Chapter X (1)

How Mr. Pelly, subject to interruption, read aloud a translation from Italian. Who was the Old Devil? Who was the Duchessa? Of the narrator's incarceration. Of his incredible escape. Whose horse was that in the Avenue? How Mr. Pelly read faster. Was Uguccio killed? Sir Stopleigh scandalised. But then it was the Middle Ages--one of them, anyhow! How only Duchesses know if Dukes are asleep. Of the bone Mr. Polly picked with Madeline. But what becomes of Unconscious Cerebration? Ambrose Paré. Marta's little knife. Love was not unknown in the Middle Ages. The end of the manuscript. But Sir Stopleigh went out to see a visitor, in the middle. How Madeline turned white, and went suddenly to bed. What was it all about? Seventy-seven could wait.

Of course you recollect that Mr. Pelly, when he came back from his great-grandniece's wedding at Cowcester, was to read the manuscript Professor Schrudengesser had sent him from Florence, which had been the probable cause of all that fantastic dream-story he wrote out so cleverly from memory? Dear Uncle Christopher!--how lucky he should recollect it all like that! Especially now that it had all turned out real, because where was the use of denying it after Mrs. Aiken had heard the photograph speak, too? If a mere photograph could make itself audible, of course a picture could--the original!

Mr. Pelly's reading of Professor Schrudengesser's translation of the Florentine manuscript was fixed for the evening after Madeline's return to Surley Stakes. Uncle Christopher dined alone with his adopted niece and her parents, after which he was to read the manuscript aloud in the library where the picture was hanging. This was a _sine qua non_ to Madeline. The picture simply _must_ hear that story. But of course she said nothing of the reasons of her increased curiosity on this point to anyone, not even to Mr. Pelly himself.

Behold, therefore, the family and the old gentleman settling down to enjoy the manuscript before the picture and the log-fire beneath it. The reader preliminarises, of course; wavering, to do justice to his impending start.

"Now, Uncle Christopher dear, don't talk, but begin reading, and let's hear the picture-story." So spoke Miss Madeline when she thought Mr. Pelly had hesitated long enough.

But this did not accelerate matters, for the old gentleman, perceiving that her perusal of his dream-narrative had landed her somehow in the conclusion that the picture and the manuscript must be connected, felt bound to enter his protest against any such rash assumption. "We must bear in mind," he said, "that there is absolutely nothing to connect this manuscript with that picture over the chimneypiece except the name Raimondi. And although the picture was certainly purchased from a castle owned by a family of that name, there is no reason whatever to suppose it to be a portrait of a member of that family. And the fact that a portrait of a lady is spoken of--as we shall see directly--in this manuscript, no more connects the story with this picture than with any other picture. My friend Professor Schrudengesser, although it would be difficult to do justice to his erudition, and impossible to quarrel with most of his conclusions, is impulsive in the highest degree, and no one is more liable to be misled by a false clue. In this case, however, he admits that it is the merest surmise, and that at least we are on very doubtful ground."

Mr. Pelly felt contented, as with a satisfactory peroration, and was going to dive straight into the manuscript, which he had really folded to his liking, this time. But the Baronet, to claim a share in erudition for the landed gentry, must needs look weighty with tightly closed lips, and then open them to say, "Very doubtful--very doubtful--ve-ry doubtful!" And this, of course, provoked his daughter to a renewed attitude of _parti pris_, merely from contradiction, for really she knew no more about the matter than this story has shown, so far.

"Don't go on shaking your head backwards and forwards like that, Pupsey dear," said this disrespectful girl. "You'll shake it off. Besides, as to her not being a member of the Raimondi family, isn't it logical to assume that everybody is a member of any family till the contrary is proved? At least, _you'd_ say it on your side, you know, if you wanted it, and I should be frightened to contradict you."

This provoked incredulity and even derision. After which, a remark about the clock caused Mr. Pelly actually to begin reading, with a word of apology about the probable imperfection of the translation. Even then he stopped to say that he hoped he had clearly stated the Herr Professor's opinion that the date of the manuscript would be about 1559, as it speaks to the "Duchessa Isabella," to whom it is written, of "your recent nuptials." He added that no doubt this lady was Isabella dei Medici, daughter of Cosmo, the second of the name, who in 1558 married Orsini, Duke of Bracciano.

"Never mind them," said Madeline, interrupting, "unless he poisoned her or there was something exciting and mediæval."

"Well," said Mr. Pelly, rather apologetically, "he certainly _did_ poison her, strictly speaking. That is, if Webster's tragedy of Victoria Corombona is historically correct. If you get a conjurer to poison your portrait's lips, with a full knowledge that your wife makes a point of kissing them every night before she goes to bed...."

"That's the sort of thing _I_ like. Go on!"

"Why ... of course you place yourself in a very equivocal position."

"Yes," said Madeline, "and what's more, it shows what pictures can do if they try. Of course he murdered her. What are you looking so sagacious for, Pupsey?" For the Bart's head was shaking slowly. He showed some symptoms of a wish to circumscribe the Middle Ages--to stint them of colour and romance.

