The blazing golden orb of the sun lifted slowly toward the zenith. The stands were completely filled. In the central box sat a stout, mustachioed man dressed in a bright uniform. There were other dignitaries with him, wearing formal clothes and top hats, with ribbons stretched across their breasts.
The piazza was now a solid mass of people, except for the cleared space in the middle. Almost all of the standing spectators were men. Their cheap dark clothing made a somber frame for the brilliance of the decorated stands. Some of the windows and balconies of the houses were crowded with spectators. Other windows were significantly shuttered; soldiers stood guard on certain of the balconies, and even on the lower roofs. De Merode had not missed a trick.
Suddenly there was a disturbance in the crowd under the arch at the opening of the Via della Stellata. The instantaneous response of the soldiers in this vicinity showed their alertness; they pushed ruthlessly at the crowd, ignoring the cries of pain, until a small space had been cleared. In the midst of this open area two officers, armed with swords instead of muskets, were struggling with a single figure which looked very small and slight between them. It wore a long dark habit and hood like that of a friar; but as the soldiers roughly grasped it, the hood fell back; and I, like the other watchers, let out a cry of surprise. The face displayed was that of a woman—not the sunburned skin of a peasant, but the pale, proud profile of a handsome young lady. I caught only a glimpse of it, and its expression of anguish, before the uneven struggle was quickly ended and the slender figure was borne away. But Galiana had recognized her.
“Santa Maria, it is Elisabetta Condotti. How did she get here? Her family has had her locked up for weeks.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Antonio’s betrothed. At least she was betrothed to him before he became a revolutionary. She is supposed to be married next month to a rich banker in Florence.”
“Good heavens,” I whispered. “That poor, poor creature.”
“They will lock her up again, on bread and water,” said Galiana, staring with interest at the spot where the struggle had taken place. “How foolish it was of her to do that.”
“She hoped to see him, one last time,” I said softly. “Perhaps even to speak to him, or touch his sleeve…. And he would see her, and know that she had courage enough to be with him at the end.”
Miss Perkins looked at me curiously but said nothing.
Through the long hot hours, Grandfather had sat like a graven image, moving only to accept a glass of wine or a biscuit from his valet. Even the incident of the young woman had not wrung a comment from him. I knew he was not as unkind as he seemed; I knew he was not completely happy about what was going on. But in the conflict between his natural kindness and his pride of caste, the latter had to conquer.
Just when I thought my stretched nerves could not bear the waiting any longer, there was a stir and eddy among the crowd across the piazza. Here, under a lichened stone archway, the Via di Guistizia entered the square. The soldiers there were shoving at the crowd, clearing the way.
“But surely it is not time,” I exclaimed, turning to Miss Perkins. She consulted her watch.
“It is twenty past eleven. That cunning devil De Merode has thought of everything.”
“And the Falcon has not made his move. It is too late; he can never reach Antonio here.”
Unconsciously we had both risen to our feet. So had the others. Only Grandfather sat stolidly, staring straight ahead. Even the Contessa was standing; her lips still moved and her rosary slipped through her slender white fingers.
The soldiers had cleared a path into the center of the piazza, a passageway walled with naked steel. Mounted men, a dozen or more of them, guarded the archway. Through it came the procession.
Two men on horseback led it. De Merode was not one of them. Then I saw him; his tall white plume stood up bravely above the caps of the soldiers who surrounded the condemned man. As they drew nearer, our vantage point above the heads of spectators and soldiers allowed us to see every detail. De Merode, his unsheathed sword in his hand, walked immediately behind the prisoner.
Antonio’s head was bare. His arms were bound behind him. His white shirt was open, the collar turned under, in order to facilitate the hangman’s work. There was a soldier on either side of him, half supporting him, for he could barely walk. His face was unmarked, but I did not doubt that De Merode had used all the methods at his disposal to wring a confession from his prisoner—not of his identity, but of his leader’s plans. The torture had an additional subtle cruelty in its results; physical weakness deprived Antonio of the ability to walk proudly to death with his head held high. He was a pitiful sight, but not a gallant or inspiring one, as he was dragged along between the two soldiers. From the crowd came a low, sullen sound, like the rumble of far-off thunder. It died as De Merode’s voice cracked out an order and fifty bayonets rose to position.
