Sooner or later one of those beams was bound to find us. It was pure bad luck that it happened about sixty seconds too soon.

I was hanging by my hands, but my toes were dug into a crack in the outer surface of the wall. I couldn't quite bring myself to let go. John said it was eight feet down, but what did he know? There might be a bottomless abyss under my feet. It was dark down there.

John was bending over me. My right hand still clutched his wrist. He must have been squatting on the barbed wire, because his admonitions to me were interspersed with profane comments. All of a sudden his ruffled hair lit up like a pop-art halo, and light focused on his face. His eyes widened and his lips parted, but I didn't hear what he said. It was drowned out by the sound of the shot.

I let go of the wall, but I did not let go of John. I dragged him with me as I fell, and if he yelled when the barbed wire raked across his body I didn't hear it; the crowd on the terrace was shooting up a storm. If I hadn't known better, I could have sworn they had an automatic rifle or a machine gun.

It was about nine feet down, as a matter of fact - three feet below the soles of my shoes. I landed with scarcely a jar, then John fell on top of me. We went down in a confused tangle and continued to roll. The slope must have been almost 45 degrees, and every rock on it left a bruise on my aching body. There was a stream at the bottom of the hill. Naturally, we rolled into it. If there was a natural obstacle on that hillside that we missed, I would be surprised.

I had been holding on to John, probably out of some vicious urge to use him as a buffer, so we ended up in the same place. In the stream. I don't mean to disparage the stream. It was a nice stream. Shallow, with a soft, muddy bed, and quite warm. I lay there with the water rippling gently across my bruised body till I got my breath back. Off in the distance there were lights, and people yelling. Somebody's head was pressing down on my diaphragm.

"John?" I said.

No answer.

"I hope it's you down there," I said. "Because if it isn't, who is it?"

The head moved feebly. Then a disembodied voice said, "Water. More water. It must have some deeper meaning. In Freudian terms-"

"Freud be d.a.m.ned. It's a stream. We're in it. John, we made it; we escaped from the estate."

"That's nice." The weight on my diaphragm increased.

"We got out, but we're still in danger. I think we had better move on."

We had come a long way down. The moving lights at the top of the hill looked far away, the voices sounded like insects buzzing. But I was not deceived.

"John," I said. "Some of those men have guns."

"Too true." John sat up. "You weren't joking, were you? We really are in a stream. I have never seen such a damp country. The English climate is considered wet, but this-"

"It was the dog," I said. "We could have avoided some of the water if it hadn't been for the dog. John, I am worried about Caesar. That Bruno is no fit keeper. Once we get out of this-"

"Thanks for reminding me." John got slowly to his feet. "So long as we're in the stream we may as well stick to it, in case they fetch Caesar."

"We couldn't be much wetter," I said.

John made no reply to this cheerful speech except for a grunt.

We went downhill, walking in the stream. Gradually the banks rose on either side until we were splashing through a miniature ravine, with trees leaning down from above and roots reaching out of the muddy sides like gnarled arms. To judge from the cries of inquiry and alarm behind us, the search had not been abandoned, but I began to relax. The dog couldn't track us through the water, and the human pursuers couldn't see us unless they shone lights straight down on us. In some places the banks were severely concave; the stream must run high and fast at certain seasons in order to have cut out so much dirt. The only difficulty was that it was hard to see where we were going. The steepness of the sides and the branches overhead cut out most of the moonlight. I reached out and caught John's sleeve. It was very wet - soggy, in fact. He stopped when I touched him, and his breath came out in a sharp gasp.

"Don't be such a scaredy-cat," I hissed. "I can't see. I just wanted to-"

The truth began to dawn on me then; not all at once, but a little bit at a time. The first thing to strike me was the strange feel of the fabric I was touching. It was wet, all right - wet and sticky. Before my feeble brain could go on to the next step, John collapsed into the water with a splash that sent water sloshing up my shins.

The water was only three or four inches deep, but that's deep enough if you are face down in it, which he was. I don't suppose it took me more than a few seconds to turn him over, but it seemed a lot longer. He didn't help any. For the second time in a few hours he was out cold, and I must admit that I didn't draw a deep breath until his breath came out with a watery gurgle, and I knew he was alive.

The water was trickling up around his face, so I dragged him out onto the bank, which was deeply undercut at that point. He was so wet I had a hard time figuring out where he was hurt. I couldn't see anything except the faintest glimmer of fair hair, since even his shirt was muddied and dark. But I finally decided that the major damage was a bullet hole in his arm. He must have lost quite a bit of blood; it was still flowing freely.

