It was day; I heard the beating of a drum: I climbed to my window and looked out. A company of soldiers marched into the court; three prisoners stood in front of them. At a sign from the officer, they marched away. The jailer opened my door; I asked him about them. “In an hour,” he replied, “they are to die; they are suspected of treason—of having favored the insurrection among the Tyrolese.”
These words were my death-warrant. I heard them shuddering, but with composure. The jailer continued—“It is now the hour when the prisoners are allowed to take the air in the court. Will you go down?”
We went. I saw in the court a rough, vagabond crowd, ruffians whom the energy of the French government had collected out of all Lombardy, to shut them up here. Leaning against a pillar, his eyes fixed on the sun, which had just risen, I observed a young man about twenty-five, who seemed worn out with suffering. He was pale and emaciated; his eyes were sunken; a prominent, bent nose, a high forehead, black masses of hair, and a long beard, gave him a wild appearance. But the expression of deep sorrow in the sharp lines of his chiseled mouth, and his pale, attenuated cheeks, imparted a touching interest to his face. I looked long at this singular person; he seemed not to see any one, but continued to gaze upwards towards the sun.
All at once he perceived the jailer, and hastily went to him. “I entreat you,” he said, speaking earnestly, in Italian; “can I not move you?”
“No,” replied the old man, sternly, “you cannot; and if you are not quiet o’ nights, I will even cut your last string for you.”
This, then, is the player, thought I; and I was hastening to speak to him when I heard my name pronounced behind me. It was the gend’arme who had arrested me. “Suivez moi, monsieur,” he said, sternly. I was compelled to obey. Before the door stood a coach; we entered, drove off and stopped before a handsome house. My companion was silent as the grave. We alighted, and he led me up the steps and into the house. We waited some time in the hall. At last the door of a side room opened, and a voice cried, “Entrez.” Joyful surprise! I stood before General K——, who, four years before, had been brought wounded to the house of my parents in Berlin; and although an enemy, had received generous attention and nursing.
“My young friend,” he cried, grasping my hand, “how imprudent you have been! Had I not, by mere chance, occupied this post, nothing could have saved you. You are free.”
“And my friends?”
“They are also at liberty.”
“A thousand thanks—”