MONTANELLI'S anger did not make him neglectful
of his promise. He protested so emphatically
against the manner in which the Gadfly had been
chained that the unfortunate Governor, who by
now was at his wit's end, knocked off all the fetters
in the recklessness of despair. "How am I
to know," he grumbled to the adjutant, "what
His Eminence will object to next? If he calls a
simple pair of handcuffs 'cruelty,' he'll be exclaiming
against the window-bars presently, or wanting
me to feed Rivarez on oysters and truffles. In my
young days malefactors were malefactors and
were treated accordingly, and nobody thought a
traitor any better than a thief. But it's the fashion
to be seditious nowadays; and His Eminence
seems inclined to encourage all the scoundrels in
the country."
"I don't see what business he has got to interfere
at all," the adjutant remarked. "He is not
a Legate and has no authority in civil and military
affairs. By law------"
"What is the use of talking about law? You
can't expect anyone to respect laws after the Holy
Father has opened the prisons and turned the
whole crew of Liberal scamps loose on us! It's
a positive infatuation! Of course Monsignor
Montanelli will give himself airs; he was quiet
enough under His Holiness the late Pope, but he's
cock of the walk now. He has jumped into
favour all at once and can do as he pleases. How
am I to oppose him? He may have secret authorization
from the Vatican, for all I know. Everything's
topsy-turvy now; you can't tell from day
to day what may happen next. In the good old
times one knew what to be at, but nowadays------"
The Governor shook his head ruefully. A
world in which Cardinals troubled themselves over
trifles of prison discipline and talked about the
"rights" of political offenders was a world that
was growing too complex for him.
The Gadfly, for his part, had returned to the fortress
in a state of nervous excitement bordering
on hysteria. The meeting with Montanelli had
strained his endurance almost to breaking-point;
and his final brutality about the variety show had
been uttered in sheer desperation, merely to cut
short an interview which, in another five minutes,
would have ended in tears.
Called up for interrogation in the afternoon of
the same day, he did nothing but go into convulsions
of laughter at every question put to him;
and when the Governor, worried out of all
patience, lost his temper and began to swear, he
only laughed more immoderately than ever. The
unlucky Governor fumed and stormed and threatened
his refractory prisoner with impossible punishments;
but finally came, as James Burton had
come long ago, to the conclusion that it was mere
waste of breath and temper to argue with a person
in so unreasonable a state of mind.
The Gadfly was once more taken back to his cell;
and there lay down upon the pallet, in the mood
of black and hopeless depression which always succeeded
to his boisterous fits. He lay till evening
without moving, without even thinking; he had
passed, after the vehement emotion of the morning,
into a strange, half-apathetic state, in which
his own misery was hardly more to him than a dull
and mechanical weight, pressing on some wooden
thing that had forgotten to be a soul. In truth,
it was of little consequence how all ended; the one
thing that mattered to any sentient being was to
be spared unbearable pain, and whether the relief
came from altered conditions or from the deadening
of the power to feel, was a question of no moment.
Perhaps he would succeed in escaping;
perhaps they would kill him; in any case he
should never see the Padre again, and it was all
vanity and vexation of spirit.
One of the warders brought in supper, and the
Gadfly looked up with heavy-eyed indifference.
"What time is it?"
"Six o'clock. Your supper, sir."
He looked with disgust at the stale, foul-smelling,
half-cold mess, and turned his head away.
He was feeling bodily ill as well as depressed; and
the sight of the food sickened him.
"You will be ill if you don't eat," said the soldier
hurriedly. "Take a bit of bread, anyway; it'll do you good."
The man spoke with a curious earnestness of
tone, lifting a piece of sodden bread from the plate
and putting it down again. All the conspirator
awoke in the Gadfly; he had guessed at once that
there was something hidden in the bread.
"You can leave it; I'll eat a bit by and by," he
said carelessly. The door was open, and he knew
that the sergeant on the stairs could hear every
word spoken between them.
When the door was locked on him again, and
he had satisfied himself that no one was watching
at the spy-hole, he took up the piece of bread and
carefully crumbled it away. In the middle was
the thing he had expected, a bundle of small files.
It was wrapped in a bit of paper, on which a few
words were written. He smoothed the paper out
carefully and carried it to what little light there
was. The writing was crowded into so narrow a
space, and on such thin paper, that it was very
difficult to read.
