Through the narrow embrasure was the free, sleeping, peaceful world. The stars were out. It was a clear, moonlit night, which was a pity.
Beside Cesare was the Governor's servant, a small man, with quick intelligent eyes who kept his gaze fixed on the oblong of light.
“There!” he said suddenly.
Cesare felt a needling in his stomach as he saw the thick rope snake down across the window, swing away out of sight for a second and then float back again to be grabbed by the man at his side.
Quickly he helped his companion up onto the still of the embrasure. The man squeezed the top part of his body through and looked back.
“Better wait until I'm off, Sire,” he whispered. “It would be wise not to put too much weight on the rope.”
“Yes, yes. Off you go!” Cesare said quickly.
He watched while the man took the strain on his arms and pulled himself through the opening. He swung out high over the ground and the rope swayed away from the sheer wall of the battlements and then back, grazing him along its stone surface.
In what seemed like agonizingly slow time he began to go down the rope hand under hand, his feet twisted around it, helping to take the strain.
Cesare climbed onto the sill and knelt precariously, peering out. Down below he could see the servant descending, growing smaller, just the top of his head a vague black mass. He looked down to the distant ground. He couldn't see Benavente's men but he had no doubt they'd be there, waiting in the shadows and that above the guards were watching, cursing at the time it took for the prisoner to escape, risking their skins a little more with every second that passed.
He shifted his cramped position on the sill.
Hurry man, hurry! He could see the black dot, but it was impossible to tell now whether it was going down or had stopped. At any rate the man was still on the rope, holding him back from launching himself in the void.
Cesare strained his eyes into the moonlit darkness. It was gloomy in the shadow of the walls, which cut off the moon. What was the matter with the man? His head was still there, a tiny, indistinct point far down, surely not far from the ground. He seemed not to be moving.
And then the point moved and even from his height Cesare heard the thud. A groan rose on the still air and vaguely he saw shadows moving in a flurry down in the deep, empty ditch.
The fool, the idiot! What had he done?got tangled with the rope? There was another groan, sounding like thunder in the motionless night.
Cesare caught the rope which swung in loosely towards him. He heard challenging shouts from somewhere down near the gates of the fortress and cursed. What a bungling farce! He could have spat with rage, but he kept his head, swinging out from the embrasure and back against the rough wall as he began to let hand under hand and slide his feet with the rope between them.
He felt the chafing on his hands, but speed was essential, he had not time to lower himself in correct, comfortable fashion.
Lights were flashing a way off on the ground and he slid faster. Up above there were shouts on the battlements too. The bribed guards could not pretend to be blind for so long without risking their necks.
Down, down with a blank face of wall, a turmoil in his stomach, a long drop to the ditch and noise and light growing off on his right.
“Hurry!” He heard the single, sharp shout from below and slid so rapidly that he could feel the skin being torn on his hands.
And then another cry?of warning.
“The rope is short?take care!”
Cesare glanced down into the gloom which had cleared sufficiently to enable him to see several of Benavente's men, with the Count at the head of them, and to see the dangling end of the rope some fifteen feet short of the ground. Along in the ditch he saw some of the men trying to lift the servant, who was still groaning audibly.
He swarmed down the last few feet of rope, measured the dangerous distance to the ground and jumped?just as the rope was cut from above. It came hurtling down on top of him, heavy and painful. But he landed with nothing more than a shaking and probably a bruised arm and knee as he fell sideways.
With furious haste he was pulled from the ditch by Benavente's men as shouts from the castle barked out close by.
From further along the ditch one of the men called.
“He seems to have both legs broken?it's difficult to move him.”
Cesare, slightly winded, his ears singing, was pulled onto a horse as cries of recognition sounded from the corner of the wall down which he had crawled. A small crowd of guards were racing toward the group. Behind them was commotion and sounds of horses clattering over the lowered drawbridge.
The Count thrust a sword into Cesare's hand.
“Take that my friend?you'll have to use it yet.”
He called back to his men in the ditch.
“Leave him!”
There was no hope of escape with an injured man. And it was important that the Count was not recognized.
They could see the light of the moon glinting on the pikes and swords of their pursuers as they wheeled and set their horses at a gallop away from the fortress. There was a crash of gunshot from the castle turrets and then they were outdistancing the guards who faded back into anonymous shadows, calling and shouting to the horsemen who were yelling for direction.
Cesare's head cleared as they streamed through the night air, setting up a wind from their rapid motion through its stillness. He could feel the irritating pains in his arm and leg, but they were worth nothing compared with the exhilarating vigor he felt in freedom.
They rode at all speed until there was neither sight nor sound of any pursuit.
“A narrow success,” the Count called against the wind as he galloped beside Cesare.
“A little spice to give it perfection,” Cesare called back, laughing into the wind.