A FINAL CHOICE.
"So oft the doing of God's Will
Our foolish wills undoeth!
And yet what idle dream breaks ill
Which Morning Light subdueth?
And who would murmur and misdoubt
When God's great Sunrise finds him out?"
E. B. BROWNING.
"And so, after all, you have overcome the British prejudice and have
only managed to lose your fortune!" exclaimed Enrico Ritter, looking
his friend in the face with a critical air. "It seems that you have
got back your health again, too. Upon my word, I think
knight-errantry is a profitable calling, always supposing you haven't
a cantankerous relative to cut you off with a shilling. I shall
think of taking to it myself soon."
Carlo had landed at Naples late on the previous evening, and now,
after the mid-day breakfast with the Ritter household and a long talk
with his old friend, was making his way back to the Palazzo Forti in
the cool of the afternoon. He was in the best of spirits, and had
just been giving Enrico the account of all that had passed during the
last few weeks.
"You still set up for being an egoist, I see," he replied with a
laugh.
"Well, every man must have his theory of the universe," said Enrico,
with a mischievous side-glance at his friend. "Ah! by-the-bye, you
should shake your fist at that house over there on the right; it
belongs to the Little Sisters of the Poor, and ate up all your money."
"I should have been glad enough of some of it in America," said
Carlo, with a smile. "However, no doubt our poor Neapolitans wanted
it quite as badly. Oh, wait! how fast you walk! Let us stop and see
the view from this terrace just for half a minute--dear old Capri
again, how natural it looks! You would laugh if you knew how
homesick I have been over in the New World."
"I must make a note of that," said Enrico. "In my future
knight-errantry I'll take good care to keep in Italy."
And so, with laughter and friendly teasing, they walked through the
busy streets until they came in sight of the dingy old palazzo, at
the door of which an ostler was holding a beautiful cream-colored
horse.
"Come in and see Anita," said Carlo; "she will have had her _siesta_
by this time."
And Enrico, though he detested Madame Merlino, consented to go in to
please his friend, and made himself very amiable to her while Carlo
opened a telegram which had arrived for him during his absence.
The message was sent from Pozzuoli by Captain Britton, and was to
this effect,--
"We hope you will dine with us to-night. I have ordered a horse to
be sent round for you. Do not fail us."
"Nita, should you mind if I went to Cassa Bella?" he asked. "The
Captain seems to want me over there, for he has even taken the
trouble to send a horse for me. I will be back, of course, to-night."
"If that was the horse we saw waiting outside you will get there in
no time," said Enrico; "it beats your old Arab."
But this Carlo would not allow, and amid much lively discussion as to
his old favorite, he nodded a farewell to Nita and Gigi, and ran
downstairs, his heart beating fast at the prospect of seeing
Francesca again so soon.
"_Auf wiedersehn!_" said Enrico, as he watched his friend ride away.
And the bright look and gesture in response kept recurring to him as
he walked back to his office.
"What in the world is that fellow made of!" he said to himself. "He
is forever upsetting all my calculations and disturbing my pet
theories. He even seems to have roused up that heartless, insipid
Anita; for the first time I actually saw a kind of likeness between
them. One could at least tell that they were brother and sister."
To be once again on the familiar road to Pozzuoli made Carlo's heart
glow within him. Every tree, every house, seemed like an old friend;
his eye noted each slight change wrought during the three years of
absence, while his mind recalled the past with little but a tender
remembrance of the bygone happiness. As he drew near to the grotto
of Posilipo he instinctively slackened his pace a little, glancing up
with eyes full of glad recognition at the lovely hillside, with its
tangled growth of birch, and pine, and cactus, clustering about the
place which is supposed to be the tomb of Virgil.
It was at this moment that a close carriage drove quickly past him;
he would have taken no particular notice of it had he not, with his
keen and practised observation, noted even in the brief moment of
passing the remarkably fine eyes of one of the occupants. Where had
he seen them before? Both the eyes and the searching glance seemed
familiar to him, and racking his memory he at length brought back a
mental picture of a water-seller's stall, and of a young man of
strong and sinewy frame, who had arrested his attention last night by
a certain picturesqueness of attitude as he stood watching the crowd
glass in hand; for an instant they had looked full at each other, and
the piercing glance of the stranger had lingered in his memory, and
he had thought to himself as he passed on that even in Italy one did
not often encounter such splendid eyes.
