“He doesn't know what to think. There is no trace of heart-disease that he can find to account for the thing; but whatever is the matter with him, it is something that must have come on suddenly, just when he had nearly managed to escape. For my part, I believe he was struck down by the direct intervention of a merciful Providence.” Montanelli frowned slightly. “What are you going to do with him?” he asked. “That is a question I shall settle in a very few days. In the meantime I have had a good lesson. That is what comes of taking off the irons--with all due respect to Your Eminence.” “I hope,” Montanelli interrupted, “that you will at least not replace the fetters while he is ill. A man in the condition you describe can hardly make any more attempts to escape.” “I shall take good care he doesn't,” the Governor muttered to himself as he went out. “His Eminence can go hang with his sentimental scruples for all I care. Rivarez is chained pretty tight now, and is going to stop so, ill or not.” ***** “But how can it have happened? To faint away at the last moment, when everything was ready; when he was at the very gate! It's like some hideous joke.” “I tell you,” Martini answered, “the only thing I can think of is that one of these attacks must have come on, and that he must have struggled against it as long as his strength lasted and have fainted from sheer exhaustion when he got down into the courtyard.” Marcone knocked the ashes savagely from his pipe. “Well, anyhow, that's the end of it; we can't do anything for him now, poor fellow.” “Poor fellow!” Martini echoed, under his breath. He was beginning to realise that to him, too, the world would look empty and dismal without the Gadfly. “What does she think?” the smuggler asked, glancing towards the other end of the room, where Gemma sat alone, her hands lying idly in her lap, her eyes looking straight before her into blank nothingness. “I have not asked her; she has not spoken since I brought her the news. We had best not disturb her just yet.” She did not appear to be conscious of their presence, but they both spoke with lowered voices, as though they were looking at a corpse. After a dreary little pause, Marcone rose and put away his pipe. “I will come back this evening,” he said; but Martini stopped him with a gesture. “Don't go yet; I want to speak to you.” He dropped his voice still lower and continued in almost a whisper: “Do you believe there is really no hope?” “I don't see what hope there can be now. We can't attempt it again. Even if he were well enough to manage his part of the thing, we couldn't do our share. The sentinels are all being changed, on suspicion. The Cricket won't get another chance, you may be sure.” “Don't you think,” Martini asked suddenly; “that, when he recovers, something might be done by calling off the sentinels?” “Calling off the sentinels? What do you mean?”