In truth, a multitude of people, rushing up the wide incline with such
united fury, shouting and shaking their weapons and their tools, did
not resemble a gathering of individuals, but rather the overflow of a
blind mass of matter, urged on by an irresistible force.
In a few moments, the mob was beneath the palace, stretching around it
like an octopus, with many arms, and enclosing the whole edifice in a
surging circle.
Some among the rebels carried large bunches of lighted sticks,
like torches, casting over their faces a mobile, reddish light and
scattering sparks and burning cinders, which caused noisy, crackling
sounds. Some, in a compact group, were carrying a pole, from the top
of which hung the corpse of a man. They were threatening death, with
gestures and cries. With hatred they were shouting the name, “Cassaura!
Cassaura!”
The Duke of Ofena threw up his hands in despair upon recognising on the
top of the pole the mutilated body of Vincenzio Murro, the messenger he
had sent during the night to ask for help from the soldiers. He pointed
out the hanging body to Mazzagrogna, who said, in a low voice, “It is
the end!”
Don Filippo, however, heard him, and began to give forth such a
rattling sound that they all felt their hearts oppressed and their
courage failing them.
The servants, with pale faces, ran to the threshold, and were held
there by cowardice. Some were crying and invoking their Saints, while
others were contemplating treachery. “If we should give up our master
to the people, they might, perhaps, spare our lives.”
“To the balcony! To the balcony!” cried the people, breaking in. “To
the balcony!”
At this moment, the Duke spoke aside, in a subdued voice, to
Mazzagrogna.
Turning to Don Filippo, he said, “Place yourself in a chair, father; it
will be better for you.”
A slight murmur arose among the servants. Two of them came forward to
help the paralytic to get out of bed. Two others stood near the chair,
which ran on rollers. The work was painful.
The corpulent old man was panting and lamenting loudly, his arm
clinging to the neck of the servant who supported him. He was dripping
with perspiration, while the room, the shutters being closed, was
filled with an unbearable stench. When he reached the chair, his feet
began to tap on the floor with a rhythmical motion. His loose stomach
hung on his knees, like a half filled leather bag.
Then the Duke said to Mazzagrogna, “Giovanni, it is your turn!”
And the latter, with a resolute gesture, opened the shutters and went
out onto the balcony.