Entering the lofty archway of the grotto he passed on into the dark
tunnel, which seemed to him more than ever like the long nave of some
vast cathedral, the lights gleaming at intervals making the
surrounding gloom only more apparent. He smiled a little to himself
at the recollection of sundry boyish terrors never confessed to any
living creature and never given way to; he remembered how, now and
then on his way home from Naples, there had been times when the
horrible feeling of an unknown "something" waiting to spring out upon
him from the darkness had set his heart beating fast, and had made
him resort in desperation to a Paternoster; and he acknowledged to
himself that there was perhaps some slight excuse for those past
terrors, since, after all, the grotto was an eerie place, and the
road, even at this hour in the afternoon, lonely enough.
But recollections of old times began to give place to the absorbing
consciousness that he was on his way to Francesca, and as he left the
dimly-lighted tunnel behind him and emerged into the dust and the
afternoon sunshine, he fell into a happy reverie. He was to see her
again, and she was his, and the trouble was all over, and the
separation ended, and life was so bright that already those weary
years seemed to him like a dream and the glad anticipation like a
return to real waking existence.
She would be waiting for him at the gate of Casa Bella, and they
would go once more to the old belvedere where he had first told her
of his love; he would make her stand once more under the datura tree
where she had stood long ago when the trouble was just beginning to
darken on the horizon, and he should see her now again as he had seen
her so often in his dreams, with the creamy flowers drooping down
over her dusky hair and her eyes shining into his.
He smiled to himself with the rapture of the thought, and touched up
his horse, grudging every moment that kept him from his love.
He had ridden about two miles beyond the grotto and had nearly
reached the cross road which leads towards Agnano, when he was roused
from his dream of happiness by his horse shying violently at the
sudden apparition of a man rushing across the road. All his
attention was needed to quiet the animal, and it was only when he
found himself surrounded by four formidable-looking ruffians that he
realized another danger. There was just time for him to give his
horse a smart stroke over the shoulder which made it bound forward,
but the effort was useless, for one of his assailants instantly
caught the reins in a firm grip and the next moment he was dragged
from his seat. With all his might he struggled to free himself, but
it was only for a minute or two that he could even keep his footing;
a hand held his throat so tightly that to cry out for help was
impossible, to breathe at all difficult, and, though he fought
gallantly, and by adroitness and agility rather than strength,
managed to give his captors some trouble, it was inevitable that he
should succumb. Bruised, shaken, half choked by the relentless grip
on his throat, he at length felt his strength overborne, and
struggling to the end, was forced down on the dusty road. Then came
a moment's breathing space, for the hand at his throat relaxed its
hold and another and a coarser hand was substituted for it. One of
the men broke the silence, speaking in a low, hurried voice,--
"Now then, Lionbruno, the blow--quick!"
To move was impossible. Three powerful men held him down in the
dust, a fourth was apparently told off to murder him. He had time
for only two thoughts--Comerio's vengeance and Francesca's grief; and
the pang of this last thought was so terrible that the prompt blow on
the head which put an end to consciousness was, perhaps, more
merciful than preparation or delay.
When he came to himself he remembered nothing that had passed, but
awoke to a consciousness of intense physical misery. He gasped for
breath and became aware that his mouth was tightly bandaged; there
was, moreover, a covering over his face--perhaps a shroud! and in the
horror of that thought he instinctively tried to raise his hand and
make feeling supply the place of sight, but he found that his arms
were tightly strapped to his sides. Restored still further to life
by the mere astonishment and dismay, he perceived that he was in a
carriage which was being driven rapidly along a rather rough road,
his head ached terribly and felt heavy and confused, and he was
sinking back into a sort of stupor and vaguely wondering how long he
should have to bear the pain of the jolting vehicle, when the silence
was broken by a voice near him.
"_Per Dio!_ who would have thought such a small made man would have
given us so much trouble!"
"He fought so well that our courteous Lionbruno was in fifty minds
about knocking him on the head," said another speaker, sarcastically.
"_Accidente!_" broke in a much younger voice; "nothing of the sort, I
tell you. Comerio has had to pay a good price for his pretty prima
donna, but he has not given us a lira too much for this business,--it
was a risky thing in full daylight. _Sacramento!_ the fellow is
coming to himself!"