"It might be a case to go to a Jury," said he grudgingly. Whereupon Mr. Pelly began to read in earnest.

"'To the most illustrious Duchessa Isabella, most beautiful among the beautiful daughters of her princely father, queen of all poesy, matchless among musicians, mistress of many languages, to whose improvisations accompanied on the lute the stars of heaven stop to listen....' This goes on for some time," said Mr. Pelly.

"Skip it, Uncle Christopher. I dare say she was a stupid little dowdy."

"Very likely! H'm--h'm--h'm! Yes--suppose I go on here: 'In obedience to your highness's august commands I have set down here the full story of my marvellous escape from prison in the Castello of Montestrapazzo, where I passed a _semestre sottoterraneo_'--six months underground--the Professor seems to have left some characteristic phrases in Italian. I won't stop to translate them unless you ask--shouldn't like to appear patronising!--'over twenty-five years since, being then quite a young man--in truth, younger than my son Gherardo, who is the bearer of this, whom you may well recognise at once by his marvellous likeness to his mother, whose affectionate greetings he will convey to you more readily than I can write them. For when I look upon his face it seems to me I almost see again the face as I painted it years ago, the _sognovegliante_ look'--the Professor fancies the writer invented this word--_dream-waking_, that sort of thing--'the _sognovegliante_ look of the eyes, the happy laughter of the mouth. And, indeed, as you know her now, she is not unlike the boy, and she changes but little with the years. For even the beautiful golden hair keeps its colour of those days....'"

At this point Madeline interrupted: "But that's the picture-girl down to the ground. How can anybody doubt it? Why, look at her!"

Mr. Pelly was dubious. "I don't know. I couldn't say. There's hardly enough to go upon."

"That's exactly like a scholarly old gentleman! But, Uncle Christopher dear, do just get up a minute and come here and _look_!" Mr. Pelly complied.

Generally speaking, we thought it might be rash to allow ourselves to be influenced by a description; it was always safest to suspend judgment until after something else, or something still later than something else. We had very little to go upon, independently of the fact that the name Raimondi connected itself with both the portrait and the manuscript.

"Then go independently! However, let's come back and get on with the story." The speaker went back to her place at her mother's feet, and Mr. Pelly resumed.

"Where were we? Oh--'colour of those days'--oh yes!--'and the curvature of the line of his nostril that is all his mother's....'"

Madeline inserted a _sotto voce_: "Of course, it's the picture-girl!" The reader took no notice.

"... That he will prove himself of service to his Excellency the Duke I cannot doubt, for the boy is ready with his pen as with his sword, though, indeed, as I myself was in old days, a thought too quick with the latter, and hot-headed on occasion shown. But him you will come to know. I, for my part, will now comply as best I may with your wish, and tell you the story of my imprisonment and escape.

"I was then in my twenty-first year; but, young as I was, I already had some renown as a painter. And I think, had God willed that I should continue in the practice of the art that I loved, my name might still be spoken with praise among the best. Yet I will not repine at the fate that has made of me little better than a _poderista_, a farmer, for see now how great has been the happiness of my lot! Figure it to yourself in contrast with that of a man--such a one have I seen, of whom I shall tell you--full of life and health, all energy and purpose, cast into a prison for the crime of another, and unable to die for the little poisonous hopes that would come, day by day, of a release that never was to come itself. His lot might have been mine too, but for the courage and decision of the woman who has been my good throughout--who has been the one great treasure and happiness of my life. Yet one thing I do take ill in my heart--that the picture I painted of her, the last I ever touched, should have been so cruelly destroyed.'" Mr. Pelly paused in his reading.

"The Herr Professor and myself," said he, "are divided in opinion about some points in connexion with this--but perhaps I had better read on, and we can talk about it after."

"'For it was surely the best work I had ever painted. And none other can paint her now as I did then. But I must not indulge this useless regret. Let me get to my story.

"'Know, then, that, being in my twenty-first year, and in love with no woman, in part, as I think, owing to a memory of my boyhood I treasured in my heart--a memory I did not know as Love, but one that had a strange power of swaying my life--that I, being thus famous enough to be sought out by those who loved the art, whether for its own sake, or to add to their fame, was sent for to paint the young bride of a great noble, the Duke Raimondi, at his villa that stands out in the plain of the Arno, nearer to Pistoia than to Firenze. Thither, then, I go with all speed, for the Raimondi was a noble of great weight, and not to be lightly gainsaid. But of this young bride of his I knew nothing, neither of her parentage, nor even of her nationality; indeed, I had been told, by some mistake of my informant, that she was by birth a _Francese_. You may well believe, then, that I was utterly astounded when I found she was...'"

Here Mr. Pelly paused in his reading, and wiped his spectacles. "I am sorry to say," said he, "that we come to a gap in the manuscript here--a _hiatus valde deflendus_--and we cannot tell how much is missing. There is, of course, no numbering of the pages to guide us. Italians, it seems, are in the habit of remaining stupefied--a phrase I have just translated was '_Son rimasto stupefatto_'--on the smallest provocation, and the expression might only mean that this bride of the Raimondi was an _Inglese_, and plain."

