_By_ WALTER NOBLE BURNS
The jail was silent. Boisterous incoherencies that in the day made the
vast gloomy pile of stone and iron a bedlam—talk, curses, laughter—were
stilled.
The prisoners were asleep in their cells. Dusty electric bulbs at sparse
intervals made a dusky twilight in the long, hushed corridors. Moonlight,
shimmering through the tall, narrow windows, laid barred, luminous
lozenges on the stone floors.
From the death cell in “Murderers’ Row,” the voice of Guisseppi rose in
the still night watches in the _Miserere_. Its first mellow notes broke
the slumberous silence with dulcet crashes like the breaking of ice
crystals beneath a silver hammer. Vibrating through the cavernous spaces
of the sleeping prison, the clear boyish voice lifting the burden of the
solemn hymn was by turns a tender caress, a flight of white wings up into
sunny skies, a silver whisper stealing through the glimmering aisles, a
swift stream of plashing melody, a flaming rush of music.
“_A broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise._” The
prayer in its draperies of melody filled the cells like a shining
presence and laid its blessing of hope upon hopeless hearts. From the
shadow of the gallows, Guisseppi poured forth his soul in music that was
benediction and farewell.
Bitter memories, like sneering ghosts that elbow one another, crowd
the road to Gallows Hill. In swift retrospect, Guisseppi reviewed his
life’s last tragic phase. Young, with healthy blood dancing gay dances
through his veins, sunny-spirited, spilling over with the happiness and
hopefulness of irresponsibility, he had not despaired when the death
sentence was pronounced.
The court’s denial of his lawyer’s motion for a new trial left him with
undiminished optimism. Yet a while longer hope sustained him when his old
father and mother kissed him good-by through the bars and set off for the
state capital to intercede with the governor.
Bowed with years and broken with sorrow, they had pleaded in tears
and on their knees. The venerable father, lost for words, helplessly
inarticulate, the mother with her black shawl over her head, white-faced,
hysterical, both praying for the life of their only son, were a picture
to melt a heart of stone.
The pathos of it stirred the governor to the depths, but could not make
him forget that for the moment he stood as the incarnation of the law and
the inexorable justice that is the theory of the law. With heavy heart
and misty eyes, he turned away.
So hope at last had died. And between the death of hope and the death
that awaited him, Guisseppi brooded in the death-cell, bitterly counting
his numbered days as they slipped one by one into the past, each day
bringing him that much nearer to certain annihilation. Round and
round the dial, the hands of the clock on the prison wall went in a
never-ending funeral march; the _tick-tock, tick-tock_ of the pendulum,
measuring off the fateful seconds, echoed in his heart like a death knell.
Times without number he repeated to himself that he was not afraid to
die. Nevertheless the inevitability of death tortured him. At times, in
sheer terror, he seized the rigid bars of his cell, pounded his fists
against the iron walls, till the blood spurted from his knuckles. He was
like a sparrow charmed by a serpent, fluttering vainly to escape, but
drawing ever nearer to certain death. Black walls of death kept closing
in upon him inexorably, like a mediaeval torture chamber.
Some men, the experts say, are born criminals; other are made criminals
by some fortuity or crisis of circumstances. Guisseppi had been a happy,
healthy, careless boy. His father was a small shopkeeper of the Italian
quarter who had achieved a certain prosperity. His mother was a typical
Italian mother, meek, long-suffering, tender, her whole life wrapped up
in her boy, her husband and her home.
Guisseppi had received a good common school education. He had been a
choir boy in Santa Michaela Church, and the range and beauty of his
voice had won him fame even beyond the borders of the colony; musicians
for whom he had sung had grown enthusiastic over his promise and had
encouraged him to study for the operatic stage.
The exuberance of youth, and love of gayety and adventure, had been
responsible for his first misstep. His companions of the streets had
enticed him into Cardello’s pool room. Cardello, known to the police as
“The Devil,” had noted with a crafty eye the lively youth’s possibilities
as a useful member of his gang. His approaches were subtle—genial
patronage, the pretense of goodfellowship, an intimate glass across a
table. The descent to Avernus was facile.