"The door is unlocked, and there is no moon.
Get the filing done as fast as possible, and come
by the passage between two and three. We are
quite ready and may not have another chance."
He crushed the paper feverishly in his hand.
All the preparations were ready, then, and he had
only to file the window bars; how lucky it was
that the chains were off! He need not stop about
filing them. How many bars were there? Two,
four; and each must be filed in two places: eight.
Oh, he could manage that in the course of the
night if he made haste---- How had Gemma
and Martini contrived to get everything ready
so quickly--disguises, passports, hiding-places?
They must have worked like cart-horses to do
it---- And it was her plan that had been
adopted after all. He laughed a little to himself
at his own foolishness; as if it mattered whether
the plan was hers or not, once it was a good one!
And yet he could not help being glad that it was
she who had struck on the idea of his utilizing the
subterranean passage, instead of letting himself
down by a rope-ladder, as the smugglers had at
first suggested. Hers was the more complex
and difficult plan, but did not involve, as the other
did, a risk to the life of the sentinel on duty outside
the east wall. Therefore, when the two
schemes had been laid before him, he had unhesitatingly
chosen Gemma's.
The arrangement was that the friendly guard
who went by the nickname of "The Cricket"
should seize the first opportunity of unlocking,
without the knowledge of his fellows, the iron gate
leading from the courtyard into the subterranean
passage underneath the ramparts, and should then
replace the key on its nail in the guard-room.
The Gadfly, on receiving information of this, was
to file through the bars of his window, tear his
shirt into strips and plait them into a rope, by
means of which he could let himself down on to
the broad east wall of the courtyard. Along this
wall he was to creep on hands and knees while the
sentinel was looking in the opposite direction, lying
flat upon the masonry whenever the man turned
towards him. At the southeast corner was a half-ruined
turret. It was upheld, to some extent, by
a thick growth of ivy; but great masses of crumbling
stone had fallen inward and lay in the courtyard,
heaped against the wall. From this turret
he was to climb down by the ivy and the heaps of
stone into the courtyard; and, softly opening the
unlocked gate, to make his way along the passage
to a subterranean tunnel communicating with it.
Centuries ago this tunnel had formed a secret corridor
between the fortress and a tower on the
neighbouring hill; now it was quite disused and
blocked in many places by the falling in of the
rocks. No one but the smugglers knew of a certain
carefully-hidden hole in the mountain-side
which they had bored through to the tunnel; no
one suspected that stores of forbidden merchandise
were often kept, for weeks together, under
the very ramparts of the fortress itself, while the
customs-officers were vainly searching the houses
of the sullen, wrathful-eyed mountaineers. At
this hole the Gadfly was to creep out on to the
hillside, and make his way in the dark to a lonely
spot where Martini and a smuggler would be
waiting for him. The one great difficulty was
that opportunities to unlock the gate after the
evening patrol did not occur every night, and the
descent from the window could not be made in
very clear weather without too great a risk of
being observed by the sentinel. Now that there
was really a fair chance of success, it must not be
missed.
He sat down and began to eat some of the
bread. It at least did not disgust him like the
rest of the prison food, and he must eat something
to keep up his strength.
He had better lie down a bit, too, and try to
get a little sleep; it would not be safe to begin
filing before ten o'clock, and he would have a hard
night's work.
And so, after all, the Padre had been thinking
of letting him escape! That was like the Padre.
But he, for his part, would never consent to it.
Anything rather than that! If he escaped, it
should be his own doing and that of his comrades;
he would have no favours from priests.
How hot it was! Surely it must be going to
thunder; the air was so close and oppressive. He
moved restlessly on the pallet and put the bandaged
right hand behind his head for a pillow;
then drew it away again. How it burned and
throbbed! And all the old wounds were beginning
to ache, with a dull, faint persistence. What
was the matter with them? Oh, absurd! It was
only the thundery weather. He would go to
sleep and get a little rest before beginning his
filing.
Eight bars, and all so thick and strong! How
many more were there left to file? Surely not
many. He must have been filing for hours,--
interminable hours--yes, of course, that was what
made his arm ache---- And how it ached; right
through to the very bone! But it could hardly be
the filing that made his side ache so; and the
throbbing, burning pain in the lame leg--was
that from filing?
