And then he became aware of someone moving: there was no sound, and the sense of movement was not conveyed to his brain by his eyes. It was as though stealthy and impending disaster were in the air, impinging on his brain through some unknown sense-channel.
He raised his head an inch and saw the bulky form of Aristides approaching. Cavalcini shook with fear. The giant was undressed, and his form, without his long, flowing robe, seemed much larger and stronger than when fully clad. Nearer and nearer he crept until he reached Cavalcini’s bed, where he stopped. The little man simulated sleep, but under his lids his eyes watched what might befall. Aristides took Cavalcini’s robe from the end of his bed and donned it; it fitted grotesquely. Then, in silence, he passed the foot of the bed and made his way to the treacherous, winding stone stairway leading to the four compartments below.
Terrified, hypnotized, Cavalcini sat up in bed, crawled to its foot, and watched this wanderer in the night. He saw Aristides—for there was a moon—descend the steps and crawl by the side of the wall as cruelly and as sinuously as a tiger. The sentry, twenty yards from Aristides, appeared to be facing him, but it seemed certain he saw nothing, for he made no movement and called out no challenge. Aristides stopped, advanced a little, and stopped again, crouching. His body was so tightly squeezed against the wall that to Cavalcini it seemed to have become part of it. For a long time he did not move. But when the sentry turned his back on the would-be murderer and with slow regular paces began to walk away from him, Aristides rushed forward with a bound. Cavalcini could not see what happened next, but he caught the glint of a knife raised on high, and a few seconds later he saw the sentry lying motionless on the ground and the giant running back to the stone stairway. It had all taken in place in absolute silence. For a few moments Cavalcini did not realize what had happened. When, at last, he understood, his brain seemed to freeze with horror. Trembling, he sank back on his pillow and shut his eyes. He dared not move: it was dangerous even to breathe. He felt, rather than saw Aristides return and pass his bed, and he knew that his robe had been replaced.
Silence, save for the rapid, distressed muttering of a boy-prisoner at the far end of the room. After what had happened, it seemed an outrage that the night should continue. Cavalcini, feeling himself to be the victim of evil powers it was useless to resist, lay shivering with cold in the warm night, saying to himself over and over again.
“He has killed the wrong man! Why didn’t he kill me? He has killed the wrong man! Why didn’t he kill me?”
Suddenly, down in the “compound” below, a voice, sharp and clear, rang out. The guard was being summoned. The body had been found. Armed soldiers entered. Torches and candles were brought. Orders were given and countermanded. Swords were drawn and bayonets fixed. In two or three minutes the soldiers began to climb the stairway and take up positions along the gallery, fifteen paces apart, by the prisoners’ beds. A shrill whistle was blown many times until all the prisoners were awake.
“Every man will sit up in bed!” called out the officer in charge of the guard, speaking alternately in several languages. “If anyone attempts to get out of bed, he will be shot.”
And then began a systematic search. Cavalcini only dimly realized what was happening, but when the officer and a sergeant reached his bed he became a ghastly victim of terror. His very looks condemned him. The officer eyed him with searching suspicion.
“Get out of bed and stand up!” he ordered.
Cavalcini put his feet on the floor and attempted to stand, but he collapsed on the bed, a miserable heap of quaking fear.