The officer in command of the _campieri_ was seated on the only chair in an adjoining room, with his elbows resting on the only table in the castle, which he had obtained by requisitioning it in the village. He was an energetic, surly young man, accustomed to keep his temper at the boiling point by the constant use of wine and tobacco, having to fight against a lingering remnant of love for his country and hatred of the Swiss. He had not slept an hour since the Piccinino was placed in his custody, so that he was literally falling under the assaults of drowsiness. The lighted cigar which he held in his hand burned the ends of his fingers from time to time. Then he would rouse himself with a start, puff at his cigar, look out through a great crack in the wall in front of him to see if there were any signs of dawn, and, feeling acutely the sharpness of the air on that elevated spot, would wrap his cloak about him with a shudder, cursing the false Piccinino, who was breathing stertorously in the adjoining room, and in a moment would let his head fall forward on the table once more. A sentinel was on guard at each end of the castle, but, whether because of fatigue or of the heedlessness that takes possession of the most disturbed mind when a dangerous situation is nearing its end, they had not detected the swift and silent approach of the brigands. A third sentinel was on duty at the isolated bastion which Malacarne was about to seize, and that circumstance came very near causing the failure of the whole plan of attack. As he was climbing through a breach, Malacarne saw the man sitting under his feet, almost between his legs. He had not anticipated that obstacle, and he had neither his dagger nor his pistol in his hand. An opportune dagger thrust cuts a man's life short without giving him time to cry out. The pistol shot is less certain, nor did Malacarne wish to fire until all his men were posted so that they could pour a deadly volley into the fort. Meanwhile the sentinel would surely give the alarm, even if the bandit should retreat, for his footing was precarious, and the stones, uncemented, were beginning to crumble all about him. _The campiere_ was not asleep. He was paralyzed with cold, and had pulled his cloak over his head as a protection against the piercing wind which stiffened his limbs.