The mention of Comerio's name had brought back everything to Carlo's
remembrance, and the intolerable words which followed filled him with
an anguish which, for the time, made the physical pain non-existent.
He started forward, found his feet unfettered, and began to writhe
and struggle in a vain effort to free his arms. Instantly strong
hands forced him down again, and heavy boots kicked his shins into
unwilling stillness.
"Be so good as to use your common-sense, signor!" said the young
voice at his elbow. "You are our prisoner, and wholly at our mercy.
Your life is in no danger at present, but if you resist we shall put
an end to you to save ourselves trouble."
"Bravo! bravo!" cried another voice, stifling a laugh. "Lionbruno is
such an orator that we shall soon have him as a Deputy, and then he
can travel free of cost!"
There was a little more stifled laughter, then silence again, broken
only by the sound of the horses' hoofs and the rumbling of the wheels.
Terrible thoughts rushed through Carlo's mind. He saw Anita at the
mercy of Comerio, her husband away, Sardoni out of reach, himself
altogether powerless. The intolerable realization of his own
helplessness almost maddened him, and his brain, still confused by
the stunning blow, refused to be controlled. If he could have seen
with his eyes--if he could have asked one question--if he could have
freed his arms from the cords which bound them,--the horrible
suspense and anxiety would have been more bearable; but he was, as
his captor had said, wholly at the mercy of others, and the
perception of this made him beside himself. It was the same struggle
magnified a thousand-fold which he had passed through at the time of
his illness--for a man the hardest struggle possible,--to endure an
unnatural and undeserved restraint, to be altogether helpless while
conscious of strength, and know that for that strength there is a
terrible demand. Such burning wrath consumed him, such
uncontrollable resentment, that it was, perhaps, well for him that
action was impossible, or with the blind impulse of a confused brain
and a despairing heart he might have done some rash deed which, in a
cooler moment, he would bitterly repent.
At length the carriage stopped, and Carlo was dragged out. The rough
handling made him tingle from head to foot, and with all his might he
resisted, for he knew that at present he stood on a road where there
was at least a possibility of meeting with help, and to what these
brigands were hurrying him he had no idea.
"No use, signor!" said the voice at his side. "We are four to one,
and you only make matters worse for yourself."
Something in the tone of the speaker appealed to Carlo. His blood
cooled a little, and he allowed himself to be led through what he
felt sure must be a thick wood, for he could hear the rustle of
leaves as they forced their way on, and could feel boughs brushing
against him. As to the distance they walked, he could not form the
slightest idea. It seemed to him as if the journey would never end,
and his assailants were evidently in a hurry, for, spite of the
rough, uneven ground, they went at a sharp pace, and when exhaustion
made him hang back a little, he found himself impatiently urged on by
Lionbruno, who, throughout the walk, grasped his arm, while the men
who brought up the rear pushed, kicked, and hustled him at every
opportunity.
At last he was so worn out that it was all he could do to drag one
foot after the other, the craving for air and light became more and
more keen, and had it not been for the iron grasp in which he was
held he would have fallen to the ground. A sort of dull comfort in
the thought that it must sooner or later end was his only
relief,--and presently the way became clearer, he heard other voices,
and felt other men approaching him. Some one tore off the bandages
which had kept him blind and dumb for so long, and then, dazzled and
confused, he looked round.
He found himself in a domed building, which seemed to him a smaller
edition of the old Roman bath at Baja, known as the Temple of
Mercury. It was lighted only by two torches, which, however, shed a
pretty strong light on the strange group beneath. Half-a-dozen
rough, ill-clad men were clustered together close to a stone bench,
on which was seated the leader of the gang, a powerful-looking man,
whose rugged face and uncompromising mouth instantly checked all the
hope that rose in Carlo's heart when he found himself capable once
more of seeing and speaking.
Brancaleone was not at all the ferocious and cruel-looking brigand
chief of his boyish fancies; he was much more like an officer of the
martinet type, but his face was as hard as a rock, and he was
evidently a person from whom no quarter was to be expected.
"Successful, you see, in my first enterprise, _padre mio!_" said the
young fellow who had been addressed as Lionbruno. Carlo looked at
him, and saw that he could not have been more than eighteen at the
outside. Undoubtedly he was the same picturesque figure whom he had
noticed yesterday by the water-seller's stall; and now, as he stood
beside the chief, bowing respectfully yet speaking with the freedom
of a son, the likeness between the two faces was quite noticeable.
