His jailer once gone out of the cell, the captive was left undisturbed
to consider the plan of escape so unexpectedly proposed to him. The
first question that occurred was: Who could the unknown writer be? It
was evidently some one of a refined intelligence; the writing proved
this, but more the method in which the instructions were conveyed.
These were so cunningly conceived, and so clearly expressed, as to be
quite intelligible to him for whom they were intended.
At first he thought of its being some plot on the part of Corvino--a
_ruse_ to give the chief a chance of recapturing him, and so taking him
in the act of attempting to escape.
Then came the reflection, _Cui bono_? Corvino could not want an excuse
for taking his life. On the contrary, he had every reason for
preserving it--at least until some definite answer about the ransom. If
the demand should be again refused, the captive knew this would be plea
sufficient for putting him to death. The threat of the brigand had been
backed by the assurance given him in his conversation with the
unfortunate Popetta. He no longer doubted of its being in earnest.
It could not be Corvino who had furnished him with the means of escape.
Who then? Certainly not his own countryman. The renegade was his
bitterest enemy--ever foremost in persecuting him. Of all the band, his
thoughts now turned to Tommaso, simply because there was no other who
had shown him the slightest sign of sympathy. Tommaso had done so,
during the two days of his attendance; but then he presumed it to be at
the instance of the signorina. She was dead; and her influence must
have perished along with her. What further interest could the man have
in him?
True, he seemed something different from his outlawed associates. He at
least appeared less brutal than they--as if he had seen better days, and
had not fallen so far below the normal condition of humanity. Henry
Harding had noticed this during the slight communication held with him.
Beside, there was evidence of it in the conversation he had heard under
his window--in relation to the vile designs on Lucetta Torreani. But
then--Tommaso's motive for assisting him? And at such risk to himself!
Death would be the reward of any of the band who might aid him in
escape, or even connive at it--death sure and cruel. Why should Tommaso
place himself in peril? What had he, Henry Harding, done to deserve the
sympathy of this man? Nothing.
The last word in the letter of instruction now occurred to him--not the
postscript, but the closing sentence of the epistle itself--"_Save
Lucetta Torreani_!"
Was this the explanation? Could this be a clue to Tommaso's conduct?
If so, Tommaso was indeed the writer.
It was at all events an injunction calculated to stimulate the prisoner
to action. The thought of the girl's danger was never for a moment out
of his mind. Now that this scheme was brought before him, he ceased his
conjectures, and gave himself up to considering how he should carry out
the design suggested in such a mysterious manner.
Plainly he could do nothing before night. Any attempt during daylight
might be detected by his jailer, coming in with his food. The last meal
having been brought him would be the cue for commencement.
During the day he was not idle. He made careful survey of his cell,
chiefly the woodwork overhead. The boards appeared in a dilapidated
condition, as if they would easily give way to the blade of a knife.
His chagrin was great in discovering that the ceiling was too high to be
reached--nearly a foot beyond the tips of his fingers, held aloft to
their fullest stretch. This was indeed something to disconcert him.
He looked despairingly around the cell. There was nothing on which he
could stand--neither stool nor stone--nothing to give him the necessary
elevation. The chapter of instructions had been written in vain; the
writer had not contemplated this difficulty in their fulfilment.
For a moment the captive believed he would have to abandon the scheme.
It seemed impossible of execution.
Ingenuity becomes quickened under circumstances of dire necessity. In
Henry Harding's case this truth was illustrated. Once more scanning the
floor of his cell, he perceived the litter of fern leaves that formed
his stye-like couch. It might be possible to collect them into a lump,
and so obtain the standpoint he required. In his mind he made a
calculation of the quantity, and the probable height to which they would
elevate him. He did not experiment practically, by massing the litter
and so making a trial. Any disturbance of things might excite
suspicion. That would be a task easily accomplished, and could be left
to the last moment.
And to the last moment it was left. As soon as the morose attendant
took his departure for the night--though without even the salutation
"_Buono notte_"--the captive set about carrying out his design.
The fern leaves were collected into a heap and placed near the middle of
the floor. He took great care in packing them, so as to form a firm
cushion, and confining them within a small space, to increase the
elevation. He had also observed the precaution, to select a spot under
that part of the ceiling that appeared most assailable.