"We are plain, sometimes," Madeline admitted. "But what geese antiquarians are! You should always have a girl at your elbow, to tell things. Why, of course, this young person was the Memory he had treasured in his heart!"

"I should think it very likely," said Mr. Pelly, "from what follows later. Only, nothing proves it, so far. I should like the arrangement you suggest, my dear Madeline; however, we must get along now, if that clock's right." He nodded at one on the chimneypiece, with Time, made in gold, as a mower of hay; then continued reading:

"'Oh, with what joy my fingers closed on that accursed throat! One moment more, and I had sent my old monster whither go the accursed, who shall trouble us no further, yet shall bear for ever the burden of their sins, a debt whereof the capital shall never be repaid, even to the end of all eternity, Amen! But alas!--that one moment was not for me, for the knave who bore the mace, though he missed my head, struck me well and full, half-way betwixt the shoulder and the ear; and though it was a blow that might not easily kill a young man such as I, yet was I stunned by the shock of it, and knew no more till I found myself...'"

"What on earth is all this about?" said Madeline. "Surely the wrong page, Uncle Christopher."

"Very wrong indeed! But it can't be helped. We must lump it. It may be one folded page missing or it may be half a dozen; we have no clue. We must accept the text as it is." And Mr. Pelly went on reading:

"'... Found myself on the back of a horse, going at an easy amble up a hilly road in mountains. I was bound fast behind a strong rider, of whom I could see nothing at first but his steel cap or morion--and I thought I knew him by it, the basnet thereof being dinted, as the man whose sword my beloved had shed her blood to stop, that else had ended my days for me then and there. For in those days, _Eccellenza_, I had such eyes to note all things about me as even youth has rarely. On either side of us rode another man-at-arms, one of whom I could recognise as him who had struck at me with his mace, also missing of slaying me, by the great mercy of God.

"'I had little heart to speak to either of them, as you may think, and, indeed, was a mere wreck of myself of two hours ago; for I judged of how time had gone by the last smouldering red of the sundown above the dark, flat, purple of the hills. My thirst was hard to bear, and the great pain of my head and shoulder, shaken as both were by the movement of the horse. But I knew I might ask in vain, though I saw where a wine-flask swung on the saddle-bow of him of the mace. It is wondrous, _Eccellenza_, what youth, and great strength, and pride can endure, rather than ask a _gentilezza_ of an enemy!

"'Thus, then, we travelled on together, my guards taking little heed of each other, and none of me in my agony; seeming, indeed, to have no care if I lived or died. They rode as fellows on a journey so often do when they have said their most on such matters as they have in common, and are thinking rather of the good dinner and the bed that awaits them at their journey's end than of what they pass on the road, or of what they have left behind. One of them, the knave that had struck me down, who seemed the most light-hearted of the three, would at such odd times as pleased him break into a short length of song, which might for all I know have been of his own making, so far as the words went; while as for the tune, it was a cadence such as the vine-setter sings at his work in Tuscany, having neither end nor beginning, and suited to any words the singer may choose to fit to it. Taking note that he did this the more as the third man, whom I had not recognised, rode on a short distance ahead as he did at intervals, I judged this last one to be his superior in command; and that, if I could find voice for speech at all, my best chance of an answer would be from himself and not from this superior, who would most likely only bid me be silent at the best, even if he gave no worse response. So I caught at the moment when he had ended a rather longer cadence than usual, judging therefrom that my speech would reach at most him and the man behind whom I myself was riding. Where was I being taken so fast, I asked, and for what? And he answers me thus:

"'"To a good meal and a long rest, _mio figlio_. To the Castello del bel Riposo. They sleep a long night at that _albergo_--those who ride there as you ride. I have ridden more than once with a guest of his Excellency. But there has always been a good meal for each, _pasta_, and meat, and a flask of _vino buono puro_, before he went to rest." Whereon he laughed, but there was no joy for me in that laugh of his. I speak again.

"'"I see what you mean, accursed one! That flask of wine will be my last on this earth."

"'"You speak truly, _caro mio figlio_. It will be your last flask of wine. You will enjoy it all the more."

"'"You are a good swordsman----?"

"'"I am accounted so. But this good Taddeo, whom you are permitting to ride in front of you--ho! ho!--he also is a good swordsman. But we may neither of us grant what I know well you were going to ask. You will never hold a sword-hilt again, my son, nor rejoice in face of an enemy. I could have wished otherwise, for you are a brave boy; and I would gladly have been the butcher to so fine a young calf."

"'"You are quick to grip my meaning. But I could have outmatched you both on fair ground. Now listen! You have a good-will towards me--so I judge from your words. Tell me, then, this:--how will they kill me?"

"'"I have never said they would kill you, my son. I have said only this--that you will have a rare good supper of _pasta_ and meat, and a rare good flask of red wine, before you go to rest. And let me give you this word of advice. Before you go to rest at the Castello del bel Riposo, take a good look at the sunlight if it be day, at the stars of heaven if it be night, for you will never see them again, for all your eyes will remain in your head, even as now."

