“Why then,” said I, “the only hope
lies in abstracting that letter in such a manner that
he shall not suspect the loss; and that seems a very
desperate hope.”
We sat in silence for some moments, during which I
thought intently to little purpose.
“Does he sleep yet, think you?” I asked
presently.
“Assuredly he must.”
“And if I were to go to the gallery, is there
any fear that I should be discovered by others?”
“None. All at Cesena are asleep by now.”
“Then,” said I, rising, “let us
take a look at him. Who knows what may suggest
itself? Come.” I moved towards the
door, and he took up his lanthorn and followed me,
enjoining me to tread lightly.
THE LETTER
On tiptoe I crept down that corridor to the gallery
above the banqueting-hall, secure from sight in the
enveloping darkness, and intent upon allowing no sound
to betray my presence, lest Ramiro should have awakened.
Behind me, treading as lightly, came Messer Mariani.
Thus we gained the gallery. I leaned against
the stout oaken balustrade, and looked down into the
black pit of the hall, broken in the centre by the
circle of light from the two tapers that burnt upon
the table. The other torches had all been quenched.
At the table sat Messer Ramiro, his head fallen forward
and sideways upon his right arm which was outstretched
and limp along the board. Before him lay a paper
which I inferred to be the letter whose possession
might mean so much.
I could hear the old man breathing heavily beside
me as I leaned there in the dark, and sought to devise
a means by which that paper might be obtained.
No doubt it would be the easiest thing in the world
to snatch it away without disturbing him. But
there was always to be considered that when he waked
and missed the letter we should have to reckon with
his measures to regain possession of it.
It became necessary, therefore, to go about it in
a manner that should leave him unsuspicious of the
theft. A little while I pondered this, deeming
the thing desperate at first. Then an idea came
to me on a sudden, and turning to Mariani I asked
him could he find me a sheet of paper of about the
size of that letter held by Ramiro. He answered
me that he could, and bade me wait there until he
should return.
I waited, watching the sleeper below, my excitement
waxing with every second of the delay. Ramiro
was snoring now—a loud, sonorous snore that
rang like a trumpet-blast through that vast empty
hall.
At last Mariani returned, bringing the sheet of paper
I had asked for, and he was full of questions of what
I intended. But neither the place nor the time
was one in which to stand unfolding plans. Every
moment wasted increased the uncertainty of the success
of my design. Someone might come, or Ramiro
might awaken despite the potency of the wine he had
been given—for on so well-seasoned a toper
the most potent of wines could have but a transient
effect.
