The Gadfly, E. L. Voynich [best books to read for self development .txt] 📗

flank with the stirrup; the hoofs

of the cavalry horses were thundering up the hill

behind him; and it would have been worse than

useless to stay and be taken too. Turning in the

saddle as he galloped away, to fire a last shot in

the teeth of the nearest pursuer, he saw the Gadfly,

with blood on his face, trampled under the feet

of horses and soldiers and spies; and heard the

savage curses of the captors, the yells of triumph

and rage.

 

Montanelli did not notice what had happened;

he had moved away from the steps, and was trying

to calm the terrified people. Presently, as he

stooped over the wounded spy, a startled movement

of the crowd made him look up. The soldiers were

crossing the square, dragging their

prisoner after them by the rope with which his

hands were tied. His face was livid with pain and

exhaustion, and he panted fearfully for breath;

but he looked round at the Cardinal, smiling with

white lips, and whispered:

 

“I c-cong-gratulate your Eminence.”

 

… . .

 

Five days later Martini reached Forli. He

had received from Gemma by post a bundle of

printed circulars, the signal agreed upon in case of

his being needed in any special emergency; and,

remembering the conversation on the terrace, he

guessed the truth at once. All through the journey

he kept repeating to himself that there was

no reason for supposing anything to have happened

to the Gadfly, and that it was absurd to

attach any importance to the childish superstitions

of so nervous and fanciful a person; but the

more he reasoned with himself against the idea,

the more firmly did it take possession of his mind.

 

“I have guessed what it is: Rivarez is taken, of

course?” he said, as he came into Gemma’s room.

 

“He was arrested last Thursday, at Brisighella.

He defended himself desperately and wounded the

captain of the squadron and a spy.”

 

“Armed resistance; that’s bad!”

 

“It makes no difference; he was too deeply

compromised already for a pistol-shot more or less

to affect his position much.”

 

“What do you think they are going to do with

him?”

 

She grew a shade paler even than before.

 

“I think,” she said; “that we must not wait to

find out what they mean to do.”

 

“You think we shall be able to effect a rescue?”

 

“We MUST.”

 

He turned away and began to whistle, with his

hands behind his back. Gemma let him think

undisturbed. She was sitting still, leaning her

head against the back of the chair, and looking

out into vague distance with a fixed and tragic

absorption. When her face wore that expression,

it had a look of Durer’s “Melancolia.”

 

“Have you seen him?” Martini asked, stopping

for a moment in his tramp.

 

“No; he was to have met me here the next

morning.”

 

“Yes, I remember. Where is he?”

 

“In the fortress; very strictly guarded, and,

they say, in chains.”

 

He made a gesture of indifference.

 

“Oh, that’s no matter; a good file will get rid

of any number of chains. If only he isn’t

wounded–-”

 

“He seems to have been slightly hurt, but

exactly how much we don’t know. I think you

had better hear the account of it from Michele

himself; he was present at the arrest.”

 

“How does he come not to have been taken

too? Did he run away and leave Rivarez in the

lurch?”

 

“It’s not his fault; he fought as long as anybody

did, and followed the directions given him to

the letter. For that matter, so did they all. The

only person who seems to have forgotten, or

somehow made a mistake at the last minute, is

Rivarez himself. There’s something inexplicable

about it altogether. Wait a moment; I will call

Michele.”

 

She went out of the room, and presently came

back with Michele and a broad-shouldered mountaineer.

 

“This is Marco,” she said. “You have heard

of him; he is one of the smugglers. He has just

got here, and perhaps will be able to tell us more.

Michele, this is Cesare Martini, that I spoke to

you about. Will you tell him what happened, as

far as you saw it?”

 

Michele gave a short account of the skirmish

with the squadron.

 

“I can’t understand how it happened,” he concluded.

“Not one of us would have left him if

we had thought he would be taken; but his directions

were quite precise, and it never occurred to

us, when he threw down his cap, that he would

wait to let them surround him. He was close beside

the roan—I saw him cut the tether—and I

handed him a loaded pistol myself before I

mounted. The only thing I can suppose is that

he missed his footing,—being lame,—in trying to

mount. But even then, he could have fired.”

 

“No, it wasn’t that,” Marcone interposed.

“He didn’t attempt to mount. I was the last one

to go, because my mare shied at the firing; and I

looked round to see whether he was safe. He

would have got off clear if it hadn’t been for the

Cardinal.”

 

“Ah!” Gemma exclaimed softly; and Martini

repeated in amazement: “The Cardinal?”

 

“Yes; he threw himself in front of the pistol—

confound him! I suppose Rivarez must have

been startled, for he dropped his pistol-hand and

put the other one up like this”—laying the back

of his left wrist across his eyes—“and of course

they all rushed on him.”

 

“I can’t make that out,” said Michele. “It’s

not like Rivarez to lose his head at a crisis.”

 

“Probably he lowered his pistol for fear of killing

an unarmed man,” Martini put in. Michele

shrugged his shoulders.

