Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE DROP

  The morning was already far advanced and the sun high when Gerald awoke.The heavy dews had penetrated his frail clothing and chilled him, whilethe hot gleam of the sun glowed fiercely on his face and temples. He wasso confused besides, by his dream and by the objects about him, that hesat vainly endeavouring to remember how and why he had come there.

  One by one, like stragglers falling into line, his wandering facultiescame back, and he bethought him of the poet's house, Alfieri himself,the Duchess, and lastly, of his quarrel with Marietta--an incidentwhich, do what he might, seemed utterly unaccountable to him. If he feltpersuaded that he was in the right throughout, the persuasion gave himno pleasure--far from it. It had been infinitely easier for him now, ifhe had wronged her, to seek her forgiveness, than forgive himself forhaving offended her. She, so devoted to him! She, who had taken suchpains to teach him all the excellences of the poets she loved; who hadstored his mind with Petrarch, and filled his imagination with Ariosto;who taught him to recognise in himself feelings, and thoughts, andhopes akin to those their heroes felt, and thus elevated him in his ownesteem. And what a genius was hers!--how easily she adapted herself toeach passing mood, and was gay or sorrowful, volatile or passionate, asfancy inclined her. How instinctively her beautiful features caught upthe expression of each passion; how wild the transports of her joy; howterrible the agonies of her hatred!

  With what fine subtlety, too, she interpreted all she read, discoveringhidden meanings, and eliciting springs of action from words apparentlyinsignificant; and then her memory, was it not inexhaustible? An image,a passing simile from a poet she loved, was enough to bring up beforeher whole cantos; and thus, stored with rich gems of thought, herconversation acquired a grace and a charm that were actual fascination.And was he now to tear himself away from charms like these, and forever, too? But why was she displeased with him? how had he offendedher? Surely it was not the notice of the great poet had awakened herjealousy; and yet, when she thought over her own great gifts, the manyattractions she herself possessed--claims to notice far greater thanhis could ever be--Gerald felt that she might well have resented thisneglect.

  'And how much of this is my own fault?' cried he aloud. 'Why did I nottell the poet of her great genius? Why not stimulate his curiosityto see and hear her? How soon would _he_ have recognised the noblequalities of her nature!'

  Angry with himself, and eager to repair the injustice he had done, hearose and set out for the city, resolved to see Alfieri, and proclaimall Marietta's accomplishments and talents.

  'He praised _me_ last night,' muttered he, as he went along; 'but whatwill he say of _her_? She shall recite for him the "Didone," the linesbeginning,

  '"No! sdegnata non sono!"

  If his heart does not thrill as he listens, he is more or less than man!He shall hear, too, his own "Cleopatra" uttered in accents that he neverdreamed of. And then she shall vary her mood, and sing him one of terSicilian barcarolles, or dance the Tiranna. Ah, Signor Poeta,' said healoud, * even thy lofty imagination shall gain by gazing upon one giftedand beautiful as she is.'

  When Gerald reached the Roman gate he found a large cavalcade making itsexit through the deep archway, and the crowd, falling back, made way forthe mounted party. Upward of twenty cavaliers and ladies rode past, eachmounted and followed by a numerous suite, whose equipment proclaimedthe party to be of rank and consideration. As Gerald stood aside to makeplace for them to pass, a pair of dark eyes were darted keenly towardhim, and a deep voice called out:

  'There's my Cerretano, that I was telling you about! Gherardi, boy, whatbrings thee here?'

  Gerald looked up and saw it was the poet who addressed him; but beforehe could summon courage to answer, Alfieri said:

  'Thou didst promise to be with me this morning early, and hast forgottenit all, not to say that thou wert to equip thyself in something moresuitable than this motley. Never mind, come along with us. Cesare, givehim your pony; he is quiet and easy to ride. Fair ladies all,' added he,addressing the party, 'this youth declaims the verse of Alfieri as sucha great poet merits. _Gherardi mio_, this is a public worthy of thy bestefforts to please. Get into the saddle; it's the surest, not to say thepleasantest, way to jog toward Parnassus!'

  Gerald was not exactly in the mood to like this bantering; he was ill atease with himself, and not over well satisfied with the world at large,and he had half turned to decline the poet's invitation, when a gentlevoice addressed him, saying:

  'Pray be my cavalier, Signorino; you see I have none.'

  'Not ours the fault, Madame la Marquise,' quickly retorted Alfieri;'you rejected us each in turn. Felice was too dull, Adriano too lively,Giorgio was vain, and I--I forget what I was.'

  'Worst of all, a great genius in the full blaze of his glory. No; I 'lltake Signor Gherardi--that is, if he will permit me.'

  Gerald took off his cap and bowed deeply in reply; as he lifted his headhe beheld for the first time the features of her who addressed him. Shewas a lady no longer young, past even the prime of life, but retainingstill something more than the traces of what had once been great beauty:fair brown hair, and blue eyes shaded by long dark lashes, preserved toher face a semblance of youthfulness; and there was a coquetry in herriding-dress--the hat looped up with a richly jewelled band, and thefront of her habit embroidered in gold--which showed that she maintainedpretensions to be noticed and honoured.

