"'No! It is Uguccione the gaoler, with his little lamp of brass.
"'"Aha—ha—ha!—my friend. Come you down—come you down! Or shall I get a little fire and smoke, to tickle you and make you come? It is useless, caro mio! The wise player gives up the lost game. Come you down! It is not thus folk say farewell to the Castello del bel Riposo. Come you down, my friend! Or shall I wait a little? I can wait! No hurry, look you!"
"'I am sad at heart to have to do it, but there is no other way. Whether he lived or died I know not, but I should grieve to think he died. For I had no hatred for Uguccio, who, after all, did but his duty. But there is no other way. I am standing on two bricks that I have placed over against each other, for firmer foothold and better purchase on the lock. One of them I loosen out, standing only on the other and leaning shoulder-wise against the wall. And then I send it down the shaft, with a blessing for Uguccio. I can see his face, turning up to me in the light of his little broken lamp.
"'The brick strikes him full on the temple, but it also strikes out his light. I hear him fall. I hear a groan or gasp. But I see only black darkness below, and the red wick-spark of the lamp, that grows less and less, and will die. Then only darkness.
"'Then my last senses fail me. But I know the trap opens, and a strong arm comes down and grips my wrist from above. And then I find myself lying on the floor of a great hall in a dim light. And into my eyes, as I lie there, little better than a corpse, if the truth be told, are looking the sweetest eyes surely God ever made....'"
Here Madeline exclaimed, interrupting, "Oh, how jolly! Now they're there! But do go on; I mustn't interrupt. Go on, Uncle Kit." The reader continued, "'... And her two hands stroke my face and hold me by my own....'"
At this point Sir Stopleigh interposed respectably. "A—really," said he, "we must hope that this young lady, whoever she was, was not the Duke's wife. You will excuse me, my dear Madeline, but that is certainly what I understood you to suppose."
His daughter interjected disreputably. "Oh, bother! Never mind Pupsey—go on."
Then Mr. Pelly said apologetically, "It was the Middle Ages, you know. Let's see, where were we? Oh—'hold me by my own'"—and went on reading:
"'... And her dear voice is in my ears, and if I die now, at least I shall have lived. So said I to myself, as Attilio worked hard with a file to free my limbs. And they moisten bread with wine, and put it in my mouth. For, indeed, what I say is true, and the last of my strength went in sending that little ambusciata to the poor Uguccio. Still, revival is in me, though it comes slowly. But I can only utter the one word "Love," and can only move to kiss the hand I hold and the pale face that comes to mine. Then I hear the beloved voice I had never hoped to hear again: