She did not appear to be conscious of their presence, but they both spoke with lowered voices, as though they were looking at a corpse. After a dreary little pause, Marcone rose and put away his pipe.
“I will come back this evening,” he said; but Martini stopped him with a gesture.
“Don't go yet; I want to speak to you.” He dropped his voice still lower and continued in almost a whisper:
“Do you believe there is really no hope?”
“I don't see what hope there can be now. We can't attempt it again. Even if he were well enough to manage his part of the thing, we couldn't do our share. The sentinels are all being changed, on suspicion. The Cricket won't get another chance, you may be sure.”
“Don't you think,” Martini asked suddenly; “that, when he recovers, something might be done by calling off the sentinels?”
“Calling off the sentinels? What do you mean?”
“Well, it has occurred to me that if I were to get in the Governor's way when the procession passes close by the fortress on Corpus Domini day and fire in his face, all the sentinels would come rushing to get hold of me, and some of you fellows could perhaps help Rivarez out in the confusion. It really hardly amounts to a plan; it only came into my head.”
“I doubt whether it could be managed,” Marcone answered with a very grave face. “Certainly it would want a lot of thinking out for anything to come of it. But”—he stopped and looked at Martini—“if it should be possible—would you do it?”
Martini was a reserved man at ordinary times; but this was not an ordinary time. He looked straight into the smuggler's face.