Hers was the more complex and difficult plan, but did not involve, as the other did, a risk to the life of the sentinel on duty outside the east wall.
Therefore, when the two schemes had been laid before him, he had unhesitatingly chosen Gemma's.
The arrangement was that the friendly guard who went by the nickname of "The Cricket" should seize the first opportunity of unlocking, without the knowledge of his fellows, the iron gate leading from the courtyard into the subterranean passage underneath the ramparts, and should then replace the key on its nail in the guard-room.
The Gadfly, on receiving information of this, was to file through the bars of his window, tear his shirt into strips and plait them into a rope, by means of which he could let himself down on to the broad east wall of the courtyard.
Along this wall he was to creep on hands and knees while the sentinel was looking in the opposite direction, lying flat upon the masonry whenever the man turned towards him.
At the southeast corner was a half-ruined turret.
It was upheld, to some extent, by a thick growth of ivy; but great masses of crumbling stone had fallen inward and lay in the courtyard, heaped against the wall.
From this turret he was to climb down by the ivy and the heaps of stone into the courtyard; and, softly opening the unlocked gate, to make his way along the passage to a subterranean tunnel communicating with it.
Centuries ago this tunnel had formed a secret corridor between the fortress and a tower on the neighbouring hill; now it was quite disused and blocked in many places by the falling in of the rocks.
No one but the smugglers knew of a certain carefully-hidden hole in the mountain-side which they had bored through to the tunnel; no one suspected that stores of forbidden merchandise were often kept, for weeks together, under the very ramparts of the fortress itself, while the customs-officers were vainly searching the houses of the sullen, wrathful-eyed mountaineers.
At this hole the Gadfly was to creep out on to the hillside, and make his way in the dark to a lonely spot where Martini and a smuggler would be waiting for him.
The one great difficulty was that opportunities to unlock the gate after the evening patrol did not occur every night, and the descent from the window could not be made in very clear weather without too great a risk of being observed by the sentinel.
Now that there was really a fair chance of success, it must not be missed.
He sat down and began to eat some of the bread.
It at least did not disgust him like the rest of the prison food, and he must eat something to keep up his strength.
He had better lie down a bit, too, and try to get a little sleep; it would not be safe to begin filing before ten o'clock, and he would have a hard night's work.
And so, after all, the Padre had been thinking of letting him escape!
That was like the Padre.
But he, for his part, would never consent to it.
Anything rather than that!
If he escaped, it should be his own doing and that of his comrades; he would have no favours from priests.
How hot it was!
Surely it must be going to thunder; the air was so close and oppressive.
He moved restlessly on the pallet and put the bandaged right hand behind his head for a pillow; then drew it away again.
How it burned and throbbed!
And all the old wounds were beginning to ache, with a dull, faint persistence. What was the matter with them?
Oh, absurd!
It was only the thundery weather.
He would go to sleep and get a little rest before beginning his filing.
Eight bars, and all so thick and strong!
How many more were there left to file?
Surely not many.
He must have been filing for hours,-- interminable hours--yes, of course, that was what made his arm ache---- And how it ached; right through to the very bone!
But it could hardly be the filing that made his side ache so; and the throbbing, burning pain in the lame leg--was that from filing?
He started up.
No, he had not been asleep; he had been dreaming with open eyes--dreaming of filing, and it was all still to do.
There stood the window-bars, untouched, strong and firm as ever.
And there was ten striking from the clock-tower in the distance.
He must get to work.
He looked through the spy-hole, and, seeing that no one was watching, took one of the files from his breast.
. . . . .
No, there was nothing the matter with him-- nothing!
It was all imagination.
The pain in his side was indigestion, or a chill, or some such thing; not much wonder, after three weeks of this insufferable prison food and air.
As for the aching and throbbing all over, it was partly nervous trouble and partly want of exercise.
Yes, that was it, no doubt; want of exercise.
How absurd not to have thought of that before!
He would sit down a little bit, though, and let it pass before he got to work.
It would be sure to go over in a minute or two.
To sit still was worse than all.