He started up. No, he had not been asleep; he
had been dreaming with open eyes--dreaming of
filing, and it was all still to do. There stood the
window-bars, untouched, strong and firm as ever.
And there was ten striking from the clock-tower
in the distance. He must get to work.
He looked through the spy-hole, and, seeing
that no one was watching, took one of the files
from his breast.
. . . . .
No, there was nothing the matter with him--
nothing! It was all imagination. The pain in
his side was indigestion, or a chill, or some such
thing; not much wonder, after three weeks of
this insufferable prison food and air. As for the
aching and throbbing all over, it was partly nervous
trouble and partly want of exercise. Yes,
that was it, no doubt; want of exercise. How
absurd not to have thought of that before!
He would sit down a little bit, though, and let
it pass before he got to work. It would be sure
to go over in a minute or two.
To sit still was worse than all. When he sat
still he was at its mercy, and his face grew gray
with fear. No, he must get up and set to work,
and shake it off. It should depend upon his will
to feel or not to feel; and he would not feel, he
would force it back.
He stood up again and spoke to himself, aloud
and distinctly:
"I am not ill; I have no time to be ill. I have
those bars to file, and I am not going to be ill."
Then he began to file.
A quarter-past ten--half-past ten--a quarter to
eleven---- He filed and filed, and every grating
scrape of the iron was as though someone were filing
on his body and brain. "I wonder which will
be filed through first," he said to himself with a
little laugh; "I or the bars?" And he set his
teeth and went on filing.
Half-past eleven. He was still filing, though
the hand was stiff and swollen and would hardly
grasp the tool. No, he dared not stop to rest;
if he once put the horrible thing down he should
never have the courage to begin again.
The sentinel moved outside the door, and the
butt end of his carbine scratched against the lintel.
The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the file still
in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?
A little round pellet had been shot through the
spy-hole and was lying on the floor. He laid down
the file and stooped to pick up the round thing.
It was a bit of rolled paper.
. . . . .
It was a long way to go down and down, with
the black waves rushing about him--how they
roared----!
Ah, yes! He was only stooping down to pick
up the paper. He was a bit giddy; many people
are when they stoop. There was nothing the
matter with him--nothing.
He picked it up, carried it to the light, and
unfolded it steadily.
"Come to-night, whatever happens; the Cricket
will be transferred to-morrow to another service.
This is our only chance."
He destroyed the paper as he had done the
former one, picked up his file again, and went
back to work, dogged and mute and desperate.
One o'clock. He had been working for three
hours now, and six of the eight bars were filed.
Two more, and then, to climb------
He began to recall the former occasions when
these terrible attacks had come on. The last had
been the one at New Year; and he shuddered as
he remembered those five nights. But that time
it had not come on so suddenly; he had never
known it so sudden.
He dropped the file and flung out both hands
blindly, praying, in his utter desperation, for the
first time since he had been an atheist; praying
to anything--to nothing--to everything.
"Not to-night! Oh, let me be ill to-morrow!
I will bear anything to-morrow--only not to-night!"
He stood still for a moment, with both hands
up to his temples; then he took up the file once
more, and once more went back to his work.
Half-past one. He had begun on the last bar.
His shirt-sleeve was bitten to rags; there was
blood on his lips and a red mist before his eyes,
and the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed,
and filed, and filed----
. . . . .
After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was
utterly worn out with the restless misery of the
night and slept for a little while quietly; then he
began to dream.
At first he dreamed vaguely, confusedly; broken
fragments of images and fancies followed each
other, fleeting and incoherent, but all filled with
the same dim sense of struggle and pain, the same
shadow of indefinable dread. Presently he began
to dream of sleeplessness; the old, frightful, familiar
dream that had been a terror to him for
years. And even as he dreamed he recognized
that he had been through it all before.
He was wandering about in a great empty place,
trying to find some quiet spot where he could lie
down and sleep. Everywhere there were people,
walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting;
praying, ringing bells, and clashing metal instruments
together. Sometimes he would get away
to a little distance from the noise, and would lie
down, now on the grass, now on a wooden bench,
now on some slab of stone. He would shut his
eyes and cover them with both hands to keep out
the light; and would say to himself: "Now I
will get to sleep." Then the crowds would come
sweeping up to him, shouting, yelling, calling him
by name, begging him: "Wake up! Wake up,
quick; we want you!"