In twenty years time, if he lived the same lawless life, the young
face would be probably an exact reproduction of the old.
Brancaleone turned his haughty gaze upon the prisoner.
"Your name, signor?" he inquired.
"I am Carlo Poerio Donati," he replied. "For what purpose have you
brought me here? If money is your object, I am as poor as any man in
Naples."
The chief did not answer, but ordered one of the banditti to search
the prisoner. The man obeyed, and handed the contents of Carlo's
pockets to the leader, who at once singled out the watch and chain
and handed them to Lionbruno.
"This is your share, my son; you have done well," he remarked.
The rest of the things he pushed collectively towards the three men
who had helped in the capture; they snatched eagerly at the purse,
and grumbled much to find so little money in it.
Meanwhile Carlo stood motionless. Sometimes it seemed to him that
the whole scene must be some wild imagination of his own brain. Had
he, perhaps, been so overwrought by the hurrying griefs and joys of
the past few weeks that his mind had become deranged? Or was he
asleep, and was it all a dream arising out of some confused
recollections of the struggling he had witnessed in the panic, and
fantastically blended with the gipsy camp scene in Carmen! A
horrible giddiness seized him--the result, probably, of the blow he
had received and the exhausting walk which had followed. He
staggered a little, but recovered himself, and once more turned to
the chief with the same question,--
"For what purpose have you brought me here?"
"You bear a name, signor, that I once revered," said the chief,
coldly; "and for the sake of that I will answer you, though I am not
usually questioned by my prisoners. You come here to replenish my
purse. There are those who were willing to pay well for my son's
little escapade, and your stay here will be quite free of cost to
yourself."
"I will double the sum if you will release me at once!" exclaimed
Carlo.
But the chief shook his head.
"In the words of the proverb, signor, '_E meglio aver oggi un uovo
che dimani una gallina_,' nor do I ever turn from my word. Rocco,
make haste with the irons!"
Again that horrible giddy confusion rose in Carlo's brain; he was
very dimly aware of what happened during the next few minutes; but
the paroxysm passed, and he found that they were leading him through
a catacomb, and that Lionbruno, torch in hand, headed the procession.
The passage ended in a sort of rude cell, which showed signs of
habitation, and here his guards left him, with Lionbruno only as
sentinel. He noticed that his arms had been unstrapped, but that
there was a chain round his waist to which one foot and one hand were
attached, and the weight of iron was so great that he could only move
with difficulty. He remembered that Poerio himself had worn such
fetters for years, and again the dream-like feeling crept over him.
He could hardly persuade himself that he was actually Carlo Donati,
the singer, living in the peaceful days of King Humbert.
Meanwhile, the son of the chief was regarding the first prisoner for
whose capture he was responsible with something like embarrassment.
He had expected on the part of his victim an abject terror, a piteous
appeal for mercy, which would effectually have steeled his heart
against him, which would have genuinely pleased his pride, and made
opportunities for cruelty delightful. But now that he had got his
wish, and with exceptional coolness and daring had kidnapped his man
in broad daylight and within a few miles of Naples, he found, much to
his disgust, that, far from feeling himself a hero, he had a vague
sense of discomfort and shame for which he could not in the least
account.
"You still feel the effects of the blow, signor?" he inquired,
pushing together with his foot the shavings which had accumulated
about a carpenter's bench that stood in a corner of the cell. "You
had better lie down and rest." He made a gesture towards the pile of
shavings, wondering greatly at himself as he did so.
Carlo, however, took no heed of the suggestion; instead, he drew
nearer to his jailer.
"I am your prisoner," he said, gravely, "and wholly at your mercy, as
you reminded me just now; but we are fellow-men. Do not keep me any
longer in the dark! Tell me what Comerio means to do!"
"What is that to us?" replied Lionbruno. "For the present our share
of the work is done, and for the rest who cares? In any case
Brancaleone will get his money. As for your fate, I don't care a fig
about it one way or the other!"
"You are more of a man and less of a brute than you would have me
think," replied Carlo; "but it is not of my fate I ask. Tell me what
Comerio means to do! I know that he is at the bottom of this plot; I
should have known it even had I not heard your words in the carriage!"
