IT was market-day in Brisighella, and the country
folk had come in from the villages and hamlets
of the district with their pigs and poultry, their
dairy produce and droves of half-wild mountain
cattle. The market-place was thronged with a
perpetually shifting crowd, laughing, joking, bargaining
for dried figs, cheap cakes, and sunflower
seeds. The brown, bare-footed children sprawled,
face downward, on the pavement in the hot sun,
while their mothers sat under the trees with their
baskets of butter and eggs.
Monsignor Montanelli, coming out to wish the
people "Good-morning," was at once surrounded
by a clamourous throng of children, holding up for
his acceptance great bunches of irises and scarlet
poppies and sweet white narcissus from the mountain
slopes. His passion for wild flowers was
affectionately tolerated by the people, as one of
the little follies which sit gracefully on very wise
men. If anyone less universally beloved had filled
his house with weeds and grasses they would have
laughed at him; but the "blessed Cardinal" could
afford a few harmless eccentricities.
"Well, Mariuccia," he said, stopping to pat one of
the children on the head; "you have grown since I saw
you last. And how is the grandmother's rheumatism?"
"She's been better lately, Your Eminence; but
mother's bad now."
"I'm sorry to hear that; tell the mother to
come down here some day and see whether Dr.
Giordani can do anything for her. I will find
somewhere to put her up; perhaps the change
will do her good. You are looking better, Luigi;
how are your eyes?"
He passed on, chatting with the mountaineers.
He always remembered the names and ages of
the children, their troubles and those of their
parents; and would stop to inquire, with sympathetic
interest, for the health of the cow that fell
sick at Christmas, or of the rag-doll that was
crushed under a cart-wheel last market-day.
When he returned to the palace the marketing
began. A lame man in a blue shirt, with a shock
of black hair hanging into his eyes and a deep scar
across the left cheek, lounged up to one of the
booths and, in very bad Italian, asked for a drink
of lemonade.
"You're not from these parts," said the woman
who poured it out, glancing up at him.
"No. I come from Corsica."
"Looking for work?"
"Yes; it will be hay-cutting time soon, and a
gentleman that has a farm near Ravenna came
across to Bastia the other day and told me there's
plenty of work to be got there."
"I hope you'll find it so, I'm sure, but times are
bad hereabouts."
"They're worse in Corsica, mother. I don't
know what we poor folk are coming to."
"Have you come over alone?"
"No, my mate is with me; there he is, in the
red shirt. Hola, Paolo!"
Michele hearing himself called, came lounging
up with his hands in his pockets. He made a
fairly good Corsican, in spite of the red wig which
he had put on to render himself unrecognizable.
As for the Gadfly, he looked his part to perfection.
They sauntered through the market-place together,
Michele whistling between his teeth, and
the Gadfly trudging along with a bundle over his
shoulder, shuffling his feet on the ground to render
his lameness less observable. They were waiting
for an emissary, to whom important directions
had to be given.
"There's Marcone, on horseback, at that corner,"
Michele whispered suddenly. The Gadfly, still carrying
his bundle, shuffled towards the horseman.
"Do you happen to be wanting a hay-maker,
sir?" he said, touching his ragged cap and running
one finger along the bridle. It was the signal
agreed upon, and the rider, who from his
appearance might have been a country squire's
bailiff, dismounted and threw the reins on the
horse's neck.
"What sort of work can you do, my man?"
The Gadfly fumbled with his cap.
"I can cut grass, sir, and trim hedges"--he
began; and without any break in his voice, went
straight on: "At one in the morning at the
mouth of the round cave. You must have two
good horses and a cart. I shall be waiting inside
the cave---- And then I can dig, sir, and----"
"That will do, I only want a grass-cutter.
Have you ever been out before?"
"Once, sir. Mind, you must come well-armed;
we may meet a flying squadron. Don't go by the
wood-path; you're safer on the other side. If
you meet a spy, don't stop to argue with him; fire
at once---- I should be very glad of work, sir."
"Yes, I dare say, but I want an experienced
grass-cutter. No, I haven't got any coppers to-day."
A very ragged beggar had slouched up to them,
with a doleful, monotonous whine.
"Have pity on a poor blind man, in the name
of the Blessed Virgin------ Get out of this place at
once; there's a flying squadron coming along----
Most Holy Queen of Heaven, Maiden undefiled--
It's you they're after, Rivarez; they'll be here in
two minutes---- And so may the saints reward
you---- You'll have to make a dash for it; there
are spies at all the corners. It's no use trying to
slip away without being seen."