Almost before he knew it, Guisseppi was a sworn member of Cardello’s gang
of reckless young daredevils and a participant in their thrilling nightly
adventures. Home lessons were forgotten. His mother lost her influence
over the boy. Even Rosina Stefano, the little beauty of the quarter, who
had claimed all his boyish devotion since school days, had no power to
turn him from his downward course.
He had been taken by the police after a robbery in which a citizen had
been killed. He was condemned to death.
“I forgive everybody,” Guisseppi told his death-watch. “Everybody but
‘Devil’ Cardello. If it had not been for him, I would be free and happy
today. He made me a thief. That is his business—teaching young fools to
rob for him. He did the planning; we did the jobs. We took the chances,
he took the money. I was in the hold-up when the gang committed murder,
but I myself killed no man.
“And now the gallows is waiting for me, while Cardello sits in his pool
room, immune, prosperous, still planning crimes for other young fools. If
I could sink my fingers in his throat and choke his life out, I could die
happy. One thing I promise him—if my ghost can come back, I will haunt
him to his dying day.”
Morning dawned. Father and mother arrived for a final embrace. Rosina
gave him a last kiss. A priest administered consolation. The sheriff
came and read the death warrant.
Light, flooding through the barred windows from the newly-risen sun,
filled the jail with golden radiance as, through the iron corridors, feet
shuffling drearily, the death march moved in solemn silence toward the
gallows....
* * * * *
Doctors with stethoscopes watched the final pulsations of ebbing life.
They pronounced him dead.
The body was wheeled off on a tumbril into the jail morgue and turned
over to assistants of an undertaker employed by the family. Placing it on
a stretcher and covering it with a mantle, these hurried it to a motor
ambulance waiting in the alley. They slid the stretcher into the vehicle
and slammed the doors. The machine got quickly under way, gathered speed,
began to fly through the streets.
No sooner had the doors of the ambulance slammed shut than strange things
began to happen inside. A physician and a nurse who had been secreted in
the car, fell upon the body with feverish haste, stripped it of clothing,
dashed alcohol over it from head to foot, began to massage the still warm
flesh, chafing the wrists, slapping limbs and torso with smart, stinging
thumps.
Then, to conserve what little heat remained, they bundled the body in
heavy blankets kept warm in a fireless contrivance. And all the while the
ambulance, its gong clanging madly, was plunging at wild speed across the
city, swaying from side to side, turning corners on two wheels.
It drew up at last in front of a small undertaking shop on a back street,
and the body was hurried inside. Laid upon a table, it looked as if
carved from ivory. The coal-black hair curled about the white brow in
glossy abandon. The long black lashes of the nearly-shut eyes left deep
shadows on the cold pallor of the cheeks. No tint of blood, no sign of
life appeared.
Quickly a pulmotor was applied. Oxygen was pumped into the lungs while
the body was again vigorously rubbed with alcohol. Guisseppi’s father and
mother and close relatives stood about in an excited group, eyes wide
with feverish interest, their hearts in their mouths. Doctors and nurses
worked with dynamic energy.
No sign of rekindled life rewarded them. Their drastic efforts seemed
lost labor. The boy’s soul, apparently, had journeyed far into the dark
places beyond life’s pale and was not to be lured back to its fleshly
habitation.
Still they persisted, hoping against hope.
“_Per dio!_” suddenly exclaimed a physician. “Do you see that?”
A faint flush appeared in Guisseppi’s cheek.
“He lives again!” burst in a tense whisper from the bloodless lips of the
father.
The tiny stain spread, tinging the marble flesh.
“My boy, my darling boy!” cried the mother, wringing her hands in
delirious joy.
Guisseppi’s chest began to rise and fall slowly, with an almost
imperceptible movement of respiration. The suspicion of a smile hovered
for a moment at the corners of his mouth.