In the quivering silence the little cavalcade approached the steps of the gallows. A black-robed priest walked beside the condemned man: a low mumble of Latin reached my ears, but the priestly exhortations were wasted on Antonio, whose head had fallen onto his chest.
The sunlight was so bright it hurt my eyes. The heated air distorted objects; they seemed to quiver and sway…. No! It was not an error of vision; the stands before the cathedral really were swaying. Slowly the whole massive structure folded, as if a giant invisible knife had cut straight through the center. It collapsed in a horrible mixture of wooden planking and torn cloth—and human flesh. A great scream went up; dust and splinters flew into the air.
Before the dust had time to settle, another sound rent the shaken air—not human this time, the roar of an explosion. A cloud of smoke rose behind the roofs of the town in the direction of the barracks.
This second catastrophe, on the heels of the first, completed the demoralization of the crowd. There was no longer a cleared space in the piazza; it was jammed with screaming, struggling bodies. Some of the spectators tried to get away, others ran toward the wreckage of the stands, where fallen bodies writhed.
Above the din one voice rose—that of De Merode, shouting orders. By sheer force of personality he had managed to keep a few of his men under control; they stood fast around the prisoner. De Merode had Antonio by the arm. A new ray of hope had given strength to the injured man; he stood upright, swaying with weakness but alert, looking from side to side. Yet, his position was still hopeless; the point of De Merode’s sword touched his breast, announcing as clearly as words: One move at rescue and I myself will perform the execution.
The piazza began to clear as the terrified spectators fled. The place was like a battlefield, with bayonets flashing, horses plunging out of control, blood and fallen bodies everywhere. I had heard no shots. The soldiers could not fire into the turmoil for fear of hitting an ally; and indeed, at this point there was no enemy to be seen, only utter confusion. So far as I could see, the only ones injured were those who had occupied the viewing stands, and I thought vindictively: It serves them right, the ghouls. Yet the sight was terrible. Some of the soldiers were pulling away the debris in order to free those pinned beneath. Those who had not been caught were staggering or crawling away from the scene of the disaster. One very fat young woman did not appear to be badly hurt, for she was scuttling along quite fast on her hands and knees. The angle of her crushed hoops gave us a shocking view of ruffled pantalets and plump pink legs. She was more comical than terrible, but another person—the military gentleman I had noticed earlier—was a frightful sight as he reeled across the square clutching his head. He had lost his tricorne hat, his blue coat was torn, and his features were almost obscured by blood. The crimson streams must have blinded him, for he plunged straight at the little group that still stood fast—the condemned man and his guard….
Where was the guard? The soldiers had disappeared as if blown away by a magician’s spell. It must have happened very quickly, for De Merode recognized that fact at about the same time I did. A great flash of light shone, as his sword arm moved. It was crossed by another flash—the sword of the bloodstained man in uniform, who was staggering no longer. Straight as a spear, the padding that had disguised his body flung aside, he struck the Captain’s point away before it could pierce the prisoner’s breast. Antonio went staggering back and was caught by a man garbed in the same rough dark clothing the poorer townspeople wore. This man helped him into the saddle of a horse whose uniformed rider had vanished like the other guards.
The piazza was still a melee of struggling bodies, but the struggle was purposeless no longer; for every bright crimson uniform there were several dark-clad men—some of them masked—and a dozen miniature battles were going on. A few of the mounted soldiers still kept their seats, but one by one they went down before the assaults of those grim dark figures. Demoralized, virtually leaderless, the soldiers were no match for opponents who were obviously acting in accordance with a brilliantly detailed plan. The sharpshooters on the roofs and balconies dared not fire; the struggling bodies were too close together. Speed was on the side of the attackers, too. The entire attack was begun and ended within the space of a few minutes, and the plunging horses galloped away with their new riders.