Marcone slipped the reins into the Gadfly's hand.
"Make haste! Ride out to the bridge and let
the horse go; you can hide in the ravine. We're
all armed; we can keep them back for ten minutes."
"No. I won't have you fellows taken. Stand
together, all of you, and fire after me in order.
Move up towards our horses; there they are, tethered
by the palace steps; and have your knives
ready. We retreat fighting, and when I throw
my cap down, cut the halters and jump every man
on the nearest horse. We may all reach the wood
that way."
They had spoken in so quiet an undertone that
even the nearest bystanders had not supposed
their conversation to refer to anything more dangerous
than grass-cutting. Marcone, leading his
own mare by the bridle, walked towards the
tethered horses, the Gadfly slouching along beside
him, and the beggar following them with an outstretched
hand and a persistent whine. Michele
came up whistling; the beggar had warned him
in passing, and he quietly handed on the news to
three countrymen who were eating raw onions
under a tree. They immediately rose and followed
him; and before anyone's notice had been
attracted to them, the whole seven were standing
together by the steps of the palace, each man with
one hand on the hidden pistol, and the tethered
horses within easy reach.
"Don't betray yourselves till I move," the Gadfly
said softly and clearly. "They may not recognize us.
When I fire, then begin in order. Don't
fire at the men; lame their horses--then they can't
follow us. Three of you fire, while the other
three reload. If anyone comes between you and
our horses, kill him. I take the roan. When I
throw down my cap, each man for himself; don't
stop for anything."
"Here they come," said Michele; and the Gadfly
turned round, with an air of naive and stupid
wonder, as the people suddenly broke off in their
bargaining.
Fifteen armed men rode slowly into the marketplace.
They had great difficulty to get past the
throng of people at all, and, but for the spies at
the corners of the square, all the seven conspirators
could have slipped quietly away while the
attention of the crowd was fixed upon the soldiers.
Michele moved a little closer to the Gadfly.
"Couldn't we get away now?"
"No; we're surrounded with spies, and one of
them has recognized me. He has just sent a man
to tell the captain where I am. Our only chance
is to lame their horses."
"Which is the spy?"
"The first man I fire at. Are you all ready?
They have made a lane to us; they are going to
come with a rush."
"Out of the way there!" shouted the captain.
"In the name of His Holiness!"
The crowd had drawn back, startled and wondering;
and the soldiers made a quick dash towards
the little group standing by the palace steps.
The Gadfly drew a pistol from his blouse and fired,
not at the advancing troops, but at the spy, who
was approaching the horses, and who fell back
with a broken collar-bone. Immediately after
the report, six more shots were fired in quick succession,
as the conspirators moved steadily closer
to the tethered horses.
One of the cavalry horses stumbled and
plunged; another fell to the ground with a fearful
cry. Then, through the shrieking of the panic-stricken
people, came the loud, imperious voice of
the officer in command, who had risen in the
stirrups and was holding a sword above his head.
"This way, men!"
He swayed in the saddle and sank back; the
Gadfly had fired again with his deadly aim. A
little stream of blood was trickling down the captain's
uniform; but he steadied himself with a
violent effort, and, clutching at his horse's mane,
cried out fiercely:
"Kill that lame devil if you can't take him alive!
It's Rivarez!"
"Another pistol, quick!" the Gadfly called to
his men; "and go!"
He flung down his cap. It was only just in
time, for the swords of the now infuriated soldiers
were flashing close in front of him.
"Put down your weapons, all of you!"
Cardinal Montanelli had stepped suddenly between
the combatants; and one of the soldiers
cried out in a voice sharp with terror:
"Your Eminence! My God, you'll be murdered!"
Montanelli only moved a step nearer, and faced
the Gadfly's pistol.
Five of the conspirators were already on horseback
and dashing up the hilly street. Marcone
sprang on to the back of his mare. In the moment
of riding away, he glanced back to see
whether his leader was in need of help. The roan
was close at hand, and in another instant all would
have been safe; but as the figure in the scarlet
cassock stepped forward, the Gadfly suddenly
wavered and the hand with the pistol sank down.
