"Nonsense! who is speaking of dying? Think of our rescue. It is not safe to remain here, and the sooner we get out of this hole the better. Where is this cell?"

"Ah, if I knew that! I have no matches, and, therefore, could not very well fix where I was."

"Good; we will find out."

Bartolomeo drew a match from his pocket, and soon a bright light illuminated the cell, without, however, revealing a consoling prospect.

"Humph!" growled the major, "it was, after all, better down there."

"But there, also, you did not find an exit."

"True; but I was, perhaps, awkward. You may do better. Let us descend."

"As if that was so easy. If one holds the scarf, the other can descend, and that's the end of the chapter," said Aslitta, calmly.

"Well, one's enough," thought the major, after a few moments'

deliberation.

"How so?"

"Well, I don't amount to much, and if I go under, my poor wife will be taken care of. You will give Aurora a small annuity, will you not, marquis, should she fall in need, and you will tell her that I died for my country? You, on the other hand, must preserve yourself. What would become of Italy without you? Come, I will hold the scarf, and you can descend by it. The more I consider it, the surer I am that there's a ca.n.a.l down there, by means of which we can get into the moat of the fortress. Well, won't you do it?"

"No," replied Aslitta, with emotion. "I would be a scoundrel to save myself at your expense."

"But there's no other way. Were I in your place I would not hesitate an instant. Think of your friends; you are to lead them, and if you are missing, they are lost."

Tears rose to Aslitta's eyes, but he resisted no longer, and, cordially shaking the major's hand, he said: "Friend, I accept your sacrifice, and if I find an exit, I will save you."

It seemed to Bartolomeo as if Aslitta's clasp was the most precious thing he had gained, and he was almost overcome with emotion. But he quickly recovered when he heard footsteps close at hand, and urged Aslitta to leave.

The young man embraced the major.

"Thanks, in the name of Italy!" he ardently exclaimed. Then, tying the scarf around his waist, he swung himself from the rim of the well.

Bartolomeo held the other end of the scarf with all his might. Aslitta must now have reached the bottom. At the moment when the major let go of the silken stuff, a key was turned in the lock and the door opened.

The major had crouched on the floor; but, as he threw a glance at those who entered, he almost uttered a loud e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, for before him stood--Benedetto. "I thought so," muttered Bartolomeo, in a rage; "some cursed chance has rescued him. Such a scoundrel's soul is too bad for the devil himself."

"Get up, vagabond," roughly exclaimed Benedetto.

He had looked up Aslitta to avenge Bartolomeo's escape on him, and he was in a very bad humor.

As the major did not stir, Benedetto uttered an oath and cried:

"Are you deaf, Aslitta?"

He then s.n.a.t.c.hed a torch from one of the soldiers who accompanied him and looked around. As if struck by lightning he started when a well-known voice tauntingly said:

"Good-day, Andrea Cavalcanti."

"You and always you!" cried the bandit furiously. "Where is the other one?"

The major shrugged his shoulders, while the soldiers looked in every corner and Benedetto angrily gnawed his under lip.

"He has probably escaped through the well," said one of the soldiers at last.

"Oh, then we have him sure," laughed another.

"Light here," ordered Benedetto, bending over the opening. The soldier obeyed as directed and Bartolomeo felt his heart cease beating.

"We have him sure," one of the soldiers had said. Was the well a trap? A strange sound was now heard. The major sank on his knees. He recognized the noise. The water was slowly rising in the well and soon stood hand-high under the stone curbing.

"Where does the water come from?" asked Benedetto, stepping back.

"About a quarter of an hour ago," replied one of the soldiers, "the commander gave the order to open the sluices of Santa Maria. Ca.n.a.ls run from the aqueduct under the citadel, and that's why I said before we had our prisoner sure. He is drowned."

"Speak, wretch!" said San Pietro, turning to the major. "Did Aslitta escape through the well?"

But Bartolomeo made no reply. A dull sob escaped his lips, and his eyes, filled with hot tears, fixed themselves, in horror, on the silk scarf which the rising flood wafted to and fro.

"One has escaped," cried Benedetto, from between his gritted teeth, "but the other shall suffer for it. Take the prisoner with you," he added, addressing the soldiers; "to-morrow at daybreak he shall be shot."

He walked toward the door. Bartolomeo slowly rose to his feet and muttered only a single word:

"Villain!"

CHAPTER x.x.xI

SPERO

The morning of the 16th of March had come, and Milan had a martial appearance. Placards were attached to all the walls, informing the Imperial authorities of the ultimatum of the people of Lombardy; a great throng was gathered around these placards, and the streets were crowded with Austrian troops.

Grenadiers were on guard before the official buildings, but the sentinels were suddenly disarmed, and, without being able to tell how it happened, the palace was occupied by the citizens. The munic.i.p.al councillors fled in every direction; only the president of the Senate remained firm, and only when the tumult became greater, he, too, went, guarded by an escort, to the Brobetto palace, which was situated in the centre of the city.

In the Via Del Monte the crowd was the greatest, and all pa.s.sage was soon entirely cut off. Rifle shots were suddenly heard, deafening shouts followed, and there was a terrible confusion. Radetzky had ordered his soldiers to load heavily and to fire into the crowd. A howl of rage followed the first discharge, and numberless wounded fell to the ground.

That was no honest combat, but an infamous ma.s.sacre.

Monte-Cristo stood at one of the lofty arched windows in the Vidiserti palace, and, with a dark frown, observed the terrible ma.s.sacre which Radetzky's minions created in the streets. Spero stood at his father's side.

"See, papa," he said, with tear-choked utterance, "that wounded woman carrying a dead child. It was shot in her arms. Oh, the poor wretches, what did they do to the soldiers?"

"My child," sadly replied Monte-Cristo, "man's worst enemy is man!"

"Papa!" suddenly exclaimed Spero, "see, there, the flag!"

The count glanced in the direction indicated. A young Italian had just climbed up the tower of a church opposite the Vidiserti palace, and there unfurled the national standard. The tricolor fluttered gayly in the wind. Suddenly, however, the young man was seen to totter; he sought to hold himself, turned a somersault and fell crushed to the pavement. A bullet had hit him.