The stage erected, he mounted on it, knife in hand. He could just reach
the boards with his blade; but this appeared enough, and he commenced
making an incision. As he conjectured, the wood was half decayed with
damp, or dry rot, and gave way before the knife, which by good luck was
a sharp one. But he had not worked long, when he found his support
sinking gradually beneath him; and, before he had accomplished the tenth
part of his task, the fern footstool had become so flattened that he was
unable to proceed. He descended to the floor, rearranged it, and then
recommenced his cutting and carving. All in silence, or with the least
noise possible; for there was his knowledge of a sharp-eared sentry in
the ante-chamber, and another keeping guard close by the window of his
cell.
Again the cushion sank, with only another fraction of the task
accomplished. Again was it repadded; and the work proceeded for another
short spell.
A new idea now helped him to keep on continuously. He took off his
coat, folded it into a thick roll, placed it on the summit of the fern
heap, and then set his feet upon it. This gave him a firmer pedestal to
stand upon, enabling him to complete the task he had undertaken. In
fine, he succeeded in cutting a trap-like hole through the floor-boards,
big enough for his body to be passed through.
It was done before twelve o'clock. He could tell this by the brigands
still keeping up their carousal outside. Hitherto the sound of their
voices had favoured him, drowning any noise he might have made,
otherwise audible to the sentries. Moreover, these were less on the
alert during the earlier hours.
About midnight all sounds ceased, and the band seemed to have gone to
sleep. It was time for him to continue the attempt at escape. Putting
on his coat, he caught hold of one of the joists, and drew himself up
through the hole he had cut. Above, as anticipated, he found himself in
a sort of garret-loft.
He commenced groping around for some means of egress. At first he could
find none, and supposed the space to be enclosed without any aperture.
His head coming in contact with the roof, he perceived it to be a thatch
of either straw or rushes. He was planning how he should cut his way
through it, when a glimmer of light came under his eye, falling faintly
along the floor.
Approaching the aperture where it was admitted, he discovered a sort of
dormer window, without glass, but closed by a dilapidated shutter.
There was no bar, and the shutter turned open to the outside. He looked
cautiously through, and scanned the ground beneath, as also the premises
adjoining. He saw that it was the back of the house, and that there
were no others in the rear. There was no light, or anything, to show
that human beings were astir.
He could perceive a clump of trees standing a short distance off, and
others straggling up the sides of the mountain. If he could succeed in
getting under this cover, without disturbing the men who kept guard over
his cell, he would stand a good chance of escape, at least so far as the
first line of sentries was concerned. As to those keeping the pass,
that would be an enterprise altogether distinct. To get clear of his
prison was the thing now to be thought of; and he proceeded to take his
measures. How to creep through the dormer window and let himself down
outside were naturally the first questions that suggested themselves.
The night was dark, though with a sky grey and starry. It was the
sombre gloom that in all its obscurity shrouded the extinguished crater.
He could not see the ground beneath; but, knowing how high he had
climbed into the garret, the descent could not be a very deep one,
unless indeed the house stood on the edge of some scarped elevation.
The thought of this caused him to hesitate; and, once more craning his
neck over the sill, he endeavoured to penetrate the obscurity below.
But he could not see the ground, and as it would not do to remain any
longer, he turned face inwards, and, backing through the window, let his
legs drop down the wall. A wooden bar placed tranversely across the
sill, seemed to offer the proper holding place for his hands. He
grasped it to balance his body for the fall; but the treacherous support
gave way, and he fell in such fashion as to throw him with violence on
his shoulder.
He was stunned, and lay still--in what appeared to be the bottom of a
drain or trench. Fortunate for him his having done so. The crack of
the breaking bar had been heard by the sentries, who came running round
to discover the cause.
"I'm sure I heard something," said one of the two.
"Bah! nothing of the kind. You must have been mistaken."
"I could swear to it--a noise like a blow with a stick, or the fall of a
bundle of fagots."
"Oh, that was it! there's the cause then, over your head; that
window-shutter flapping in the wind."
"Ah! like enough it was. To the devil with the rickety old thing! What
good does it do there, I wonder?"
And the satisfied alarmist, following his less suspicions comrade,
returned to the front. By the time they regained their respective
posts, the prisoner had crept out of the dark ditch, and was skulking
cautiously towards the cover--which he succeeded in reaching without
further interrupting the tranquillity of their watch.