Again: he was in a great palace, full of gorgeous
rooms, with beds and couches and low soft
lounges. It was night, and he said to himself:
"Here, at last, I shall find a quiet place to sleep."
But when he chose a dark room and lay down,
someone came in with a lamp, flashing the merciless
light into his eyes, and said: "Get up; you are wanted."
He rose and wandered on, staggering and stumbling
like a creature wounded to death; and heard
the clocks strike one, and knew that half the night
was gone already--the precious night that was so
short. Two, three, four, five--by six o'clock the
whole town would wake up and there would be
no more silence.
He went into another room and would have lain
down on a bed, but someone started up from the
pillows, crying out: "This bed is mine!" and he
shrank away with despair in his heart.
Hour after hour struck, and still he wandered
on and on, from room to room, from house to
house, from corridor to corridor. The horrible
gray dawn was creeping near and nearer; the
clocks were striking five; the night was gone and
he had found no rest. Oh, misery! Another day
--another day!
He was in a long, subterranean corridor, a low,
vaulted passage that seemed to have no end. It
was lighted with glaring lamps and chandeliers;
and through its grated roof came the sounds of
dancing and laughter and merry music. Up there,
in the world of the live people overhead, there
was some festival, no doubt. Oh, for a place
to hide and sleep; some little place, were it even
a grave! And as he spoke he stumbled over an
open grave. An open grave, smelling of death
and rottenness---- Ah, what matter, so he could
but sleep!
"This grave is mine!" It was Gladys; and she
raised her head and stared at him over the rotting
shroud. Then he knelt down and stretched out
his arms to her.
"Gladys! Gladys! Have a little pity on me;
let me creep into this narrow space and sleep. I
do not ask you for your love; I will not touch you,
will not speak to you; only let me lie down beside
you and sleep! Oh, love, it is so long since I have
slept! I cannot bear another day. The light
glares in upon my soul; the noise is beating my
brain to dust. Gladys, let me come in here and
sleep!"
And he would have drawn her shroud across his
eyes. But she shrank away, screaming:
"It is sacrilege; you are a priest!"
On and on he wandered, and came out upon the
sea-shore, on the barren rocks where the fierce
light struck down, and the water moaned its low,
perpetual wail of unrest. "Ah!" he said; "the
sea will be more merciful; it, too, is wearied unto
death and cannot sleep."
Then Arthur rose up from the deep, and cried
aloud:
"This sea is mine!"
. . . . .
"Your Eminence! Your Eminence!"
Montanelli awoke with a start. His servant
was knocking at the door. He rose mechanically
and opened it, and the man saw how wild and
scared he looked.
"Your Eminence--are you ill?"
He drew both hands across his forehead.
"No; I was asleep, and you startled me."
"I am very sorry; I thought I had heard you
moving early this morning, and I supposed------"
"Is it late now?"
"It is nine o'clock, and the Governor has called.
He says he has very important business, and knowing
Your Eminence to be an early riser------"
"Is he downstairs? I will come presently."
He dressed and went downstairs.
"I am afraid this is an unceremonious way to
call upon Your Eminence," the Governor began.
"I hope there is nothing the matter?"
"There is very much the matter. Rivarez has
all but succeeded in escaping."
"Well, so long as he has not quite succeeded
there is no harm done. How was it?"
"He was found in the courtyard, right against
the little iron gate. When the patrol came in to
inspect the courtyard at three o'clock this morning
one of the men stumbled over something on
the ground; and when they brought the light up
they found Rivarez lying across the path unconscious.
They raised an alarm at once and called
me up; and when I went to examine his cell I
found all the window-bars filed through and a rope
made of torn body-linen hanging from one of
them. He had let himself down and climbed along
the wall. The iron gate, which leads into the
subterranean tunnels, was found to be unlocked.
That looks as if the guards had been suborned."
"But how did he come to be lying across the
path? Did he fall from the rampart and hurt
himself?"
"That is what I thought at first. Your Eminence;
but the prison surgeon can't find any trace
of a fall. The soldier who was on duty yesterday
says that Rivarez looked very ill last night when
he brought in the supper, and did not eat anything.
