CHAPTER LVI

A VERY UNFORTUNATE MAN

The countess could not leave her bed all that day. Still there was hope that if no further trouble was encountered they could leave sultry Milan next day.

It was nearly midnight when the doctor, walking between two officers, called to see Murietta. The Italian's face was black and red and white by turns. He was winking his brows with all his might.

"It is not me, Signor Murietta, that is a prisoner. It is not me. It is the admiral And it is all as I told you it should be. You can leave Italy tomorrow, but the admiral will never leave Italy. Revenge. Ho, ho! Revenge, and fifty thousand francs! No, no, no, I am not a prisoner at all These officers are sent with me till I find bail to appear on the trial. But I will appear. Do not fear that. Even if' I do not find bail I can walk about with these ofiicers, my friends, and be quite happy till the day of trial, You would see the prisoner in the morning? Good. A little present, Signor Murietta, and one of the officers will lead you to the prison in the morning."

"And the admiral is really under lock and key? A big man with a great chin," continued the artist to one of the officers.

"A big man with a big chin and a long grey moustache," answered the officer politely. "He made flight and fight also. He leapt over the bastion at last, and then swam the canal, and at last, when brought to bay, he fought like a wolf."

The artist took a long breath of relief. He walked to the window, looked out, and felt a sense of satisfaction that he had not known for days. There was even a smile on his face as he handed the officers each a red Italian note. After all, this man was very human, and perhaps enjoyed this almost as much as the revengeful Italian. Yet his was an unselfish satisfaction. This meant the freedom of the countess and the end of her persecutions.

"I shall have a few hours to spare in the morning before the express leaves for Paris, and I want one of you to come and take me to the old admiral in prison," said the artist as he opened the door and wished his visitors good night.

They bowed all the way down stairs, and promised to call at sharp ten in the morning.

You cannot tear up the heart by the roots and let it die like a flower, try as you might. Murietta had so often and so devoutly wished he could, for his heart was all the time turning back to Como, and hovering there like a lost bird of night over the pine and vine covered mountain that rose up in the forks of the beautiful lake.

He was an older man now. He looked in the glass next morning as he stood waiting for his promised visitor to lead him to the prison, and there saw that a tinge of frost was on his temples. Snow had fallen there in the terrible battle of the heart in the days just past; snow that only the winga of Death should brush away.

How sober this man was now! He was as a monk that had renounced the world. Yet for all that he could not keep his heart in Milan, do what he might.

A savage sense of duty, an iron independence, and a pretty clear sense of what was right at the bottom of things, no matter what the world might say, had led him into terrible straits. However, these same qualities will lead a man through to the pure white light and up to the shining hills of heaven. You have only to persevere. The straight road, even though it be out of the great highway and popular road of life, will lead you finally to the right place, though you be torn by thorns and set upon by wild beasts in the new way. The only danger in the whole matter is that you may get discouraged and attempt to turn back or reach the high road, when in the midst of thorns and beasts, instead of pushing ahead.

At ten o'clock the artist stood before the prison. And such a prison!

With the most splendid edifice that Christianity has ever reared, Milan has, under its very shadow as it were, the worst prison that the barbarian ever built.

The city has been destroyed time and again. More than once it has been levelled to the ground. Yet this old, ugly, massive heap of stones crouching down there under the bastion has never been touched save by time. It crouches down there as if it were ashamed of its own ugliness. The light of the sun refuses to touch it.

How the old ruin groaned as the great doors swung open! Chains, and bolts, and great rusty rings in the iron bound windows and in the black stone floors. The place was damp and even cold. It was more terrible than the tomb.

At last they came to the narrow stone coffin where the admiral was confined. It was a miserable little cell, but better than many of the others, for this one really had a window.

The daylight came in at this window, but timidly. It came in as if it was afraid, was not used to the place, and was very doubtful about the propriety of being there at all.

There was a row of stout rusty bars, drawn up like a file of grenadiers on guard, across this window, through which the sun came into the prison. And it did not pass unchallenged, for a number of black spiders were very busy mending a broken web right across the front of this file of iron grenadiers, as if to shut it out altogether.

The admiral sat there on a stone bench witli his head bowed down toward the door, and his bands dragged down between his legs by the weight of the rusty chain. Or more properly, one hand was drawn down, for but one hand and one foot were bound in irons. He lifted his eyes, but did not lift his head as the artist and officer entered.

"I am a very unfortunate man," He said these words very slowly, and one at a time, and as if to himself. They came out of his throat as if jerked out one at a time by fishhooks, and from very deep down.

He moved his hands as he spoke, and the chains clinked and chimed in between the words as sometimes do the bells between the prayers in the service.

"I am a very unfortunate man."

The old audacity was gone. The dash and daredevil character which this man had assumed and played, and played very well, for perhaps half a century, had quite forsaken him now. He was now drawing from his true nature, and he found that, once thoroughly conquered, he was the veriest coward alive.