One struggle still went on, at the very foot of the gallows. De Merode’s face was contorted in a wolflike snarl, his sword struck sparks every time it moved. The other man’s face was obscured by the ghastly crimson mask, but it obviously did not affect his eyesight. Every stroke was neatly parried, every step calculated. Now that Antonio had been saved, the Falcon’s design was to keep the Captain occupied while his men made good their escape. How he knew when the moment arrived I cannot imagine, but at a certain time he moved to attack instead of passively defending himself. De Merode was no mean antagonist. The two were evenly matched, and the unknown was unable to penetrate that flashing guard. I let out an anguished shriek as the Captain’s blade barely missed the other’s body. The piazza was clearing rapidly; soon the soldiers would get their wits together, and it would be a hundred to one…
Miss Perkins snatched up one of the pottery jars, planted with a lovely trail of salmon geranium, lifted it high above her head, and threw it.
The first time I saw her I was reminded of a man, and now her broad shoulders and sturdy frame carried out the task with almost masculine strength. The heavy pot, which I could not have lifted, came crashing down into the piazza. It did not come close to the duelists, but the sound made De Merode start. He recovered almost at once; but he was just that fraction of a second too slow to deflect his opponent’s blade entirely, although his catlike quickness undoubtedly saved his life. The thrust was aimed at his breast. It pierced his arm instead, but the blow was enough to fell him. His adversary snatched the bridle of a horse that was being held for him. But instead of mounting he paused and surveyed the piazza with a sweeping glance.
“Hurry, hurry,” shrieked Miss Perkins, jumping up and down. She was clutching my arm. I had bruises next day, five little black spots, but at the time I felt nothing.
It almost seemed as if the Falcon had heard her. His gaze turned toward the balcony where we stood. The drying mask of his face cracked as he smiled; he drew one finger down his cheek, through the scarlet stains—and put it to his mouth. From Miss Perkins came a breathless squeak of laughter.
“Tomato juice,” she gasped. “Under his hat…. Hurry, you mountebank!”
The Falcon’s narrowed eyes had already left her; they focused on the object for which they had been searching. One of the fallen bodies, dressed in rough homespun, was moving. The Falcon reached it in a series of leaps, dragging his horse with him. Bending, he swept the man up and flung him across the saddle. Then he mounted and turned the horse’s head toward the Via della Stellata.
His sword was still in his hand and he used it ruthlessly, striking down the soldiers who snatched at his stirrups. He was almost at the archway, and safety, when De Merode rose to a sitting position. His right arm hung limp; he held the pistol in his left hand—leveled it—and fired. He must have missed at such a distance. But his shot was a signal to the other men with firearms. A rattle of ragged musket fire burst out, and one of the bullets struck the target. I saw it strike, saw a puff of dust go up from the back of the brilliant blue coat of the mounted man. The impact of the shot flung him forward across the horse’s neck. The startled animal bolted into the Via della Stellata, followed by a dozen men.
Chapter 9
No one said anything to Miss Perkins about the flowerpot, though the others, including Grandfather, must have seen her throw it. But the Contessa’s attitude toward my friend changed. She shrank from Miss Perkins after that as she would have shrunk from a vicious criminal.
The ride back to the castello would have been uncomfortable in any case, even without the Contessa’s refusal to sit next to Miss Perkins. We left immediately. Grandfather was like a man possessed, he barely gave us time to pack, and the fact that we would not reach home before nightfall did not alter his decision. He asked De Merode for an escort—and was met with a curt refusal. Every man was needed.
The Falcon had escaped, but only for the moment. His horse had been found running loose, its flanks horribly streaked with drying blood—real blood this time, not a substitute. The two men it had carried had found refuge in a stable or cellar, protected, no doubt, by a sympathizer in the city. There were hundreds of hiding places in the old town, but they would all be searched, and until the search was completed, the town was sealed off. De Merode himself would have to vouch for any person who wanted to leave.
It was late afternoon before our coach reached the Porta San Giovanni. All the other gates were closed. This was the only exit from the town, and it was guarded by a detachment of soldiers. The coach stopped and I heard the outraged voice of old Bernardo, the coachman, expostulating with the soldiers. I tried to look out the window, and bumped heads smartly with Galiana, who was trying to do the same thing.
