After the atrocious cruelty that deprived him of a finger, two days more
of gloomy imprisonment was passed by Henry Harding in his prison. The
coarse fare by day and hard couch by night, even the loss he had
sustained, were not to be compared with the anguish of his spirit.
In this lay the pangs of his captivity. The chagrin caused by his
father's refusal to ransom him was bitter to bear. His brother's letter
had placed the refusal in its worst light. He felt as if he had no
friend--no father.
He suffered from a reflection less selfish, and yet more painful--an
apprehension for the safety of his friend's sister. There could be no
mistaking what Corvino meant by the words whispered in his ear during
that fearful scene; and he knew that the savage tragedy then enacted was
but by way of preparation for the still more distressing episode that
was to follow.
Every hour, almost every minute, the captive might have been seen
standing by the window of his cell, scrutinising what might transpire
outside--listening with keen ear, apprehensive that in each new arrival
at the rendezvous, he might discover the presence of Lucetta Torreani.
Himself a prisoner, he was powerless to protect, even to give her a word
of warning. Could he have sent her but one line to apprise her of the
danger, he would have sacrificed not only another finger, but the hand
by which it was written. He blamed himself for not having thought of
writing to her father, at the time that he sent the letter to Luigi. It
was an opportunity not likely to occur again. He could only hope that
his letter to Luigi might be received in time--a slender reed to depend
upon. He thought of trying to effect escape from his prison. Could he
succeed in doing this, all might be well. But he had been thinking of
it from the first--every hour during his confinement--thinking of it to
no purpose. He made no attempt, simply because there was no means of
making it. He had well examined the structure of his cell. The walls
were stout masonwork of stone and stucco; the floor was a pavement of
rough flags; the window a mere slit; the door strong enough to have
withstood the blows of a trip-hammer. Besides, at night a brigand slept
transversely across the entrance; while another kept sentry outside.
A bird worth 30,000 scudi was too precious to be permitted the chance of
escaping from its cage. His eyes had often turned upwards. In that
direction seemed the only chance of escape at all possible. It might
have been practicable had he been but provided with two things--a knife
in his hand and a stool to stand upon. Strong beams stretched
horizontally across. Over these was a sheeting of roughly-hewn planks,
as if there was a second story above. But he knew it could only be a
garret; for the boards were damp and mildewed, from the leaking of the
roof over them. They looked rotten enough to have been easily cut
through, if there had been but a chisel or knife to accomplish it.
There was neither. Right and left, behind and before, below and above,
egress appeared impracticable.
On the second night after losing his little finger, he had ceased to
think of it; and, with his mutilated hand wrapped in a rag, torn from
the sleeve of his shirt--the only surgical treatment it received--he lay
upon the floor, endeavouring in sleep to find a temporary respite from
his wretchedness.
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 repetition 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 circumstances 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 pass 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 pass, without his
seeing you; and you must then use the knife. Don't try to pass; 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 passed 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 scrap 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.