“That is what I thought at first. Your Eminence; but the prison surgeon can't find any trace of a fall. The soldier who was on duty yesterday says that Rivarez looked very ill last night when he brought in the supper, and did not eat anything. But that must be nonsense; a sick man couldn't file those bars through and climb along that roof. It's not in reason.”
“Does he give any account of himself?”
“He is unconscious, Your Eminence.”
“Still?”
“He just half comes to himself from time to time and moans, and then goes off again.”
“That is very strange. What does the doctor think?”
“He doesn't know what to think. There is no trace of heart-disease that he can find to account for the thing; but whatever is the matter with him, it is something that must have come on suddenly, just when he had nearly managed to escape. For my part, I believe he was struck down by the direct intervention of a merciful Providence.”
Montanelli frowned slightly.
“What are you going to do with him?” he asked.
“That is a question I shall settle in a very few days. In the meantime I have had a good lesson. That is what comes of taking off the irons—with all due respect to Your Eminence.”