The Finger of Fate Part 29

He had to some extent succeeded; and was beginning to lose consciousness of his misery, when something striking him on the forehead startled him to fresh wakefulness. It was a hard substance that had hit him; and the blow caused pain, though not enough to draw from him any exclamation.

He only raised himself on his elbow, and waited for a repet.i.tion of the stroke, or something that might explain it. While listening attentively, he heard a sound, as if some light missile had been flung through the window, and fallen on the floor, not far from where he lay.

He looked to see what it could have been. There was no light, save what came from a star-lit sky--sent still more sparingly through the narrow aperture in the wall--so, of course, the floor of the chamber was in deep obscurity. Notwithstanding this, an object of oblong shape was revealed upon it, distinguishable by its white colour. The captive, on clutching it, could tell it was a piece of paper, folded in the form of a letter. Supposing it to be one, he was hindered for the time from perusing it; and he remained holding it in his hand, but without making any movement. Meanwhile he kept his eye upon the window, through which it had evidently come, to see whether anything else should enter by the same aperture.

He watched for a full half hour; and, as nothing more seemed likely to be thrown in to him, he turned his attention to that which had at first startled him, and which he now imagined might be something projected into his cell after the fashion of the folded sheet. Groping over the floor, he became convinced of it. His hand came in contact with a knife! He felt that its blade was in a sheath, a covering of goat-skin, such as he had seen carried by the brigands. Without comprehending the intent of the unexpected presents, or from whom they had come, he could not help thinking there was a purpose in them; and, after watching the window another hour or so, he began conjecturing what this purpose might be.

He was not very successful. A variety of hypotheses came before his mind, but none that satisfied him. Under the circ.u.mstances the gift of a keen-bladed knife suggested suicide; but that could hardly be the intent of the donor. At all events, the recipient, wretched as he was, did not feel himself reduced to quite such a state of despair. No doubt there was writing on the paper, and no doubt, could he have read it, it would have enlightened him. But there was no chance to do so, nor would there be until morning. His sense of touch was not sufficiently delicate to enable him to decipher it in the darkness, and there was no help for it but to wait for the dawn.

He did wait till dawn, but not one instant after. As the first rays of the aurora came stealing through the aperture, he stood close to it, spreading the unfolded sheet upon the sill. There was writing. The words were Italian, and, fortunately, written in a bold, clerkly hand, though evidently in haste. In the translation it ran thus:--

"You must make your escape _upwards_, towards the zenith. There is no chance towards the horizon on any side. The knife will enable you to cut your way through the roof. And take care to slide off the back of the house, the sentry being in front. Once out, make for the pa.s.s by which you came up. You should remember it. It lies due north. If you need guiding, look for the Polar star. At the head of the gorge there is a picket. You may easily steal past him. If not--you have the knife! But, with proper caution, there need be no occasion for your using it. His duty is not much by night. He has only to listen to any signal that may be given from below. And his post is not in the gorge, but on the summit--to one side. You may easily creep into the ravine, and past, without his seeing you. At the mountain foot it is different. The sentry placed there is only for the night. In daytime he would be of no use--as the place can be seen from above in time to give warning of any approach. This man will be awake, as his life would be forfeited by his being found asleep. He would be concealed upon the edge of the ravine. You cannot pa.s.s, without his seeing you; and you must then use the knife. Don't try to pa.s.s; he would have the advantage of seeing you first. Instead, conceal yourself in the ravine, and remain there till morning. At daybreak he will leave his post--as it is then no longer necessary to keep it. He comes up to the rendezvous. Wait till he has pa.s.sed you; and also till he has got to the head of the gorge--longer if you like. Then make your way off as you best can. Go with all speed, for you will be seen and pursued. Make for the house where you stopped on your way hither. Save yourself! Save Lucetta Torreani!"

The astonishment caused by this strange epistle hindered the reader from perceiving that there was a postscript. He saw it at length. It ran as follows:--

"If you would also save the writer, _swallow this note as soon as you have read it_."

Having run it over again, to make sure of its meaning--and to memorise the instructions it contained--the postscript was almost litre rally complied with; and when the jailer entered the cell, bearing the usual breakfast of boiled macaroni, not a sc.r.a.p of paper could be seen, nor anything to create suspicion. The prisoner only spoke of hunger; and began masticating the macaroni as though the tasteless stuff was the most savoury of dishes.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

CUTTING A WAY SKYWARD.

His jailer once gone out of the cell, the captive was left undisturbed to consider the plan of escape so unexpectedly proposed to him. The first question that occurred was: Who could the unknown writer be? It was evidently some one of a refined intelligence; the writing proved this, but more the method in which the instructions were conveyed.

These were so cunningly conceived, and so clearly expressed, as to be quite intelligible to him for whom they were intended.

At first he thought of its being some plot on the part of Corvino--a _ruse_ to give the chief a chance of recapturing him, and so taking him in the act of attempting to escape.

Then came the reflection, _Cui bono_? Corvino could not want an excuse for taking his life. On the contrary, he had every reason for preserving it--at least until some definite answer about the ransom. If the demand should be again refused, the captive knew this would be plea sufficient for putting him to death. The threat of the brigand had been backed by the a.s.surance given him in his conversation with the unfortunate Popetta. He no longer doubted of its being in earnest.

It could not be Corvino who had furnished him with the means of escape.

Who then? Certainly not his own countryman. The renegade was his bitterest enemy--ever foremost in persecuting him. Of all the band, his thoughts now turned to Tommaso, simply because there was no other who had shown him the slightest sign of sympathy. Tommaso had done so, during the two days of his attendance; but then he presumed it to be at the instance of the signorina. She was dead; and her influence must have perished along with her. What further interest could the man have in him?

True, he seemed something different from his outlawed a.s.sociates. He at least appeared less brutal than they--as if he had seen better days, and had not fallen so far below the normal condition of humanity. Henry Harding had noticed this during the slight communication held with him.

Beside, there was evidence of it in the conversation he had heard under his window--in relation to the vile designs on Lucetta Torreani. But then--Tommaso's motive for a.s.sisting him? And at such risk to himself!

Death would be the reward of any of the band who might aid him in escape, or even connive at it--death sure and cruel. Why should Tommaso place himself in peril? What had he, Henry Harding, done to deserve the sympathy of this man? Nothing.

The last word in the letter of instruction now occurred to him--not the postscript, but the closing sentence of the epistle itself--"_Save Lucetta Torreani_!"

Was this the explanation? Could this be a clue to Tommaso's conduct?

If so, Tommaso was indeed the writer.

It was at all events an injunction calculated to stimulate the prisoner to action. The thought of the girl's danger was never for a moment out of his mind. Now that this scheme was brought before him, he ceased his conjectures, and gave himself up to considering how he should carry out the design suggested in such a mysterious manner.

Plainly he could do nothing before night. Any attempt during daylight might be detected by his jailer, coming in with his food. The last meal having been brought him would be the cue for commencement.

During the day he was not idle. He made careful survey of his cell, chiefly the woodwork overhead. The boards appeared in a dilapidated condition, as if they would easily give way to the blade of a knife.

His chagrin was great in discovering that the ceiling was too high to be reached--nearly a foot beyond the tips of his fingers, held aloft to their fullest stretch. This was indeed something to disconcert him.

He looked despairingly around the cell. There was nothing on which he could stand--neither stool nor stone--nothing to give him the necessary elevation. The chapter of instructions had been written in vain; the writer had not contemplated this difficulty in their fulfilment.

For a moment the captive believed he would have to abandon the scheme.

It seemed impossible of execution.

Ingenuity becomes quickened under circ.u.mstances of dire necessity. In Henry Harding's case this truth was ill.u.s.trated. Once more scanning the floor of his cell, he perceived the litter of fern leaves that formed his stye-like couch. It might be possible to collect them into a lump, and so obtain the standpoint he required. In his mind he made a calculation of the quant.i.ty, and the probable height to which they would elevate him. He did not experiment practically, by ma.s.sing the litter and so making a trial. Any disturbance of things might excite suspicion. That would be a task easily accomplished, and could be left to the last moment.

And to the last moment it was left. As soon as the morose attendant took his departure for the night--though without even the salutation "_Buono notte_"--the captive set about carrying out his design.

The fern leaves were collected into a heap and placed near the middle of the floor. He took great care in packing them, so as to form a firm cushion, and confining them within a small s.p.a.ce, to increase the elevation. He had also observed the precaution, to select a spot under that part of the ceiling that appeared most a.s.sailable.