It never rains but it pours. I was plucking frantically at my scanty attire, trying to figure out what I could spare for a tourniquet and bandage, and wondering how I was going to do the job in absolute darkness, when something above my head snapped and dirt dribbled down into the water. One of the searchers must have heard the splash and decided to investigate. He had been walking in darkness; now he switched on his light and shone it down into the ravine.

Luckily for us he was on the same side of the stream. I had pulled John completely out of the water, so I could check him over, and we were pressed up against the undercut side of the bank. The flashlight beam illumined the opposite bank, and a good part of the stream itself.

If the searcher had been as smart as he thought he was, he would have noticed that a miniature tide had gone in and out over that far bank in the last few minutes, and he might have drawn some interesting conclusions. It was so obvious to me that I held my breath, expecting a shout that would summon the others.

We were saved by an animal. I don't know what kind of animal, because I never got a good look at it; it was only a sleek, shining blur as it slid through the shallow water and popped into a hole in the opposite bank. A water rat, maybe. Anyhow, the man up above must have a.s.sumed that it was responsible for the splash he had heard. He muttered something and threw a stone at the animal - which shows you what kind of person he was. It missed by a mile. The searcher turned back; I heard him crunching through the weeds, no longer trying to move quietly.

His light had served one useful purpose. In its reflected glow I had gotten a good look at John's arm. With an inaudible sigh I started squirming out of my blouse. It was as clean as any other garment we owned - not very clean, in other words. But it would have to serve temporarily. I was going to feel a little peculiar, trying to hitch a ride without a blouse, but the moments of illumination had told me something else - if I looked as disreputable as my companion, a blouse more or less wouldn't matter.

Ten.

I AM BY NATURE AN OPTIMISTIC PERSON. BUT during those minutes in the mud and the dark, alone with a man who was quietly bleeding to death on my lap, with a mob of murderous brutes scouring the fields to find us... I was depressed. I got so discouraged I even considered giving ourselves up, in order to get medical attention for John. However, I dismissed the thought as soon as it surfaced. Slight as our chances of escape were, they were better than no chance at all, and that was what we would have if we surrendered. No chance.

My father, who knows more corny old aphorisms, mottoes, and adages than any man alive, would have found encouragement in his collection of truisms. "Never say die." "Don't give up the ship." "Don't let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds get you down." And he would have been right.

Four hours after I had been almost ready to give up the ship, we were sitting in the back of a pickup truck that was speeding through the suburbs of Rome.

The sky to the east was brightening and the stars were fading. The truck was an antique, held together by wire and prayer, and I was not really awfully comfortable, because I was squeezed into a s.p.a.ce not quite adequate for a lady of my size. The bed of the truck was filled with vegetables. The corner of a crate of tomatoes dug into my back, and I was holding a sack of carrots on my lap. John was half lying, half sitting on a bag of potatoes. They must have been as lumpy and as hard as rocks, but he didn't complain.

The way in which we had attained these positions is a saga in itself.

John came to while I was fumbling around trying to bandage his arm, and made several heated comments on my clumsiness before I shut him up. When I asked him if he could walk, he replied that he would be willing to consider any reasonable alternative, if I could think of one. There weren't many, and none of them were reasonable. I couldn't carry him. We couldn't wait till morning gilded the skies and made us visible to anyone who might be looking for us.

So we walked. The clothes were partly luck, but I must claim some of the credit. I looked for them. We had to go into the outskirts of Tivoli before we found a housewife who had been too slovenly to take her wash in at nightfall. John complained bitterly about those clothes. True, his pants were six inches too short and considerably too big in every other direction, but the coa.r.s.e blue shirt was nice and large. He needed a lot of material to cover bandages and battle scars.

I had a choice: a rusty black shapeless garment that belonged to the mother of the house, or the cheap rayon skirt and blouse that were her daughter's. John accused me of vanity when I took the latter. They were a little short and a lot too tight, but it was not vanity that prompted my selection, as I proved when the first truck I nailed on the highway came to a screeching stop as soon as the headlights caught me.

The drivers weren't as enthusiastic about John, who had kept out of sight while I waved my thumb, but they accepted the pair of us with a grin and a shrug. (One grinned, the other shrugged.) There were two of them, and they were brothers, on their way to a market in Rome.

So we ended up among the vegetables. I don't know what our newfound friends thought of us. I don't suppose they cared. We could have been penniless students, many of whom wander the roads of Europe during the summer, sleeping in haystacks and less-reputable places, scrounging for food and transportation.