"So you did hear them? And that was what made you fight again for
your freedom? Take my advice, signor, and do not ask too many
questions. _Corpo di Bacco!_ Must you, then, hear all? Well, in
two days' time you will have your limbs freed from those irons, or,
if not, why, your soul will be freed from your body, which comes to
the same thing in the end!"
"Can you not speak plainly? Do you mean that my life depends on
Comerio's whim?"
"Not on Comerio at all, but on your sister. Look here, it is all as
orderly as a ceremony on a _festa_! Comerio goes to her to-night,
wins her consent to leave the country with him, and exchanges a white
handkerchief with our Neapolitan agent, who on Wednesday night will
pass it on to us, and from that moment you are a free man once more.
Or, on the other hand, Madame Merlino refuses her lover's suggestion
definitely, Comerio disappears from the scene, having dropped a red
handkerchief with our agent, and on Thursday you look your last on
this world. That is the matter in a nutshell, signor."
Carlo's heart gave a bound, then a cold chill ran through him; he had
indeed grown pretty well accustomed to the idea of possible violence
at the hands of Comerio; he knew the Corsican's nature too well to
expect him to behave, for instance, like an Englishman or an
American; but, although he had never been lacking in courage, it
appalled him to think that for two days and two nights he must wait
in this dismal cell, and at the end of the time be murdered in cold
blood. Yet what was the other alternative? Either Anita must live
in sin, or he must die--there was no escape from the dilemma! To
desire his own life meant that he desired her moral death; to pray
for his own safe-keeping meant that he prayed for her ruin. And yet
he clung to life with the strong natural instinct of a healthy man.
Only a few weeks ago all had been hard and dreary for him; but now,
with Francesca his own once more, with the prospect of fame sweetened
by her loving sympathy, with health and vigor, and all the ardent
desires of youth, how was it possible for him to be willing to be
done to death in this dismal catacomb?
After all, under the circumstances, would it be such a sin on Anita's
part? Was not Merlino ill-tempered enough to excuse such a step?
Were not his own notions about marriage old-fashioned, as Sardoni had
always declared? Thoughts such as these just glanced through his
mind, yet gave him but a momentary struggle, because the life he had
lived for the last three years made him on this point practically
invulnerable. The real anguish lay in the temptation to put
Francesca above everything--above his conscience, above his sense of
honor and duty. How could he desire that which must condemn her to
grief and loneliness, which must cause her the most cruel of shocks
and blight her whole life? It was the old, old story of the innocent
suffering for the guilty, of the strong bearing the burden of the
weak, and his mind revolted from the thought of sorrow visiting the
woman he loved best; he turned in horror from the apparent injustice
of the law of life.
But while he lay there face downwards on the heap of shavings in
dumb, hopeless anguish, there came to him all at once the strangest
consciousness that, although he was chained, fettered, and
guarded,--a most helpless prisoner, not even knowing where his
underground cell could be, yet that in his keeping lay Anita's fate.
He knew, as he knew the fact of his own existence, that if he could
not bring his will to accept this thought of being murdered, neither
would she allow herself to be saved from wrong-doing at the expense
of his life. At this very moment she, too, was probably wrestling
with deadly temptation. Her love for him so lately awakened would
impel her to save him at all costs, while Comerio's power over her
would be increased tenfold by this devilish scheme which had been so
cunningly laid. Clearly the Corsican was determined to win her,
while, for the time, Carlo had staggered under the blow dealt him by
his enemy, and was pausing, as men must, to look the evil in the
face, to count the cost as they are distinctly told to do, that so
they may be ready for the worst.
Anita was even now making her final choice. Whatever the scientific
or spiritual explanation of the matter might be, he knew that there
was between them some direct power of influence, some will-force,
which made her decision depend on his actual readiness for sacrifice.
It was clearly impossible that she should be saved by a figment of
the imagination--a mere belief in his readiness. He must definitely
desire that she might be saved from Comerio, cost him what it would,
before she could be so influenced by his devotion as to choose what
was really right. It must be a living fact, not a hazy illusion,
which would save his sister.
And yet how could he desire that which would bring bitter grief to
Francesca, disappointment to all his hopes of work in the world, a
sudden end to his career? It would not even be a beautiful and
glorious death like his father's or his grandfather's, but a
miserable end like some animal in a slaughter-house, a horrible
degrading death in a den of robbers without a single friend to
comfort him, without one farewell to those he loved! And with that
the tears started to his eyes, for he saw once more the carriage just
outside the arsenal gates, he remembered how Francesca had smiled at
him for the last time when he parted from her on leaving the yacht,
and recalled the bright hope which had thrilled in her voice as she
spoke that "_A rivederci!_"
"My God!" he cried, "how can I be willing to die! It is more than
man can bear!"
