"'... Working thus patiently in long and dreary hours, and keeping the link of my manacle well in the straw to drown the grating noise, I come to know, on the third day of my labour, that but a very little more is wanted and the ring will be cut through; and then I know the chance is it will spring asunder and leave the two links free. But I do not seek to complete the cut until near the day appointed, for does not Uguccione now and again examine all those fetters, sometimes striking them with a small hammer to make sure they have not been tampered with? So I keep the ring hidden as best I may, and the cut I have made I fill in with kneaded bread. And one time Uguccione does come and strike the irons, and I tremble. But by great good luck he strikes so that they ring, and I am at my ease again.
"'Then comes what was my hardest task: the making of footholes in the shaft that I might climb and reach the underside of the trap. But first I must tell you why I need do this. For you will say, Why could not Attilio let down a cord and pull me up through the trap? So he could, in truth, were it possible to open the trap from overhead. But it was closed with a key from above that came through a great length to the lock below. Only I could well understand from the description that this lock would be no such great matter to prize back from underneath could I once make shift to reach it. Therein lay the great difficulty, shackled as I was, although the links should be parted, to climb up this long shaft and work at the opening of this lock, standing on what poor foothold I could contrive in total darkness.
"'Nevertheless, Illustrissima, be assured that I go to my work with a good-will, though with little hope. And on the first night I succeed in loosing three bricks from their place in the wall, at such intervals that each gives a foothold I may reach to from the one below it on the other side. And the next night again three more. And so on for six nights, working patiently. And now I can touch the lock that is above me. But understand that I did not remove these bricks, else had I been at a great loss where to hide them from Uguccione. I left them loose in their places, so that I could twist them out sideways, and thus make a kind of step. For you know how strong our Tuscan bricks are. Yet I had much ado to hide away the loose mortar that came from between the joints. And had it not been that the fetter on my wrist, now free, served to prize out the bricks when the mortar was clear from the ends, and loosened above and below, I had been sore put to it to detach them, so firm were they in their places. And all this work, Illustrissima, had to be done in black darkness, by guidance of feeling only!
"'And now, please you, image to yourself that I have made my topmost step, and only await a word of signal through the sfiatatoio. And this was, believe me, my worst time of all. For I knew that the most precious thing to me in all this world, the life of my Maddalena, must be risked again to give me that signal! Nay! I did not know, could not know, that she had not already tried to give it, and, so attempting it, been precipitated to the awful rocks below, where whoso fell might readily lie unheeded, and not be found for years.
"'But I hold to my purpose in a silent despair. I watch through hours of the still mornings. But nothing moves again in front of the little stars that come and go, for many days. I do not let myself count the days nor the hours, and always strive to think of them at their fewest. Then one night a meteor shoots across the span of sky that I can see, blinding out the little stars, and leaving sparks of fire to die down as they may. And my heart lifts, for I count it a harbinger of good. And so it proves, for I next hear—because, understand me, this meteor shot across Heaven's vault with a strong hissing sound, like fuochi artificiati—the slack of the rope that lets my darling down to me with her message of...'"
Another hitch in the narrative. Mr. Pelly stopped with a humble apologetic expression, having reference rather to the young lady than to her parents.
"Really, my dear," said he, "I feel quite guilty—as if I was to blame—when these abominable blanks come."
"Yes! And you know I always think it's your fault; and I do get so angry. Poor Uncle Christopher! What a shame! What's that, Mumsey?"
"Nothing, dear. Only I thought I heard the step of a horse in the Avenue."
"So did I. Only it can't be anything at this time of night."