"'Sometimes, _O Illustrissima_, when I wake in the night, it comes back to me, that moment. And there below me is the musical tramp of the horses' feet on the bare road, and I hear the voice of my friend sing again a little phrase of song--_che ognuno tirasse l' acqua al suo mulino_--and I heed him very little, though I can read in his words a wicked belief about my most guiltless and beloved treasure. I see the sweet light where the sun was, through the leaves of the olive-trees that make a _reticella_ (network) against the sky; and the great still star they never hide for long, rustle how they may! But I can but half enjoy the light that is dying, and the star that burns the more the more it dies; for the pain is great in my shoulder where the blow struck, and in my head and eyes, and my body is sore at its bonds and stiff from being held in one position. And yet I may never see that star again--the star we called our own, my Maddalena and I, and made believe God made for us, saying "this star I make for Giacinto _e la sua sorellaccia_"--neither that star, nor its bath of light, nor the sun that will make all Heaven glad to-morrow, unseen by me. For I can guess the meaning of what my friend has said....'"

Here a little was quite illegible. But no conversation ensued on that account, both reader and listeners wanting to hear what followed. Mr. Pelly read on:--

"'Now I call this man my friend, and, _Eccellenza_, you will see, as I tell my tale, that this is no derisive speech. I think that what showed me he was not all hostility to me in his heart was that he would--I felt sure--if left to himself, have granted the boon I would have asked of him, and fought fairly with me to the death of one or other. So there was love between us of a soldierly sort. And I, too, could see how it had grown. For I had half suspected him of not showing all the alacrity he might have done with his mace when I had my grip on the Old Devil's throat....'"

Madeline interrupted: "It's perfectly maddening! What wouldn't I give to know what it's all about?"

"I'll tell you presently the Herr Professor's conjectural history," said Mr. Pelly. But this did not satisfy the young lady.

"Tell us now! I'm the sort that can't wait," said she.

The benignity of Mr. Pelly's face as he replied to her was a sight to be seen.

"The Herr Professor thinks it is quite clear that this young man, on his arrival at the Palace of the great noble whose wife he was to paint, fell in love with some girl of her retinue, possibly having recognised some friend of early childhood; and that the Duchess fell in love with _him_. Naturally--because we must bear in mind this was in the Middle Ages, or nearly--jealousy would prompt assassination of one or both of the young lovers...."

"But who was the Old Devil? That's what I want to know."

"Evidently the wicked Duchess herself."

"What did she want to have her portrait painted for if she was old?"

"The Herr Professor conjectures that the reason our young painter remained stupefied when he first saw the Duchess was that she turned out not to be young at all, but old and repulsive." Madeline looked doubtful. "Then the idea was that the Duchess personally conducted the examination of the girl--caught the two young people spooneying, and had her murdered on the spot. And that the young man thereon went straight for her throat. After which she naturally felt that it would be difficult to get on a tender footing with him, as she had wished to do, and had him consigned to a dungeon for life."

Madeline disagreed. "No," said she, "I don't think the Professor's at all a good theory. Mine's better. Go on reading. I'll tell you mine presently."

Mr. Pelly refound his place and went on reading.

"'... Had my grip on the Old Devil's throat. And also I had felt his approval in his hands as he helped to bear me away from the _Stanza delle Quattro Corone_, though my senses failed too fast for me to understand what he said to his comrade. Yet I thought, too, it sounded like "_Un bel giovane per Bacco!_" So when at last I was unbound, and stood in the forecourt of a great castle in the middle of a group of men, some of whom had torches--for it was then well on into the night--and dogs that I had heard barking through the last short half-hour of our approach up the steep and stony ascent to the great gates that had now clanged to, as I judged then, for my last passage through them either way--I, though stiff and in pain, and in a kind of dumb stupor as I stood there, could still resolve a little in my mind what might even now be done to help me in my plight.

"'I caught the words of the third horseman--he who had ridden on in front--to a huge bloated man who seemed to be the seneschal or steward in charge of the place, who went hobbling on a stick, seeming dropsical and short of breath.

"'We have brought another guest, _Sir Ferretti_, for your hospitality. _Sua Eccellenza_ hopes you have room; good accommodation--a clean straw bed or some fresh-gathered heather. _Sua Eccellenza_ would not have needless discomfort for your guests at the Castello. A long life to them is the _brindisi_ of _sua Eccellenza--sempre sempre_." That is to say, for all time.

"'And then the fat man answered wheezily, "It shall be done, _Ser Capitano_. And he shall sup well and choose his company; it is an old usage and shall be observed." He then turned to me and said, with a mock reverence, "Whom does the Signore choose to sup with before he retires to rest?"

"'I turned to the man I had spoken with as we rode, and laid my hand on his shoulder. "_Sicuro_," I said, "with none other than _Messer Nanerottolo_ here." This was my pleasantry, for he was a monstrous big man, but not ill-favoured. I went on, "I owe you a supper, my friend, for that _piccolo vezzeggiamento_ you have given me----"

"What does that mean?" Thus his hearers, in concert.