Choking with emotion, and with a craving for air, he raised himself a
little, turning his face instinctively towards the light.
Apparently Lionbruno added to his character of brigand the more
peaceful callings of carpenter and carver, and by some curious irony
of fate his carvings were almost all of them ecclesiastical; in this
secret retreat of banditti were to be found delicately-carved
alms-boxes, destined for some rich cathedral or church; beautifully
designed rosaries, which might some day find a home in the private
oratory of a wealthy noble; and crosses by the dozen, because for
them the market was always good. Carlo was so much accustomed to
observe things carefully, that he instinctively took in all these
little details, spite of his grievous trouble. Lionbruno had set up
a couple of torches in a carved sconce, had lighted a small lamp with
a tin reflector, and, seated on a stool beneath it, was working with
apparent laziness, but with wonderful effect, on a crucifix. For
some minutes Carlo watched in silence the carving of one of the
pierced hands, then a flood of light suddenly overpowered his
darkness. Was it more than a man could bear, this that had come to
him?
He could not submit, no healthy human nature could submit, to
objectless pain or needless sacrifice; but could not he, too, seek
only to do God's will and quietly take the consequences, facing
world, and flesh, and devil, as the Divine Man had done in the
strength of dauntless faith?
Yes, he felt that it was possible. There was in the very depths of
his being something upon which he could at will fall back, a strength
infinitely greater than this craving for the joys of life, and love,
and freedom; stronger, too, than that side of his love for Francesca,
which made him tremble at the thought of her grief and loneliness.
Carlo was no theologian, probably he could not have put into
many-syllabled terms his own firm belief, but he had the insight of a
pure heart and the vigor of one who has always tried to conquer his
own weaknesses. In a very simple and literal way he believed that
God was his Father, not in name only, but in very truth. He knew
that he, in common with every human being, had it in his power to
live as a son or as an alien; and he knew, by that most sure proof,
the experience of daily life, that he could only overcome the
cravings of selfishness, by a constant effort to come into closer
union with that life-giving Spirit to whom he was truly akin, that so
his spirit might not starve, but grow and develop.
The confusion, caused by physical weakness, and the shock of finding
himself at the mercy of the merciless, began to fade, as he realized
the strength of that wisdom, and love, and peace, which reigns above
all the sin of the world, and which is, in truth, "taking it away" by
the eternal power of love and sacrifice. He felt a sort of surprise
that only a few minutes ago the struggle within him had been so
desperate, the revolt against his fate so vehement. After all, what
did it matter if, for a time, evil seemed to triumph and might seemed
to conquer right? Had it not always seemed to be so since the
beginning of the world? And yet had not good steadily advanced,
triumphing through apparent defeat? Above all the anguish of his
grief, and pain, and loss, there came to him, as there had often come
during those three years, a wonderful happiness, the pure delight of
realizing the perfect will of God, and with his whole heart trying to
do it.
Looked at through this other atmosphere, the future seemed less
formidable to meet, though not one whit less important. A wave of
horror passed over him as he realized what might be happening at that
very moment, and all thought of self died within him, as in terrible
reaction, he passed from the vision of perfect Purity and Love to the
thought of impurity and sin. In an agony he prayed, willing now to
die a thousand deaths rather than that Anita should sink into this
black abyss, this hellish contradiction to all love and light.
It mattered nothing to him that many would consider his adhesion to
Christ's law as to marriage mere old-fashioned prejudice; it mattered
nothing to him that the worldly-wise would say he was throwing away
his life for the sake of keeping his sister from the infringement of
a conventional law. He knew that it was not so. For since it is the
pure in heart who see God, it is also the pure in heart who
intuitively shrink from evil, and realize without analyzing the
hatefulness of impurity.
So the night hours passed by, and he prayed unceasingly for Nita's
safety.
It was not till morning that the thought of his own position returned
to him.
"This must be Tuesday," he reflected, as he rose from his rough bed.
"To-morrow I shall die."
But the thought had lost its bitterness, for, after all, death would
mean victory.