Prick a child's balloon, and you can hold it between your thumb and finger.

The old admiral sat there on the stone bench with his head down, and he kept picking at and rubbing the ends of his stained fingers as if he found them burning him now.

He was utterly cut up, and could only keep rubbing and picking his fingers, and still slowly repeating his brief but mournful story, "I am a very unfortunate man."

"Well, admiral, I have come to see you, to make sure that you were here, and now, finding you, I must say good-bye."

The sun kept hesitating and hanging about the iron row of sentinels up in the narrow window, and the spiders kept busily weaving at the broken web. What had broken that web? There was the mark of a man's hand on the high window sill, in the dust. A link of the chain had touched there also. One of the iron sentinels had the rust rubbed off about his waist. It was the middle sentinel. The rust on these bars was scaling off like the bark of a tree. A chain had certainly been passed around the rusty waist of this iron guardian. What had the admiral been doing at that window all the night? He certainly could not have hoped to escape through it. It was not large enough to admit half his body through.

It was very pitiful. The conquered old man was utterly crushed. His utterly forlorn and helpless state touched the heart of the artist.

"Can I do anything for you to make you more comfortable here?"

Nothing, nothing, nothing. It is all over. They have betrayed me at the last moment. And now that you are kind enough to come to see me," said the prisoner, for the first time lifting up his head, "I wish to say to you that I was perfectly sincere in what I proposed. I really wished to get away and live a better life."

The old man's throat was dry and his voice was husky.

"They will not let me have any wine. They have taken away all my money, and no one comes near me now or sends me a glass to refresh my bruised and broken body and mind."

Bring a flask of wine and a case of cigars, and keep the change for your trouble." The officer soon returned with a large flask, a glass, and a case of cigars.

The admiral took up the glass, tilted the flagon, filled the glass to the brim, and drank it off at a draught. He drank like an American, and not at all like an Italian, for the latter only tastes Ids wine and never drinks it

He filled the glass again as before, and emptied it as before. Then taking a cigar be drew a long breath, looked up and about his cell, up at the busy spiders in their conspiracy to keep out the last bit of daylight, then taking a light which the officer had brought hira he began to resume the old devilish look and air of audacity.

"You have saved my life, sir, and I thank you. You are after all a very kind hearted man," said the prisoner (rom behind a cloud of smoke as he again emptied the glass. "Now sir, look here! I am a blunt but honest man. Ah! you smile at this. You seem to think you have heard it before. No matter. Some day you will come this way in your journeys through the world, and you will find my tombstone. Write above the dust of tbe old admiral, 'Rough but honest.' "

The old nature was rising under the flask of wine which he had nearly emptied. He kept the cigar burning like a furnace. It was nearly up to his grey and grizzly moustache. He filled his glass again, and glancing up at the window with its row of rusty sentinels and the busy spiders, he said, as he again looked at Murietta:

"Your health, Signer Murietta, and a pleasant journey to Paris, and a long and a pleasant life with the countess."

Murietta bit his lips but said nothing.

"You may find trouble at Turin," continued the old admiral, as if he again held matters in his hand and was about to dictate terms of surrender. "Yes, you may find trouble at Turin, for the Prince Trawaska is stationed there with Giuseppe. You see the order cannot allow so wealthy a lady as this to leave the country. Besides, there are certain Catholics interested in keeping this little boy in the creed of the Church."

"Trawaska and the knavish courier at Turin?"

"Yes, yes, I do not mind telling you and doing you any service in my power, since they all have deserted me, and some of them have betrayed me. If they hear of my arrest they will be the last to trouble you. But if not they will still go on under my orders given them last night, and will surely intercept you before you touch the line of France."

The man again emptied his glass and then blew the last of his cigar through his grey and unkempt moustache.

The artist stepped up to take his leave of the old man, and offered his hand.

"You have won!" said the admiral. "You have won! But it was not my fault. If men had been true to me, I should have landed you in hell." And then the dreadful man laughed a terrible laugh, that sounded as if it came up from the abode of the damned.

The artist said goodbye, and was going. The old admiral arose and said, looking down at the chain about his leg, with that perfect Italian politeness, and a bow that was courtly and elegant, "You will excuse me for not seeing you to the door."

"Certainly, admiral."

"Signor Murietta," called out the prisoner.

"Well!" answered the artist, turning back.

"I will not ask you for money, but 1 must ask you one little favour, since my friends do not come near me, and I am almost dead from pain and trouble."

"What can I do?"

"A little more wine. And, Signor Murietta, you wear a rich red sash about your waist."

"Well?"

"Will you not give me that sash as a keepsake? I will wear it as long as I live."

The artist hastily unwound the sash, stepped back, handed it to the man, and then leaving a note with the officer for another flagon, hurried away to the light of the sun.