"A little caress. I don't know why the Professor has left some of the Italian words. _Nanerottolo_ means a very little dwarf indeed, and he could hardly have translated. But he might have said caress just as well." He resumed reading:

"'"I can feel it in my shoulder still." At this he laughed, but said again I was a _bel giovane_, and _molto bravo_. "And it is to you," I said, "that I owe my supper here to-night." But his _Capitano_ gave a laugh, and said, "_Piuttosto a quel piccolo vezzeggiamento che tu desti alia Duchessa_----"

Here the reader paused to interpret the Italian again, which was hardly needed; then said, "There is another gap in the manuscript here, and it is a pity. The Professor thinks a few more words from what followed would have made his theory a certainty."

"Why?" asked Madeline.

"Because 'the caress you gave the Duchess' could only mean that he owed his supper to having half strangled the old _Duchessa_. They couldn't mean anything else in the context."

"Couldn't they? Never mind, Uncle Christopher! Go on now. I'll tell you presently." Uncle Christopher obeyed, recommencing as before after the gap in the middle of a sentence:

"'... Prison for life accords ill with life and hope and youth and the blood that courses in its veins. Whereas despair in an exhausted frame, and pain and hunger, breed a longing for the worst, and if it may be, for an early death. Hence, _Illustrissima_, my good supper, which was given ungrudgingly, while it made me another man, and better able to endure the pain left from the blow of my friend who sat at meat with me, gave me also strength to revolt against the terrible doom that awaited me. Also, hope and purpose revived in my heart, and I knew my last word with the world of living men must be spoken before midnight; for this was told me by the dropsical Castellan, with an accursed smile. So I watch for the moment when my friend, whose name was Attilio, is at his topmost geniality with the good wine, and then I speak, none being there to hear, but only he. I speak as to a friend:

"'"You love the good red wine, Messer Attilio, and you love the good red gold. Is it not true? Which do you love the most?" And to this he answered me, "Surely the good red gold, _Ser Pittore_. For wine will not purchase _all_ one asks. There is nothing gold will not purchase--enough of it!"

"'"Listen! Where are they going to hide me away? Do you know the Castello?"

"'"I was born here. I can tell you all. There is good accommodation in the _sotterraneo_. It is extended, but it is not lofty. You will have company, but the living is poor, meagre. I have said that you would not see the sun again, but you may! For in one place is a slot, cut slantwise in the stone, that the guests of the Duke who come to stay may not want air. Through the slot, one day in the year only, and then but for a very little space, comes a ray from the sun in heaven. In the old days of the Warrior Duke, when there would be many prisoners of war, they would count the days until the hour of its coming, and then fight for a good place to see the gleam when it came. But the few you will find there will have little heart for that, or anything else."

"'"Is that the only outlet?"

"'"No! There is the door you go in by. One stoops, as one stoops to enter the little prisons of Venezia, deep below the water. And there is the _Buco della Fame_...." "That is to say," interjected Mr. Pelly, "The Hunger Hole, or Hunger Pit."

"'"What is that?" I then asked.

"'"What they were used to throw bones down, when they had made merry and sucked them dry, to the prisoners below. And there is a drain."

"'"How large is it?"

"'"Large enough for the rats to pass up--no larger. I used to watch them run in at the outlet, when I was a youngster. But the _Buco_--that is large enough for a man to pass up and down--a sort of well-hole. Not the _Ser Ferretti_ there; he would stick in it. I have seen it all, for my father was the gaoler in old days."

"'"Listen now, _Ser Attilio_! You want the good red gold, in plenty. And you shall have it if you do my bidding. When you leave this--are you marking what I say?--go straight to _la Marta_, she who attends always on the _Duchessa_, and say to her simply this--that on the day I regain my liberty, there will be five hundred crowns for her. Tell her where I am. And for this service to me you shall receive...."'"

Mr. Pelly stopped reading again. There was another gap; a portion of the manuscript was missing as before. He remarked upon the loss to the reader, apparently, of the whole account of the young man's first introduction to the dungeon, in which he seemed to have passed a considerable time--the best part of six months as far as could be made out--before we are able to follow his narrative.

He then read on, without comment: "'Little wonder we should find day and night alike for their complete monotony, though, indeed, we could distinguish between them by the light through the air-slot, the only ventilation through all this extent of vaulted crypt. But for incident and change, from day's end to day's end, there was none beyond the daily visit I have spoken of, of Uguccione the gaoler, carrying always his little lamp of brass and a basket of coarse black bread, and a pitcher of water. Is it not strange, _Illustrissima_, that a man should live, should go on living, even when the stupefaction of despair comes to his aid, without light or movement or the breath of Heaven on his face. None the less these others that I told you of had done so, some more, some less; and the very old man who was but as an idiot, and could tell nought of his name and his past, had been there already many years when Uguccione first took the prisoners into his charge.