The stage erected, he mounted on it, knife in hand. He could just reach the boards with his blade; but this appeared enough, and he commenced making an incision. As he conjectured, the wood was half decayed with damp, or dry rot, and gave way before the knife, which by good luck was a sharp one. But he had not worked long, when he found his support sinking gradually beneath him; and, before he had accomplished the tenth part of his task, the fern footstool had become so flattened that he was unable to proceed. He descended to the floor, rearranged it, and then recommenced his cutting and carving. All in silence, or with the least noise possible; for there was his knowledge of a sharp-eared sentry in the ante-chamber, and another keeping guard close by the window of his cell.

Again the cushion sank, with only another fraction of the task accomplished. Again was it repadded; and the work proceeded for another short spell.

A new idea now helped him to keep on continuously. He took off his coat, folded it into a thick roll, placed it on the summit of the fern heap, and then set his feet upon it. This gave him a firmer pedestal to stand upon, enabling him to complete the task he had undertaken. In fine, he succeeded in cutting a trap-like hole through the floor-boards, big enough for his body to be pa.s.sed through.

It was done before twelve o'clock. He could tell this by the brigands still keeping up their carousal outside. Hitherto the sound of their voices had favoured him, drowning any noise he might have made, otherwise audible to the sentries. Moreover, these were less on the alert during the earlier hours.

About midnight all sounds ceased, and the band seemed to have gone to sleep. It was time for him to continue the attempt at escape. Putting on his coat, he caught hold of one of the joists, and drew himself up through the hole he had cut. Above, as antic.i.p.ated, he found himself in a sort of garret-loft.

He commenced groping around for some means of egress. At first he could find none, and supposed the s.p.a.ce to be enclosed without any aperture.

His head coming in contact with the roof, he perceived it to be a thatch of either straw or rushes. He was planning how he should cut his way through it, when a glimmer of light came under his eye, falling faintly along the floor.

Approaching the aperture where it was admitted, he discovered a sort of dormer window, without gla.s.s, but closed by a dilapidated shutter.

There was no bar, and the shutter turned open to the outside. He looked cautiously through, and scanned the ground beneath, as also the premises adjoining. He saw that it was the back of the house, and that there were no others in the rear. There was no light, or anything, to show that human beings were astir.

He could perceive a clump of trees standing a short distance off, and others straggling up the sides of the mountain. If he could succeed in getting under this cover, without disturbing the men who kept guard over his cell, he would stand a good chance of escape, at least so far as the first line of sentries was concerned. As to those keeping the pa.s.s, that would be an enterprise altogether distinct. To get clear of his prison was the thing now to be thought of; and he proceeded to take his measures. How to creep through the dormer window and let himself down outside were naturally the first questions that suggested themselves.

The night was dark, though with a sky grey and starry. It was the sombre gloom that in all its obscurity shrouded the extinguished crater.

He could not see the ground beneath; but, knowing how high he had climbed into the garret, the descent could not be a very deep one, unless indeed the house stood on the edge of some scarped elevation.

The thought of this caused him to hesitate; and, once more craning his neck over the sill, he endeavoured to penetrate the obscurity below.

But he could not see the ground, and as it would not do to remain any longer, he turned face inwards, and, backing through the window, let his legs drop down the wall. A wooden bar placed tranversely across the sill, seemed to offer the proper holding place for his hands. He grasped it to balance his body for the fall; but the treacherous support gave way, and he fell in such fashion as to throw him with violence on his shoulder.

He was stunned, and lay still--in what appeared to be the bottom of a drain or trench. Fortunate for him his having done so. The crack of the breaking bar had been heard by the sentries, who came running round to discover the cause.

"I'm sure I heard something," said one of the two.

"Bah! nothing of the kind. You must have been mistaken."

"I could swear to it--a noise like a blow with a stick, or the fall of a bundle of f.a.gots."

"Oh, that was it! there's the cause then, over your head; that window-shutter flapping in the wind."

"Ah! like enough it was. To the devil with the rickety old thing! What good does it do there, I wonder?"

And the satisfied alarmist, following his less suspicions comrade, returned to the front. By the time they regained their respective posts, the prisoner had crept out of the dark ditch, and was skulking cautiously towards the cover--which he succeeded in reaching without further interrupting the tranquillity of their watch.