But there seemed nothing further to be said: the man's pockets were perfectly empty, and his replies mathematically precise.
Favourite books of my father's were Polybius and Cæsar's Commentaries. A volume of the Commentaries of the conqueror of Gaul lay open on the table near his bed, and the passage my father had just been re-reading before going to sleep was where Cæsar relates how, in order to pass his lieutenant through to Labienus with valuable information, he had enclosed his letter in a little ivory ball about the size of a child's toy; how the messenger when he came to the enemy's pickets, or to any place where he feared being taken prisoner, was to carry the ball in his mouth, and to swallow it if he were pushed to extremes.
This passage from Cæsar flashed across my father's mind as a ray of light.
"Very well," said my father; "since this man lies, he must be taken out and shot."
"What! General," the Venetian exclaimed in terror. "Why am I to be shot?"
"To cut open your stomach and find the despatches you have swallowed," said my father with as much certainty as though the matter had been revealed to him by his familiar spirit.
The spy trembled.
The men hesitated.
"Oh! it is not a joke," said my father to the soldiers who had taken the prisoner; "if you wish it, I will give you a written order."