But that must be nonsense; a sick man couldn't
file those bars through and climb along that roof.
It's not in reason."
"Does he give any account of himself?"
"He is unconscious, Your Eminence."
"Still?"
"He just half comes to himself from time to
time and moans, and then goes off again."
"That is very strange. What does the doctor
think?"
"He doesn't know what to think. There is no
trace of heart-disease that he can find to account
for the thing; but whatever is the matter with
him, it is something that must have come on
suddenly, just when he had nearly managed to
escape. For my part, I believe he was struck
down by the direct intervention of a merciful
Providence."
Montanelli frowned slightly.
"What are you going to do with him?" he
asked.
"That is a question I shall settle in a very few
days. In the meantime I have had a good lesson.
That is what comes of taking off the irons--with
all due respect to Your Eminence."
"I hope," Montanelli interrupted, "that you
will at least not replace the fetters while he is ill.
A man in the condition you describe can hardly
make any more attempts to escape."
"I shall take good care he doesn't," the Governor
muttered to himself as he went out. "His
Eminence can go hang with his sentimental scruples
for all I care. Rivarez is chained pretty tight
now, and is going to stop so, ill or not."
. . . . .
"But how can it have happened? To faint
away at the last moment, when everything was
ready; when he was at the very gate! It's like
some hideous joke."
"I tell you," Martini answered, "the only thing
I can think of is that one of these attacks must
have come on, and that he must have struggled
against it as long as his strength lasted and have
fainted from sheer exhaustion when he got down
into the courtyard."
Marcone knocked the ashes savagely from his
pipe.
"Well. anyhow, that's the end of it; we can't
do anything for him now, poor fellow."
"Poor fellow!" Martini echoed, under his
breath. He was beginning to realise that to him,
too, the world would look empty and dismal without
the Gadfly.
"What does she think?" the smuggler asked,
glancing towards the other end of the room, where
Gemma sat alone, her hands lying idly in her lap,
her eyes looking straight before her into blank
nothingness.
"I have not asked her; she has not spoken since
I brought her the news. We had best not disturb
her just yet."
She did not appear to be conscious of their presence,
but they both spoke with lowered voices, as though
they were looking at a corpse. After a dreary little
pause, Marcone rose and put away his pipe.
"I will come back this evening," he said; but
Martini stopped him with a gesture.
"Don't go yet; I want to speak to you." He
dropped his voice still lower and continued in
almost a whisper:
"Do you believe there is really no hope?"
"I don't see what hope there can be now. We
can't attempt it again. Even if he were well
enough to manage his part of the thing, we
couldn't do our share. The sentinels are all being
changed, on suspicion. The Cricket won't get
another chance, you may be sure."
"Don't you think," Martini asked suddenly;
"that, when he recovers, something might be
done by calling off the sentinels?"
"Calling off the sentinels? What do you
mean?"
"Well, it has occurred to me that if I were to
get in the Governor's way when the procession
passes close by the fortress on Corpus Domini day
and fire in his face, all the sentinels would come
rushing to get hold of me, and some of you fellows
could perhaps help Rivarez out in the confusion.
It really hardly amounts to a plan; it only came
into my head."
"I doubt whether it could be managed," Marcone
answered with a very grave face. "Certainly it
would want a lot of thinking out for
anything to come of it. But"--he stopped and
looked at Martini--"if it should be possible--
would you do it?"
Martini was a reserved man at ordinary times;
but this was not an ordinary time. He looked
straight into the smuggler's face.
"Would I do it?" he repeated. "Look at her!"
There was no need for further explanations;
in saying that he had said all. Marcone turned
and looked across the room.
She had not moved since their conversation
began. There was no doubt, no fear, even no
grief in her face; there was nothing in it but the
shadow of death. The smuggler's eyes filled with
tears as he looked at her.
"Make haste, Michele!" he said, throwing open
the verandah door and looking out. "Aren't you
nearly done, you two? There are a hundred and
fifty things to do!"
Michele, followed by Gino, came in from the
verandah.
"I am ready now," he said. "I only want to
ask the signora----"
He was moving towards her when Martini
caught him by the arm.
"Don't disturb her; she's better alone."
"Let her be!" Marcone added. "We shan't do
any good by meddling. God knows, it's hard enough
on all of us; but it's worse for her, poor soul!"
