The young man stood drooping in the hands of his captors, still breathing desperately; not flushed from his struggle but pale and faint as if his blood were stolen by some hidden pain. His throat swelled with a bitterness which he was now too hopeless or too spiritless to loose, and Mr. Gumama saw that it was doubtful if his question had penetrated to a mind that was one concentrated egoism. A barrel which Mrs. Pascoe had emptied of its finery, was brought into the cleared space before the court and Mr. Gumama, examining it, ordered, "Find a cover. And nails." Before he repeated, "Do you, then, make no request?"
This time he shook his head, with a long automatic shake, playing for time. Yet he had no hope. He had used himself up in that first spurt and the spirit upon which Mrs. Pascoe had lately built sank slowly back again till there was no life left in his face except, in the depths of his dark eyes, a waiting, raging stillness of despair.—Mr. Gumama regarded him disapprovingly. "You do not wish to make peace with God?"
He answered with a grinding laugh and let his head drop down again upon his breast. Even the organ-grinder had changed from the tango to the Miserere. Those present had piously removed their hats. Mr. Gumama pointed toward the bonds of the two condemned men as if giving a signal.
"Wait yet a little!"
It was the coo of the Parmesan. He had been diligently and amusedly studying the last prisoner. "I wish to ask him a thing."
The prisoner drew a quick, scared breath, but he did not look up.
Mr. Gumama, annoyed at the Parmesan for putting himself forward, tartly replied, "Ask, then!"
"Alieni o' n'infama," said the Parmesan, pleasantly, "what would you do to remain awake?"
The crowd and the prisoner gave a simultaneous start. This was too much! The cry of the crowd was a baulked tiger's. Regardlessly, the dark eyes of the prisoner leaped to those of the Parmesan and clung there with their bright questioning, tenacious as bats. Mr. Gumama turned upon the Parmesan with a gesture like a blow.
"Oh, oh, oh!" sighed the Parmesan, lightly reproachful. "Let me speak, who have thought of things. We of the Arm know a game of our own. It was invented by the basista Alieni, and it calls itself the Duel by Wine." He bowed low to Mr. Gumama. "Sir, it is not our custom to bring evildoers here in packages and let them be warned of that which might befall them so much the easier accidentally, after dark, in the rough street. So I suppose—what else?—that those two are to attempt the Duel by Wine. Yes? And that he who wins lives to suppress the traitor-leaving him in the barrel on the wharf, signed with our sign? And bearing his token—that bracelet will do—to the capo in testa?"