 

“Unarmed men shouldn’t poke their noses into

the middle of a fight. War is war. If Rivarez

had put a bullet into His Eminence, instead of letting

himself be caught like a tame rabbit, there’d

be one honest man the more and one priest the less.”

 

He turned away, biting his moustache. His

anger was very near to breaking down in tears.

 

“Anyway,” said Martini, “the thing’s done,

and there’s no use wasting time in discussing how

it happened. The question now is how we’re to

arrange an escape for him. I suppose you’re all

willing to risk it?”

 

Michele did not even condescend to answer the

superfluous question, and the smuggler only remarked

with a little laugh: “I’d shoot my own brother, if he

weren’t willing.”

 

“Very well, then–- First thing; have you

got a plan of the fortress?”

 

Gemma unlocked a drawer and took out several

sheets of paper.

 

“I have made out all the plans. Here is the

ground floor of the fortress; here are the upper

and lower stories of the towers, and here the plan

of the ramparts. These are the roads leading to

the valley, and here are the paths and hiding-places

in the mountains, and the underground passages.”

 

“Do you know which of the towers he is

in?”

 

“The east one, in the round room with the

grated window. I have marked it on the plan.”

 

“How did you get your information?”

 

“From a man nicknamed ‘The Cricket,’ a soldier

of the guard. He is cousin to one of our men—Gino.”

 

“You have been quick about it.”

 

“There’s no time to lose. Gino went into

Brisighella at once; and some of the plans we

already had. That list of hiding-places was made

by Rivarez himself; you can see by the handwriting.”

 

“What sort of men are the soldiers of the guard?”

 

“That we have not been able to find out yet;

the Cricket has only just come to the place, and

knows nothing about the other men.”

 

“We must find out from Gino what the Cricket

himself is like. Is anything known of the government’s

intentions? Is Rivarez likely to be tried

in Brisighella or taken in to Ravenna?”

 

“That we don’t know. Ravenna, of course, is

the chief town of the Legation and by law cases

of importance can be tried only there, in the

Tribunal of First Instance. But law doesn’t count

for much in the Four Legations; it depends on the

personal fancy of anybody who happens to be in power.”

 

“They won’t take him in to Ravenna,” Michele interposed.

 

“What makes you think so?”

 

“I am sure of it. Colonel Ferrari, the military

Governor at Brisighella, is uncle to the officer that

Rivarez wounded; he’s a vindictive sort of brute

and won’t give up a chance to spite an enemy.”

 

“You think he will try to keep Rivarez here?”

 

“I think he will try to get him hanged.”

 

Martini glanced quickly at Gemma. She was

very pale, but her face had not changed at the

words. Evidently the idea was no new one to her.

 

“He can hardly do that without some formality,”

she said quietly; “but he might possibly

get up a courtmartial on some pretext or other,

and justify himself afterwards by saying that the

peace of the town required it.”

 

“But what about the Cardinal? Would he

consent to things of that kind?”

 

“He has no jurisdiction in military affairs.”

 

“No, but he has great influence. Surely the

Governor would not venture on such a step without

his consent?”

 

“He’ll never get that,” Marcone interrupted.

“Montanelli was always against the military

commissions, and everything of the kind. So

long as they keep him in Brisighella nothing

serious can happen; the Cardinal will always take

the part of any prisoner. What I am afraid of is

their taking him to Ravenna. Once there, he’s

lost.”

 

“We shouldn’t let him get there,” said Michele.

“We could manage a rescue on the road; but to

get him out of the fortress here is another

matter.”

 

“I think,” said Gemma; “that it would be

quite useless to wait for the chance of his being

transferred to Ravenna. We must make the attempt

at Brisighella, and we have no time to lose.

Cesare, you and I had better go over the plan of

the fortress together, and see whether we can

think out anything. I have an idea in my head,

but I can’t get over one point.”

 

“Come, Marcone,” said Michele, rising; “we

will leave them to think out their scheme. I have

to go across to Fognano this afternoon, and I

want you to come with me. Vincenzo hasn’t sent

those cartridges, and they ought to have been

here yesterday.”

 

When the two men had gone, Martini went up

to Gemma and silently held out his hand. She let

her fingers lie in his for a moment.

 

“You were always a good friend, Cesare,” she

said at last; “and a very present help in trouble.

And now let us discuss plans.”

 

CHAPTER III.

 

“AND I once more most earnestly assure Your

Eminence that your refusal is endangering the

peace of the town.”

 

The Governor tried to preserve the respectful

tone due to a high dignitary of the Church; but

there was audible irritation in his voice. His liver

was out of order, his wife was running up heavy

bills, and his temper had been sorely tried during

the last three weeks. A sullen, disaffected populace,

whose dangerous mood grew daily more apparent; a

district honeycombed with plots and bristling with

hidden weapons; an inefficient garrison, of whose

loyalty he was more than doubtful, and a Cardinal

whom he had pathetically described to his adjutant

as the “incarnation of immaculate pig-headedness,”

had already reduced him to the verge of desperation.

Now he was saddled with the Gadfly, an animated