He was a merry, chatty fellow, this Uguccione, and talked freely with me at first, and told me many things. But he said I should not talk for long, for none did. See now, he said, he would speak to the old Alberico, and never an answer would he get. And thereon flashed his lamp across the old man's face, and asked him some ribald question about _la Giustina_. But the old man only shrank from the light, and answered nothing. Who was _la Giustina_? I asked. Nay, he knew not a whit! But he knew that the former gaoler, old Attilio, from whom he took the keys, had told him that if he would enrage old Alberico, he had but to speak to him of _la Giustina_. And thereon he flashed his light again in the old eyes, to see them flinch again; and gave me black bread and water, and went his way.

"'But this man told me many things, before I, too, began to settle into the speechless gloom of unvarying captivity. He told me that, even now, the great Duke, after banqueting in the hall above, would sometimes for his mere diversion have the trap opened at the top of the _Buco della Fame_, and throw down what might be left on table, except it were such as might serve for the cook again, or to be eaten at the lower table. And he warned me to be ready and at hand if I should hear any sound from above, as then I might get for myself the best pick of the bones or bread-crusts that might come down in a shower. And I laid this to heart.

"'And now, as I must not weary your Excellency's illustrious eyes to read needless details of my sufferings in my imprisonment, I will leave its horrors to your imagination, saying only this, that whatever you may picture to yourself, there may easily have been something still worse. I will pass on to the moving of the trap-door above me.

"'Of a sudden, in what I thought was night, but which must have been midday, I hear a sound as of hinges that creak and strain. It comes from the _Buco della Fame_; and I can hear, too, but dimly, what I take to be the murmur of voices in the room it leads to. I rise from the straw I lie on, and move as best I may, for I am free to move about only slowly, because my right hand is manacled to my left foot, and from stiffness and weakness, towards the opening of the hole in the low arch above me. I can touch its edge with my hand. I look up through the long round tube, and can see its length now by the size of the opening at the top. It may be, as I reckon it, at least twenty _bracchie_ from the ground I stand on.

"'As I gaze, a little dazzled by the light, I hear plainly the voices above me of those who are merry with the banquet. And then a face looks down and darkens the opening for a moment; but it is only like a dark spot, and my eyes are thwarted by the change from dark to light, so that I cannot guess if it be man or woman. Then I hear a laugh from above that I compare in my heart to the laugh a Saint in Heaven might give as he looks down a narrow shaft that leads to Hell, and rejoices in his freedom and the great Justice of God. But I myself am nowise better off than the sinners, heretics and Jews that are consumed in fires below, yet die not. Then, as I think of this, down comes a shower of what seems to me good kitchen stuff. Whereof I secure a piece of turkey for myself, and of capon for the very old man; but he shall have his choice, if, indeed, he can eat either. Then come other prisoners for their share, from afar off in the crypt, one of whom I had never seen, so dark was his corner. But I had heard him moan and mutter. Only, before he comes with the others I have time to choose somewhat else from the mess, always sharing as I think fairly. And as I do this I am taken aback by a sheet of written paper that has fluttered down the shaft. And I have caught it, and the trap above closes with a clang, and the voices die above, and the darkness has come again, and the silence.

"'Know, _Illustrissima_, that the eyesight that lives long in darkness may grow to be so keen that not only the outline of the prisoner's hand that he holds before him may be seen by him, but even the seams and lines thereon, by which may be known the story of his life and the length of his days. But I had not yet come to that perfection of vision, and could read nought of the paper in my own place; for all that the crypt was then at its brightest, it being late midday, and the gleam from the slot at the far end strong enough for me to see dimly the face of the old man as I held out to him in turn the turkey and the capon. But he would none of either, and hardly noted what I did, as one in a maze. So in the end I leave him and go nearer the light, to read what I may.

"'It is all like a strange dream now. But, _Illustrissima_, as I look back to that moment, what I remember is a huge beating of a heart that will not be still. It is there, and a gleam of light through a narrow wall-slot in the masonry is there; but should you ask me how I read, until I knew by rote, what was written on that paper, I could not tell you. Yet I can repeat every word now:

"'"This is to be destroyed, should it reach you, before the next round of l'Uguccione.

"'"I can get speech of you through the slot. Watch there always in the early night. It must be when the old wretch, my master, is in his deepest sleep.

"'"Your word came to me through la Marta, months ago, from l'Attilio. They are keen for their reward. Take heart, oh my dearest one, and watch for me.

"'"I have sat at the board of my tyrant, and each day he has taunted me, and pointed down to the cruel prison of my darling. Oh, if, after all, it is a lie that you still live! Pray God Attilio is right, and that this may reach you!

"'"Oh, my beloved, if no better may be, at least I may compass that you shall receive a tiny flask of poison; whereof I too may take a fatal draught, and each may know of the other that trouble is at an end."

"'She had signed no name, but none was needed. Hope waked in my heart, for I knew that Attilio...'"