John dropped off to sleep shortly after we climbed aboard. I should have been tired too; it had been an active night. But I was too keyed up to sleep. I sat clutching the carrots and watched the sun come up over Rome.

The mists that hung over the city turned the exquisite pearly pink of a sh.e.l.l as the light struck them. Then they burned away as the sky deepened from rose to blue. High above the angled roofs, Michelangelo's great cupola dominated the skyline. As we neared the city, other landmarks, high on the seven hills, took shape out of the haze; the pointed bell tower of Santa Maria Maggiore, on the Esquiline; the dome of the Gesu; the twisted Baroque towers of Trinita dei Monti, atop the Spanish Steps.

We came into the city by way of the Porta Pia, between the old walls of the Empire, and went roaring along the Via Venti Settembre at a speed that seemed excessive even for that early hour. There was not a great deal of traffic, and the one policeman we pa.s.sed simply waved. I guess the boys were a familiar sight, covering the same route six mornings a week.

When we crossed the Piazza Venezia, I began to wonder where we were going. We were in the heart of the city now; Mussolini had addressed the Romans from the balcony on the Palazzo Venezia, and the square was dominated by the huge white marble structure of the Victor Emmanuel Monument. I would have exchanged all this guidebook knowledge for a quick trip to the prefecture of police. I didn't dare ask the boys from Tivoli to take us there; people are leery about picking up strangers who demand the cops.

When we pa.s.sed the basilica of San Andrea delle Valle, I began to get premonitions. I shook John. He opened one eye.

"Wake up, we're almost there," I said.

The narrow street where the truck finally stopped was only a couple of blocks from the Via delle Cinque Lune. With a discouraged feeling that I was right back where I started from, I climbed over the vegetables and jumped down.

It couldn't have been later than 6 A.M., but the vendors had already set up their stalls. These booths ran along both sides of the street, which was one of the medieval alleyways with no sidewalks or yards, only tall dark fronts of stores and houses walling in the narrow pavement. The stalls were rickety affairs of rough wood; some were brightened by striped canopies, but artificial adornment was unnecessary. The wares on sale made marvelous compositions of shape and color, brighter than any bunting. Soft, crumpled chartreuse leaves of lettuce, symmetrical heaps of oranges and tangerines, tomatoes red as sunrise, bins of green beans, black-red cherries, peaches and strawberries in little wooden boxes. All these and more were being unloaded from the trucks that blocked the street. The noise was deafening - engines were roaring, crates and boxes clattering, people yelling. A good deal of argument seemed to be going on, most of it more or less good-natured bickering over the quality of the goods and the prices.

Our driver jumped down from the cab and came toward me, smiling pleasantly. He was young and rather good-looking, and he knew it; his shirt was open to the waist and a gold crucifix shone against his brown chest.

"Va bene, signorina?" he asked.

"Molto bene, grazie. Thanks for the ride."

"Niente, niente." He waved my thanks away. "Dov'e vostro amico?"

Yes, indeed, where was he? I looked up. All I could see of John was a foot sticking out from among the cabbages. I shook it gently, out of deference for his status as wounded hero. I was worried about him. He had kept up the pace without complaint or visible faltering, but I meant to find a doctor for him first thing.

"John, wake up. We're here."

The driver lowered the tailgate and began unloading, a.s.sisted by his sober-faced companion. The proprietress of the nearest stall, a short, fat woman with three gold teeth, came stumping over, ostensibly to ask the price of the carrots. She let out a howl of pretended outrage when my friend told her how much he was asking. I could see that her eyes were on me, though, and after the first feint she gave up all pretense of being interested in anything else.

"Who's this?" she demanded, jerking a calloused thumb at me. "Another of the foreign tarts you pick up, Battista?"

Battista, who knew I spoke Italian, made deprecatory noises. I smiled sweetly at the old busybody and handed her the sack of carrots.

"They are very cheap, signora, good, sweet carrots. A bargain. My friend is there in the truck. He fell and hurt himself yesterday, when we were hiking in the hills. Signor Battista was kind enough to give us a ride."

I thought I had better mention that John was hurt in case he had pa.s.sed out again. It was just as well I had done so. He came crawling out from among the cabbages and he looked awful. He must have sc.r.a.ped the scab off the cut on his head, because there was blood running down his cheek.

The old lady gave a cry of distress and sympathy. Women of all ages and all nationalities are suckers for a boyish face and a little blood.

