bolla and all the rest, of course. Enrico, what
is the matter with you?"
"Well, he's not likely to be let out in a hurry,
poor lad, when a comrade has betrayed him.
Ugh!" Enrico took up the shirt again in disgust.
"Betrayed him? A comrade? Oh, how dreadful!"
Arthur's eyes dilated with horror. Enrico
turned quickly round.
"Why, wasn't it you?"
"I? Are you off your head, man? I?"
"Well, they told him so yesterday at interrogation,
anyhow. I'm very glad if it wasn't you, for I
always thought you were rather a decent young
fellow. This way!" Enrico stepped out into the
corridor and Arthur followed him, a light breaking
in upon the confusion of his mind.
"They told Bolla I'd betrayed him? Of course
they did! Why, man, they told me he had betrayed
me. Surely Bolla isn't fool enough to
believe that sort of stuff?"
"Then it really isn't true?" Enrico stopped at
the foot of the stairs and looked searchingly at
Arthur, who merely shrugged his shoulders.
"Of course it's a lie."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it, my lad, and I'll tell
him you said so. But you see what they told him
was that you had denounced him out of--well, out
of jealousy, because of your both being sweet on
the same girl."
"It's a lie!" Arthur repeated the words in a
quick, breathless whisper. A sudden, paralyzing
fear had come over him. "The same girl--jealousy!"
How could they know--how could they know?
"Wait a minute, my lad." Enrico stopped in
the corridor leading to the interrogation room,
and spoke softly. "I believe you; but just tell me
one thing. I know you're a Catholic; did you
ever say anything in the confessional------"
"It's a lie!" This time Arthur's voice had risen
to a stifled cry.
Enrico shrugged his shoulders and moved on
again. "You know best, of course; but you
wouldn't be the only young fool that's been taken
in that way. There's a tremendous ado just now
about a priest in Pisa that some of your friends
have found out. They've printed a leaflet saying
he's a spy."
He opened the door of the interrogation room,
and, seeing that Arthur stood motionless, staring
blankly before him, pushed him gently across the
threshold.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Burton," said the colonel,
smiling and showing his teeth amiably. "I have
great pleasure in congratulating you. An order
for your release has arrived from Florence. Will
you kindly sign this paper?"
Arthur went up to him. "I want to know," he
said in a dull voice, "who it was that betrayed
me."
The colonel raised his eyebrows with a smile.
"Can't you guess? Think a minute."
Arthur shook his head. The colonel put out
both hands with a gesture of polite surprise.
"Can't guess? Really? Why, you yourself,
Mr. Burton. Who else could know your private
love affairs?"
Arthur turned away in silence. On the wall
hung a large wooden crucifix; and his eyes wandered
slowly to its face; but with no appeal in
them, only a dim wonder at this supine and patient
God that had no thunderbolt for a priest who betrayed
the confessional.
"Will you kindly sign this receipt for your
papers?" said the colonel blandly; "and then I
need not keep you any longer. I am sure you
must be in a hurry to get home; and my time is
very much taken up just now with the affairs of
that foolish young man, Bolla, who tried your
Christian forbearance so hard. I am afraid he
will get a rather heavy sentence. Good-afternoon!"
Arthur signed the receipt, took his papers, and
went out in dead silence. He followed Enrico to
the massive gate; and, without a word of farewell,
descended to the water's edge, where a ferryman
was waiting to take him across the moat. As he
mounted the stone steps leading to the street, a
girl in a cotton dress and straw hat ran up to him
with outstretched hands.
"Arthur! Oh, I'm so glad--I'm so glad!"
He drew his hands away, shivering.
"Jim!" he said at last, in a voice that did not
seem to belong to him. "Jim!"
"I've been waiting here for half an hour. They
said you would come out at four. Arthur, why do
you look at me like that? Something has happened!
Arthur, what has come to you? Stop!"
He had turned away, and was walking slowly
down the street, as if he had forgotten her presence.
Thoroughly frightened at his manner, she
ran after him and caught him by the arm.
"Arthur!"
He stopped and looked up with bewildered eyes.
She slipped her arm through his, and they walked
on again for a moment in silence.
"Listen, dear," she began softly; "you mustn't
get so upset over this wretched business. I know
it's dreadfully hard on you, but everybody understands."
"What business?" he asked in the same dull
voice.
"I mean, about Bolla's letter."
Arthur's face contracted painfully at the name.
"I thought you wouldn't have heard of it,"
Gemma went on; "but I suppose they've told
you. Bolla must be perfectly mad to have imagined
such a thing."
"Such a thing----?"
"You don't know about it, then? He has
written a horrible letter, saying that you have told
about the steamers, and got him arrested. It's
perfectly absurd, of course; everyone that knows
you sees that; it's only the people who don't know
you that have been upset by it. Really, that's what
I came here for--to tell you that no one in our
group believes a word of it."
"Gemma! But it's--it's true!"
She shrank slowly away from him, and stood
quite still, her eyes wide and dark with horror, her
face as white as the kerchief at her neck. A great
icy wave of silence seemed to have swept round
them both, shutting them out, in a world apart,
from the life and movement of the street.
"Yes," he whispered at last; "the steamers--
I spoke of that; and I said his name--oh, my God!
my God! What shall I do?"
He came to himself suddenly, realizing her presence
and the mortal terror in her face. Yes, of
course, she must think------
"Gemma, you don't understand!" he burst out,
moving nearer; but she recoiled with a sharp cry:
"Don't touch me!"
Arthur seized her right hand with sudden
violence.
"Listen, for God's sake! It was not my fault;
I----"
"Let go; let my hand go! Let go!"
The next instant she wrenched her fingers away
from his, and struck him across the cheek with her
open hand.
A kind of mist came over his eyes. For a little
while he was conscious of nothing but Gemma's
white and desperate face, and the right hand which
she had fiercely rubbed on the skirt of her cotton
dress. Then the daylight crept back again, and he
looked round and saw that he was alone.
