She, too, had lied to him.
He crept softly along the corridor, and, slipping back the door-bolts, went out on to the great, dark, echoing marble staircase.
It seemed to yawn beneath him like a black pit as he descended.
He crossed the courtyard, treading cautiously for fear of waking Gian Battista, who slept on the ground floor.
In the wood-cellar at the back was a little grated window, opening on the canal and not more than four feet from the ground.
He remembered that the rusty grating had broken away on one side; by pushing a little he could make an aperture wide enough to climb out by.
The grating was strong, and he grazed his hands badly and tore the sleeve of his coat; but that was no matter.
He looked up and down the street; there was no one in sight, and the canal lay black and silent, an ugly trench between two straight and slimy walls.
The untried universe might prove a dismal hole, but it could hardly be more flat and sordid than the corner which he was leaving behind him.
There was nothing to regret; nothing to look back upon.
It had been a pestilent little stagnant world, full of squalid lies and clumsy cheats and foul-smelling ditches that were not even deep enough to drown a man.
He walked along the canal bank, and came out upon the tiny square by the Medici palace.
It was here that Gemma had run up to him with her vivid face, her outstretched hands.
Here was the little flight of wet stone steps leading down to the moat; and there the fortress scowling across the strip of dirty water.
He had never noticed before how squat and mean it looked.
Passing through the narrow streets he reached the Darsena shipping-basin, where he took off his hat and flung it into the water.
It would be found, of course, when they dragged for his body.
Then he walked on along the water's edge, considering perplexedly what to do next.
He must contrive to hide on some ship; but it was a difficult thing to do.
His only chance would be to get on to the huge old Medici breakwater and walk along to the further end of it.
There was a low-class tavern on the point; probably he should find some sailor there who could be bribed.
But the dock gates were closed.
How should he get past them, and past the customs officials?
His stock of money would not furnish the high bribe that they would demand for letting him through at night and without a passport.
Besides they might recognize him.
As he passed the bronze statue of the "Four Moors," a man's figure emerged from an old house on the opposite side of the shipping basin and approached the bridge.
Arthur slipped at once into the deep shadow behind the group of statuary and crouched down in the darkness, peeping cautiously round the corner of the pedestal.
It was a soft spring night, warm and starlit.
The water lapped against the stone walls of the basin and swirled in gentle eddies round the steps with a sound as of low laughter.
Somewhere near a chain creaked, swinging slowly to and fro.
A huge iron crane towered up, tall and melancholy in the dimness.
Black on a shimmering expanse of starry sky and pearly cloud-wreaths, the figures of the fettered, struggling slaves stood out in vain and vehement protest against a merciless doom.
The man approached unsteadily along the water side, shouting an English street song.
He was evidently a sailor returning from a carouse at some tavern.
No one else was within sight.
As he drew near, Arthur stood up and stepped into the middle of the roadway.
The sailor broke off in his song with an oath, and stopped short.
"I want to speak to you," Arthur said in Italian. "Do you understand me?"
The man shook his head.
"It's no use talking that patter to me," he said; then, plunging into bad French, asked sullenly: "What do you want?
Why can't you let me pass?"
"Just come out of the light here a minute; I want to speak to you."
"Ah! wouldn't you like it?
Out of the light!
Got a knife anywhere about you?"
"No, no, man!
Can't you see I only want your help?
I'll pay you for it?"
"Eh? What? And dressed like a swell, too------" The sailor had relapsed into English. He now moved into the shadow and leaned against the railing of the pedestal. "Well," he said, returning to his atrocious French; "and what is it you want?"
"I want to get away from here----"