"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 pa.s.ses 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. G.o.d knows, it's hard enough on all of us; but it's worse for her, poor soul!"