"Ah, poverino poverino - poor child, how did you hurt yourself?" - poor child, how did you hurt yourself?"

Squatting on the tailgate, John gave her a long look out of his melting baby-blue eyes, and smiled wanly; "I fell, signora. Thank you... you are very kind..."

She put out a plump arm to steady him as he slid down. He had gone a sickly gray under his tan, and he looked as if he would have fallen but for her support. If it had been anybody but John, I would have melted with sympathy too. Seeing as it was John, I reserved judgment.

"I will take him to a doctor," I said.

"No, I'm all right. Just need to rest awhile."

"Where?" I demanded. "We can't go to a hotel looking the way we do. Especially when we haven't any money."

The old lady must have picked up some English from the tourists.

"My daughter has rooms for rent," she said. "Just around the corner is her apartment."

She didn't finish the offer; it was clear from her expression that her native caution was at war with her maternal instinct.

John looked like Saint Sebastian minus the arrows - all n.o.ble suffering.

"We have money, signora," he murmured. "Not much, but we could not accept charity. Take this, please - I think I can walk a little...."

He held out a handful of crumpled hundred-lira notes.

Everything I owned was in my purse and my suitcases back at the villa. Fool that I was, I had forgotten men carry their junk in their pockets. Not that I had planned to go to a hotel anyway. I intended to head straight for the police station. When I had mentioned this during our wanderings the night before, John had not been overly enthusiastic, but he hadn't objected. Now I began to suspect he had something else in mind.

There was nothing I could do about it. We had attracted quite a crowd by this time. Romans are cynical, big-city types, but in any city - yes, even in New York - you will collect a certain number of willing helpers if you are young and beautiful and in trouble. Helpful arms gathered John up and propelled his tottering footsteps in the direction the old lady had indicated. I could only trail along, thinking nasty suspicious thoughts.

The apartment was old and poorly furnished, but it was reasonably clean. The room had an iron bed, a pine dresser, two straight chairs, a washbasin, and a picture of Saint Catherine accepting a ring from the baby Jesus. Once again I mentioned a doctor, and was shouted down by my a.s.sistants, who now felt that we were all one big happy family. They wouldn't call the doctor until the patient was just about ready for the last rites. A little wine, a little soup, a little pasta, and the poor young man would be just fine. The b.u.mp on the head had hurt him, but there was nothing seriously wrong. A little wine, a little soup, a little pasta...

Finally I got rid of them and closed the door. Then I turned to John, who was lying on the bed staring blandly at the cracked ceiling.

"I'll send a doctor," I said. "On my way to the prefecture."

"Wait." He sat up with an alacrity that confirmed my worst suspicions, and caught at my arm. "Let's discuss this first."

"There is nothing to discuss. I told you what I meant to do. The longer we wait, the more opportunity Pietro will have to clear out that workshop."

"Sit down." He gave my arm a shrewd twist. I sat down.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Didn't you mean to?"

"No. I'm sorry. But you are so d.a.m.ned impetuous...." He swung his legs off the bed, so that we were sitting side by side. The sudden movement made him go a shade grayer. He might have been putting on some of his weakness, but not all of it was pretense.

"Are you really going to turn me in?" he asked, with a faint sideways smile. "After all we've been through together?"

"You stuck with me," I said grudgingly. "You would have had a better chance of escape alone, I suppose. d.a.m.n it, John, I don't like to be a fink, but what choice do I have? I refuse to let that gang of swindlers get away with this. Why are you so considerate of them? They tried to kill you."

"I don't think there was anything personal in that," John said.

"Personal, impersonal, who cares? How can I agree to let you off when I don't even know what you've done?" I demanded, my mounting anger compounded with a certain degree of shame. "If you would tell me about the plot - give me some alternative..."

"That does seem reasonable."

"I mean, if you won't even... Oh. You will tell me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Lie down," I added. "You look like h.e.l.l."

He obeyed. I turned so that I could see him. It was amazing how innocent that man could look when he wanted to. His eyes were very blue. The shadows under them were like bruises. Then he grinned, and his fine-boned face was transformed - from Saint Sebastian to Mercutio.

"I was born of poor but honest parents," he began.

"Be serious."

"I am. My parents were extremely poor. They were also of the gentry - not the landed gentry, unfortunately. Only a few paltry acres around the family mansion, which has approximately five years more to go before the termites devour it. Do you have any idea what a handicap that combination is - poverty and gentility? I couldn't get a position-"