Here Mr. Pelly stopped reading. Another hiatus! "The loss of this passage," said he, "is especially irritating, as it might have supplied a clue to the identity of the writer of this letter. The remainder of the story, as I recollect it, leaves us quite in the dark as to who she was, though I am inclined to surmise, from the use of the expression 'my master,' that she was a young person attached to the household of the Duchess." But for all that, Mr. Pelly's dream about the picture disturbed his memory. How could his inner consciousness have concocted it, consistently with this interpretation of the manuscript? Still, he was bound to "dismiss it from his mind," and give his support, provisionally, to the theory of the Herr Professor. How could he cite a mere dream in refutation of it? So he "dismissed it from his mind," and when Madeline said, "Never mind that now, Uncle Christopher! Do go on and see if it doesn't all come right in the end. We'll talk about who she was, after," he was rather glad to resume, without further comment:

"'... I am hanging in mid-air. Below me is an awful precipice. If Attilio were to fail me, or the rope break, what should I do? But I care not; I care only to succour my darling love, in his dungeon underground. Do not speak again, dear love, lest you be overheard within. Attilio says that if I whisper to you through the little opening no other prisoner need hear.... I will tell you all. Attilio knew from his boyhood that the _sfiatatoio_...'"

The reader stopped to explain that this appeared to be a word equivalent to "blow-hole" in English, used by founders for the opening left for escape of air when the metal is poured in.

"'... The _sfiatatoio_ opened under the South Tower in the wall that is flush with the precipice, that one may see the sun blaze on all day summer and winter. None can approach it from below; but Ser Attilio is strong--oh, the strength of his arms!--and he can let me down from the great high tower like a child, and then I hang some little space from the window-ledge. But I swing a little, and then I hold by the stonework, and I am safe and can speak. It is bright in the moonlight and still, and I am speaking to my darling. Stretch out your hand, my love, without speech, and seek not I charge you to hold my living hand, however great the joy thereof, but take from it the file I have made shift to steal from the armourer's boy, who will be beaten for its loss, but whom I will kiss once and more for his reward. _Pazienza, carissimo mio_....'"

Mr. Pelly put the manuscript on his knee, and opened his hands out with a deprecating action.

"I'm _very_ sorry, Madeline. I really _am_! But I can't help it. It is, as you say, most aggravating. Just as we were getting to the interesting bit! But you understand what happened?"

"Oh yes! I see it all as plain as a pikestaff. And, what's more, I saw the very place itself--the great precipice and the Castle wall that shoots straight up from it. An _awful_ place! But _what_ a plucky little Duchess!"

"Duchess? I don't quite follow----"

"That's because you are so _stupid_, Uncle Christopher."

"My dear Mad! Really----!" This was the Bart, and her Ladyship. Because Mr. Pelly wasn't offended.

"Well, it's true I said I would tell Mr. Pelly all about it, and then I didn't." She went across to Mr. Pelly, and leant over him, which he liked, to get at the manuscript. "Look here! Where is it? Oh--the old Devil! Yes--that wasn't the Duchess at all! That was her horrible old husband, the Duke. And she was the Memory of his boyhood, don't you see? Oh, it's all quite plain. And my picture-girl's her. And it's no use your talking about evidence, because I know I'm right, and evidence is nonsense."

"It certainly is true," Sir Stopleigh said, "that the Castle wall is exactly as Madeline describes it, for I have seen it myself, and can confirm her statement." He seemed to consider that almost anything would be confirmed by so very old a Baronet seeing such a very large wall.

"Suppose we accept Madeline's theory as a working hypothesis, and see how we get on. If we quite understand the last bit, and I think we do, what follows is not unintelligible." And Mr. Pelly continued reading:

"'... Working thus patiently in long and dreary hours, and keeping the link of my manacle well in the straw to drown the grating noise, I come to know, on the third day of my labour, that but a very little more is wanted and the ring will be cut through; and then I know the chance is it will spring asunder and leave the two links free. But I do not seek to complete the cut until near the day appointed, for does not Uguccione now and again examine all those fetters, sometimes striking them with a small hammer to make sure they have not been tampered with? So I keep the ring hidden as best I may, and the cut I have made I fill in with kneaded bread. And one time Uguccione does come and strike the irons, and I tremble. But by great good luck he strikes so that they ring, and I am at my ease again.

"'Then comes what was my hardest task: the making of footholes in the shaft that I might climb and reach the underside of the trap. But first I must tell you why I need do this. For you will say, Why could not Attilio let down a cord and pull me up through the trap? So he could, in truth, were it possible to open the trap from overhead. But it was closed with a key from above that came through a great length to the lock below. Only I could well understand from the description that this lock would be no such great matter to prize back from underneath could I once make shift to reach it. Therein lay the great difficulty, shackled as I was, although the links should be parted, to climb up this long shaft and work at the opening of this lock, standing on what poor foothold I could contrive in total darkness.

