In Direst Peril | Page 5

for a time.
"And the count's alive, you say?"
"Alive? I saw him barely six weeks ago. I'll tell you all about it." He
leaned forward in his chair, and I would have sworn that he was
inventing as he went on. "I was at a little place called Itzia, in the Tyrol,
when by pure chance I stumbled on a fellow I had known in Paris and
Vienna--a fellow named Reschia, Lieutenant Reschia. He was on
General Radetsky's staff when I knew him first--an empty-headed
fellow rather; but a man's glad to meet anybody in a place like Itzia;
and when he asked me to dine with him at the fortress, I was jolly glad
to go. 'We've got an old file here,' he told me, 'the Italians would give
anything to get hold of if they only knew where he was. I believe they'd
tear the place down with their nails to get at him.' It was after dinner,
and he was ridiculously confidential. He pledged me to secrecy of

course, and of course I told him that I should respect any confidence he
reposed in me. Of course I did, out there; and equally, of course, I'm
not bound here. It came out they'd got the Conte di Rossano there, and
when I heard the name I jumped. Reschia didn't take notice of my
surprise, and after a time I said I should like to see the fellow. He
pointed him out to me next day, taking exercise in the court-yard."
"The count," I said, still less than doubtful of the truth of Brunow's
story--"the count must have been a man of unusual importance to the
political party to be remembered with such a passionate devotion after
so many years."
"God bless your soul," cried Brunow, "it was devotion! Those Austrian
fellows are as cunning as the devil. The Italians have been made to
believe these twenty years that the count was playing fast and loose
with both parties. His jailers made out that he had been a paid spy in
their service, and pretended that he had been killed by one of the
Nationalist party, whom they hanged."
"Of course you made no effort to release him?"
"How the deuce could I? Release him! If you knew the fortress at Itzia
you'd think twice before trying that. Besides--hang it all, man!--I was
Reschia's guest; and he told me the story under the seal of confession."
I spoke unguardedly, but I was not allowed to go far.
"If your story is true, Brunow--"
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, with sudden anger. Everybody
knew how utterly irresponsible he was, but nothing made him so angry
as to be doubted. "The story's true; and if proof were wanted, here is
proof enough."
He rose with unusual vivacity, and, throwing open an escritoire, took
from it a disorderly little pile of papers. He searched this through,
muttering in a wounded tone meanwhile. "True? If the story's true? I'll
show you whether it's true or not! No! By George, it isn't here! Now

where on earth can I have put that paper?"
Just as I was laughing inwardly to think how well he thought it worth
while to pretend, he slapped his forehead with a sudden air of
recollection, turned again to the escritoire, drew from it a crumpled
dirty scrap of paper, and striding over to me thrust it into my hand.
"Read that," he said.
"These lines," I read, "are written by the Conte di Rossano, for more
than twenty years a prisoner in the fortress of Itzia. They are carried at
grave danger to himself by an attendant whose pity has been moved by
the contemplation of a life of great misery. Should they reach the hands
of the English stranger for whom they are intended, he is besought, for
the love of God, to convey them to the Contessa di Rossano, daughter
of Sir Arthur Rawlings, of Barston Manor, Warwickshire, who must
long have mourned the writer as dead."
"That was slipped into my hand as I was leaving the village," said
Brunow. "If the countess had been living--unless she had been married
again--I should have thought it my duty to let her know the truth. But
Miss Rossano knows nothing--guesses nothing. Why should I wound
her with a piece of news like this?"
We did not talk much more that night, but I had plenty to think about as
I walked home to my hotel.
CHAPTER II
If I had never seen that pencilled scrap of paper, I should have had no
belief in Brunow's story. But though he was a romancer to his finger
tips, and as irresponsible as a baby, I had never known him to take the
least trouble to bolster up