Five days later Martini reached Forli. He had received from Gemma by post a bundle of printed circulars, the signal agreed upon in case of his being needed in any special emergency; and, remembering the conversation on the terrace, he guessed the truth at once. All through the journey he kept repeating to himself that there was no reason for supposing anything to have happened to the Gadfly, and that it was absurd to attach any importance to the childish superstitions of so nervous and fanciful a person; but the more he reasoned with himself against the idea, the more firmly did it take possession of his mind. “I have guessed what it is: Rivarez is taken, of course?” he said, as he came into Gemma's room. “He was arrested last Thursday, at Brisighella. He defended himself desperately and wounded the captain of the squadron and a spy.” “Armed resistance; that's bad!” “It makes no difference; he was too deeply compromised already for a pistol-shot more or less to affect his position much.” “What do you think they are going to do with him?” She grew a shade paler even than before. “I think,” she said; “that we must not wait to find out what they mean to do.” “You think we shall be able to effect a rescue?” “We MUST.” He turned away and began to whistle, with his hands behind his back. Gemma let him think undisturbed. She was sitting still, leaning her head against the back of the chair, and looking out into vague distance with a fixed and tragic absorption. When her face wore that expression, it had a look of Durer's “Melancolia.” “Have you seen him?” Martini asked, stopping for a moment in his tramp. “No; he was to have met me here the next morning.” “Yes, I remember. Where is he?” “In the fortress; very strictly guarded, and, they say, in chains.” He made a gesture of indifference. “Oh, that's no matter; a good file will get rid of any number of chains. If only he isn't wounded----” “He seems to have been slightly hurt, but exactly how much we don't know. I think you had better hear the account of it from Michele himself; he was present at the arrest.” “How does he come not to have been taken too? Did he run away and leave Rivarez in the lurch?” “It's not his fault; he fought as long as anybody did, and followed the directions given him to the letter. For that matter, so did they all. The only person who seems to have forgotten, or somehow made a mistake at the last minute, is Rivarez himself. There's something inexplicable about it altogether. Wait a moment; I will call Michele.” She went out of the room, and presently came back with Michele and a broad-shouldered mountaineer. “This is Marco,” she said. “You have heard of him; he is one of the smugglers. He has just got here, and perhaps will be able to tell us more. Michele, this is Cesare Martini, that I spoke to you about. Will you tell him what happened, as far as you saw it?” Michele gave a short account of the skirmish with the squadron.