"'Nevertheless, _Illustrissima_, be assured that I go to my work with a good-will, though with little hope. And on the first night I succeed in loosing three bricks from their place in the wall, at such intervals that each gives a foothold I may reach to from the one below it on the other side. And the next night again three more. And so on for six nights, working patiently. And now I can touch the lock that is above me. But understand that I did not remove these bricks, else had I been at a great loss where to hide them from Uguccione. I left them loose in their places, so that I could twist them out sideways, and thus make a kind of step. For you know how strong our Tuscan bricks are. Yet I had much ado to hide away the loose mortar that came from between the joints. And had it not been that the fetter on my wrist, now free, served to prize out the bricks when the mortar was clear from the ends, and loosened above and below, I had been sore put to it to detach them, so firm were they in their places. And all this work, _Illustrissima_, had to be done in black darkness, by guidance of feeling only!

"'And now, please you, image to yourself that I have made my topmost step, and only await a word of signal through the _sfiatatoio_. And this was, believe me, my worst time of all. For I knew that the most precious thing to me in all this world, the life of my Maddalena, must be risked again to give me that signal! Nay! I did not know, could not know, that she had not already tried to give it, and, so attempting it, been precipitated to the awful rocks below, where whoso fell might readily lie unheeded, and not be found for years.

"'But I hold to my purpose in a silent despair. I watch through hours of the still mornings. But nothing moves again in front of the little stars that come and go, for many days. I do not let myself count the days nor the hours, and always strive to think of them at their fewest. Then one night a meteor shoots across the span of sky that I can see, blinding out the little stars, and leaving sparks of fire to die down as they may. And my heart lifts, for I count it a harbinger of good. And so it proves, for I next hear--because, understand me, this meteor shot across Heaven's vault with a strong hissing sound, like _fuochi artificiati_--the slack of the rope that lets my darling down to me with her message of...'"

Another hitch in the narrative. Mr. Pelly stopped with a humble apologetic expression, having reference rather to the young lady than to her parents.

"Really, my dear," said he, "I feel quite guilty--as if I was to blame--when these abominable blanks come."

"Yes! And you know I always think it's your fault; and I do get so angry. Poor Uncle Christopher! What a shame! What's that, Mumsey?"

"Nothing, dear. Only I thought I heard the step of a horse in the Avenue."

"So did I. Only it can't be anything at this time of night."

The knowledge that a guest was pending shortly--one of the sort that comes and goes at will--caused the Baronet to say: "It might be General Fordyce--only he said he wouldn't come till Tuesday." To whom his wife and daughter replied conjointly:

"Oh no! The General!--not at midnight--well!--at half-past eleven! Look at the clock. Anyhow, his room's all ready," etc., etc. After which Madeline spoke alone:

"Now, Mr. Pelly, go on again. I do so hope it's a plummy bit." Then, illogically, "Besides, it wasn't a carriage." She silenced a disposition of her parents to interpose on Mr. Pelly's behalf by saying: "Oh no, we shan't tire Uncle Christopher to death. Shall we, Uncle Christopher?"

"God bless me, no! The idea! Besides, there's really not so very much more to read. Unless I'm keeping you up?"

"Pupsey and Mumsey can go to bed, and leave us to finish."

"Oh no! We want to hear the end of it." Pupsey and Mumsey were unanimous.

"Very well, then! I can fill up Uncle's glass and Pupsey's, and we can go on and finish comfortably. Now, fire away!" And Mr. Pelly read on:

"'... I can hear them in the room above me. The voice of my darling herself. But oh--this black darkness! One little gleam of light, and I know I can manage this accursed lock. But I can see nothing; and who knows but by trying and trying stupidly, in the dark, I may not make matters worse. But I will try, again and again, rather than fail now.... Oh, she is so near me--so near, I can hear her voice....

"'All suddenly, a gleam of light from below. A miracle, but what care I? I can see the lock now, plain! Ah, the stupidity of me! I was forcing it the wrong way all the time. Now for a sharp, sharp strain, with all the strength I have left! And back goes the lock with a snap! I can hear its sound welcomed above, and another strain on the trap, and the first creak of its hinge. It will shriek; and they stop, as I think, to make it silent with a little oil.

"'Then my glance goes down the shaft to ask what was my light, that came to save me in such good time. It was surely the Holy Mary herself, or a blessed Saint from Heaven, that took pity on me....

"'No! It is Uguccione the gaoler, with his little lamp of brass.

"'"Aha--ha--ha!--my friend. Come you down--come you down! Or shall I get a little fire and smoke, to tickle you and make you come? It is useless, _caro mio_! The wise player gives up the lost game. Come you down! It is not thus folk say farewell to the _Castello del bel Riposo_. Come you down, my friend! Or shall I wait a little? I can wait! No hurry, look you!"

"'I am sad at heart to have to do it, but there is no other way. Whether he lived or died I know not, but I should grieve to think he died. For I had no hatred for Uguccio, who, after all, did but his duty. But there is no other way. I am standing on two bricks that I have placed over against each other, for firmer foothold and better purchase on the lock. One of them I loosen out, standing only on the other and leaning shoulder-wise against the wall. And then I send it down the shaft, with a blessing for Uguccio. I can see his face, turning up to me in the light of his little broken lamp.

"'The brick strikes him full on the temple, but it also strikes out his light. I hear him fall. I hear a groan or gasp. But I see only black darkness below, and the red wick-spark of the lamp, that grows less and less, and will die. Then only darkness.