The instant decided everything. Immediately he
was surrounded and flung violently to the ground,
and the weapon was dashed out of his hand by a
blow from the flat of a soldier's sword. Marcone
struck his mare's flank with the stirrup; the hoofs
of the cavalry horses were thundering up the hill
behind him; and it would have been worse than
useless to stay and be taken too. Turning in the
saddle as he galloped away, to fire a last shot in
the teeth of the nearest pursuer, he saw the Gadfly,
with blood on his face, trampled under the feet
of horses and soldiers and spies; and heard the
savage curses of the captors, the yells of triumph
and rage.
Montanelli did not notice what had happened;
he had moved away from the steps, and was trying
to calm the terrified people. Presently, as he
stooped over the wounded spy, a startled movement
of the crowd made him look up. The soldiers were
crossing the square, dragging their
prisoner after them by the rope with which his
hands were tied. His face was livid with pain and
exhaustion, and he panted fearfully for breath;
but he looked round at the Cardinal, smiling with
white lips, and whispered:
"I c-cong-gratulate your Eminence."
. . . . .
Five days later Martini reached Forli. He
had received from Gemma by post a bundle of
printed circulars, the signal agreed upon in case of
his being needed in any special emergency; and,
remembering the conversation on the terrace, he
guessed the truth at once. All through the journey
he kept repeating to himself that there was
no reason for supposing anything to have happened
to the Gadfly, and that it was absurd to
attach any importance to the childish superstitions
of so nervous and fanciful a person; but the
more he reasoned with himself against the idea,
the more firmly did it take possession of his mind.
"I have guessed what it is: Rivarez is taken, of
course?" he said, as he came into Gemma's room.
"He was arrested last Thursday, at Brisighella.
He defended himself desperately and wounded the
captain of the squadron and a spy."
"Armed resistance; that's bad!"
"It makes no difference; he was too deeply
compromised already for a pistol-shot more or less
to affect his position much."
"What do you think they are going to do with
him?"
She grew a shade paler even than before.
"I think," she said; "that we must not wait to
find out what they mean to do."
"You think we shall be able to effect a rescue?"
"We MUST."
He turned away and began to whistle, with his
hands behind his back. Gemma let him think
undisturbed. She was sitting still, leaning her
head against the back of the chair, and looking
out into vague distance with a fixed and tragic
absorption. When her face wore that expression,
it had a look of Durer's "Melancolia."
"Have you seen him?" Martini asked, stopping
for a moment in his tramp.
"No; he was to have met me here the next
morning."
"Yes, I remember. Where is he?"
"In the fortress; very strictly guarded, and,
they say, in chains."
He made a gesture of indifference.
"Oh, that's no matter; a good file will get rid
of any number of chains. If only he isn't
wounded----"
"He seems to have been slightly hurt, but
exactly how much we don't know. I think you
had better hear the account of it from Michele
himself; he was present at the arrest."
"How does he come not to have been taken
too? Did he run away and leave Rivarez in the
lurch?"
"It's not his fault; he fought as long as anybody
did, and followed the directions given him to
the letter. For that matter, so did they all. The
only person who seems to have forgotten, or
somehow made a mistake at the last minute, is
Rivarez himself. There's something inexplicable
about it altogether. Wait a moment; I will call
Michele."
She went out of the room, and presently came
back with Michele and a broad-shouldered mountaineer.
"This is Marco," she said. "You have heard
of him; he is one of the smugglers. He has just
got here, and perhaps will be able to tell us more.
Michele, this is Cesare Martini, that I spoke to
you about. Will you tell him what happened, as
far as you saw it?"
Michele gave a short account of the skirmish
with the squadron.
"I can't understand how it happened," he concluded.
"Not one of us would have left him if
we had thought he would be taken; but his directions
were quite precise, and it never occurred to
us, when he threw down his cap, that he would
wait to let them surround him. He was close beside
the roan--I saw him cut the tether--and I
handed him a loaded pistol myself before I
mounted. The only thing I can suppose is that
he missed his footing,--being lame,--in trying to
mount. But even then, he could have fired."
"No, it wasn't that," Marcone interposed.
"He didn't attempt to mount. I was the last one
to go, because my mare shied at the firing; and I
looked round to see whether he was safe. He
would have got off clear if it hadn't been for the
Cardinal."
"Ah!" Gemma exclaimed softly; and Martini
repeated in amazement: "The Cardinal?"
