Casanova’s condition now was pitiable. He had no appetite and he spent the day in horrible discomfort; the sun as it rose to the meridian beat down fiercely on the leaden roof till the room was like an oven, and although he stripped naked the perspiration poured off him in a perfect stream. His sufferings from the heat abated as the evening drew on, but the night had its own terrors: the incessant striking of the clock, the hideous noise from the rats as they ranged to and fro was horrifying, and worse than all, he became the prey of innumerable fleas who fastened on him with inappeasable fury till their incessant attacks caused him painful spasms and poisoned all his blood. Not strangely, the confinement, with the mental and physical tortures endured, soon told upon the prisoner’s health and he was attacked with a dangerous illness which presently yielded to medical treatment, for the authorities provided an excellent doctor, and thus Casanova’s chief woes were those of weariness, heat and fleas. As the days went on and September passed, he was buoyed up with the hope of coming release, for on the first of October new inquisitors would enter upon office, and he felt sure they would set him free. He lay awake throughout the last night of September, counting the moments till daylight should bring his gaoler with the welcome intelligence on which he counted and which never arrived. Many weeks passed before he could bear up against this bitter disappointment, but his fortitude returned with a firm resolve to escape from durance even at the peril of his life. The forces of nature seemed likely to intervene on his behalf. One morning the shock of an earthquake shook the ducal palace, an off-shoot, really, of that seismic disturbance which at this time destroyed Lisbon. Casanova was looking out from his garret window when he saw the massive stone architrave under the roof outside oscillate to and fro, and he realised then what had happened. Warders and soldiers rushed in terrified, but Casanova took a savage joy in the cataclysm in the vague hope that the solid building would totter to the ground and he would be cast out upon the Piazza of St. Mark a free man, or perish under the ruins. To the dismay of his keepers he raised his voice in impious prayer, “Another stroke, Great God, another and a stronger!” at which the others, believing he had gone mad, crossed themselves and fled.