"Room!" cried the marshal of Carabineers, making for the gate at which a

porter was taking tickets. A black van stood outside.

Suddenly the marshal was struck on the shoulder by a hand out of the

crowd. He turned to defend himself, and was struck on the other side.

Then he tried to draw a weapon, but before he could do so he was thrown

to the ground. One of the two other Carabineers stooped to lift him up,

and the third laid hold of Rossi. At the next instant Rossi felt the

soldier's hand fall from his arm as by a sword cut, and somebody was

crying in his ear: "Now's your time, sir. Leave this to me and fly."

It was Malatesta. Before Rossi fully knew what he was doing, he crossed

the lines to the opposite platform, passed through the barrier by means

of his Deputy's medal permitting him to travel on the railways, and

stepped into a coupé that stood waiting with an open door.

"Where to, signore?"

"Piazza Navona--presto."

As the carriage rattled across the end of the Piazza Margherita a

company of Carabineers was going at quick march towards the station.

III

At ten o'clock on Saturday night the screamers in the Piazza Navona were

crying the arrest of Rossi. The telegrams from the frontier gave an ugly

account of his capture. He was in disguise, and he made an effort to

deny himself, but thanks to the astuteness of the Carabineer charged

with the warrant the device was defeated, and he was now lodged in the

prison at Milan, where it was probable that he would remain some days.

Roma's feelings took a new turn. Her crushing self-reproach at the

degradation of David Rossi, fallen, lost, and in prison, gave way to an

intense bitterness against the Baron, successful, radiant, and

triumphant. She turned a bright light upon the incidents of the past

months and saw that the Baron was responsible for everything. He had

intimidated her. His intimidation had worked upon her conscience and

driven her to the confessional. The confessional had taken her to the

Pope, and the Pope in love and loyalty and fatal good faith had led her

to denounce her husband. It was a chain of damning circumstances, helped

out by the demon of chance, but the first link had been forged by the

Baron, and he was to blame for all.

On Monday morning bands of music began to promenade the streets. Before

breakfast the rejoicings of the day had begun. Towards mid-day drunken

fellows in the piazza were embracing and crying, "Long live the King,"

and then "Long live the Baron Bonelli."




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