"Yes; he threw himself in front of the pistol--
confound him! I suppose Rivarez must have
been startled, for he dropped his pistol-hand and
put the other one up like this"--laying the back
of his left wrist across his eyes--"and of course
they all rushed on him."
"I can't make that out," said Michele. "It's
not like Rivarez to lose his head at a crisis."
"Probably he lowered his pistol for fear of killing
an unarmed man," Martini put in. Michele
shrugged his shoulders.
"Unarmed men shouldn't poke their noses into
the middle of a fight. War is war. If Rivarez
had put a bullet into His Eminence, instead of letting
himself be caught like a tame rabbit, there'd
be one honest man the more and one priest the less."
He turned away, biting his moustache. His
anger was very near to breaking down in tears.
"Anyway," said Martini, "the thing's done,
and there's no use wasting time in discussing how
it happened. The question now is how we're to
arrange an escape for him. I suppose you're all
willing to risk it?"
Michele did not even condescend to answer the
superfluous question, and the smuggler only remarked
with a little laugh: "I'd shoot my own brother, if he
weren't willing."
"Very well, then---- First thing; have you
got a plan of the fortress?"
Gemma unlocked a drawer and took out several
sheets of paper.
"I have made out all the plans. Here is the
ground floor of the fortress; here are the upper
and lower stories of the towers, and here the plan
of the ramparts. These are the roads leading to
the valley, and here are the paths and hiding-places
in the mountains, and the underground passages."
"Do you know which of the towers he is
in?"
"The east one, in the round room with the
grated window. I have marked it on the plan."
"How did you get your information?"
"From a man nicknamed 'The Cricket,' a soldier
of the guard. He is cousin to one of our men--Gino."
"You have been quick about it."
"There's no time to lose. Gino went into
Brisighella at once; and some of the plans we
already had. That list of hiding-places was made
by Rivarez himself; you can see by the handwriting."
"What sort of men are the soldiers of the guard?"
"That we have not been able to find out yet;
the Cricket has only just come to the place, and
knows nothing about the other men."
"We must find out from Gino what the Cricket
himself is like. Is anything known of the government's
intentions? Is Rivarez likely to be tried
in Brisighella or taken in to Ravenna?"
"That we don't know. Ravenna, of course, is
the chief town of the Legation and by law cases
of importance can be tried only there, in the
Tribunal of First Instance. But law doesn't count
for much in the Four Legations; it depends on the
personal fancy of anybody who happens to be in power."
"They won't take him in to Ravenna," Michele interposed.
"What makes you think so?"
"I am sure of it. Colonel Ferrari, the military
Governor at Brisighella, is uncle to the officer that
Rivarez wounded; he's a vindictive sort of brute
and won't give up a chance to spite an enemy."
"You think he will try to keep Rivarez here?"
"I think he will try to get him hanged."
Martini glanced quickly at Gemma. She was
very pale, but her face had not changed at the
words. Evidently the idea was no new one to her.
"He can hardly do that without some formality,"
she said quietly; "but he might possibly
get up a court-martial on some pretext or other,
and justify himself afterwards by saying that the
peace of the town required it."
"But what about the Cardinal? Would he
consent to things of that kind?"
"He has no jurisdiction in military affairs."
"No, but he has great influence. Surely the
Governor would not venture on such a step without
his consent?"
"He'll never get that," Marcone interrupted.
"Montanelli was always against the military
commissions, and everything of the kind. So
long as they keep him in Brisighella nothing
serious can happen; the Cardinal will always take
the part of any prisoner. What I am afraid of is
their taking him to Ravenna. Once there, he's
lost."
"We shouldn't let him get there," said Michele.
"We could manage a rescue on the road; but to
get him out of the fortress here is another
matter."
"I think," said Gemma; "that it would be
quite useless to wait for the chance of his being
transferred to Ravenna. We must make the attempt
at Brisighella, and we have no time to lose.
Cesare, you and I had better go over the plan of
the fortress together, and see whether we can
think out anything. I have an idea in my head,
but I can't get over one point."
"Come, Marcone," said Michele, rising; "we
will leave them to think out their scheme. I have
to go across to Fognano this afternoon, and I
want you to come with me. Vincenzo hasn't sent
those cartridges, and they ought to have been
here yesterday."
When the two men had gone, Martini went up
to Gemma and silently held out his hand. She let
her fingers lie in his for a moment.
"You were always a good friend, Cesare," she
said at last; "and a very present help in trouble.
And now let us discuss plans."