  As Gerald rode along at her side, she drew him gradually and easily intoconversation, with the consummate art of one who had brought the gift tohigh perfection. She knew how to lead a timid talker on, to induce himto venture on opinions, and even try and sustain them. She understoodwell, besides, when and how, and how far, to offer a dissent, and atwhat moments to appear to yield convictions to another. She possessedall that graceful tact which supplies to mere chit-chat that muchof epigram that elevates, without pedantry; a degree of point thatstimulates, yet never wounds.

  'The resemblance is marvellous!' whispered she to Alfieri, as he chancedto ride up beside her; 'and not only in look, but actually in voice, andin many a trick of gesture.'

  'I knew you 'll see it!' cried the poet triumphantly.

  'And can nothing be known about his history? Surely we could trace him.'

  'I like the episode better as it is,' said he carelessly. 'Some vulgarfact might, like a rude blow, demolish the whole edifice one's fancy hadnigh completed. There he stands now, handsome, gifted, and a mystery.What could add to the combination?'

  'The secret of an illustrious birth,' whispered the Marquise.

  'I lean to the other view. I 'd rather fancy nature had some subtledesign of her own, some deep-wrought scheme to work out by this strangecounterfeit.'

  'Yes, Gherardi,' as the youth looked suddenly around; 'yes, Gherardi,'said she, 'we were talking of you, and of your likeness to one with whomwe were both acquainted.'

  'If it be to that prince whose picture I saw last night,' replied he,'I suspect the resemblance goes no further than externals. There can be,indeed, little less like a princely station than mine.'

  'Ah, boy!' broke in the poet, 'there will never be in all your historyas sad a fate as has befallen him.'

  'I envy one whose fortune admits of reverses!' said Gerald peevishly.'Better be storm-tossed than never launched.'

  'I declare,' whispered the Marquise, 'as he spoke there, I could havebelieved it was Monsieur de Saint George himself I was listening to.Those little wayward bursts of temper----'

  'Summer lightnings,' broke in Alfieri.

  'Just so: they mean nothing, they herald nothing:

  '"They flash like anger o'er the sky, And then dissolve in tears."'

  'True,' said the poet; 'but, harmless as these elemental changes seem,we forget how they affect others--what blights they often leave in theirtrack:

  '"The sport the gods delight in Makes mortals grieve below."'

  'It was Fabri wrote that line,' said Gerald, catching at the q
uotation.

  'Yes, Madame la Marquise,' said Alfieri, answering the quickly dartedglances of the lady's eyes, 'this youth has read all sorts of authors.A certain Signor Gabriel, with whom he sojourned months long in theMaremma, introduced him to Voltaire, Diderot, and Rousseau: his owndiscursive tastes added others to the list.'

  'Gabriel! Gabriel! It could not be that it was----' and here she bentover and whispered a word in Alfieri's ear.

  A sudden start and an exclamation of surprise burst from the poet.

  'Tell us what your friend Gabriel was like.'

  'I can tell you how he described himself,' said Gerald. 'He said he was:

  "Un sanglier marque de petite verole."'

  'Oh, then, it was he!' exclaimed the Marquise. 'Tell us, I pray you, howfortune came to play you so heartless a trick as to make you this man'sfriend?'

  Half reluctantly, almost resentfully, Gerald replied to this question byrelating the incidents that had befallen him in the Maremma, and howhe had subsequently lived for months the companion of this strangeassociate.

  'What marvellous lessons of evil, boy, has he not instilled intoyou! Tell me frankly, has he not made you suspectful of everyone--distrusting all friendship, disowning all obligations, makingaffection seem a mockery, and woman a cheat?'

  'I have heard good and bad from his lips. If he spoke hastily of theworld at times, mayhap it had not treated him with too much kindness.Indeed he said as much to me, and that it was not his fault that hethought so meanly of mankind.'

  'What poison this to pour into a young heart!' broke in Alfieri. 'Thecattle upon the thousand hills eat not of noxious herbage; their betterinstincts protect them, even where seductive fruits and flowers wootheir tastes. It is man alone is beguiled by false appearances, and thisout of the very subtlety of his own nature. The plague-spot of the heartis distrust!'

  'These are better teachings, boy, than Signor Gabriel's,' said the lady.

  'You know him, then?' asked Gerald.

  'I have little doubt that we are speaking of the same person; and if so,not I alone, but all Europe knows him.'

  Gerald burned to inquire further, to know who and what this mysteriousman was, how he had earned the terrible reputation that attended him,and what charges were alleged against him. He could not dare, however,to put questions in such a presence, and he sat moodily thinking overthe issue.

  Diverging from the high-road, they now entered a pathway which ledthrough the vineyards and the olive groves, and, being narrow, Geraldfound himself side by side with the Marquise, without any other near.Here, at length, his curiosity mastered all reserve, and plucking upcourage for the effort, he said--

  'If my presumption were not too bold, madame, I would deem it a greatfavour to be permitted to ask you something of this Signor Gabriel. Iknow and feel that, do what I will, reason how I may, reject what I can,yet still his words have eaten down deep into my heart; and if I cannotput some antidote there against their influence, that they will sway meeven against myself,'

  'First, let me hear how he represented himself to you. Was he as a goodman grossly tricked and cheated by the world, his candour imposed on,his generosity betrayed? Did he picture a noble nature basely trifledwith?'

  'No, no,' broke in Gerald; 'he said, indeed, at first he felt disposedto like his fellow-men, but that the impulse was unprofitable; that thetrue philosophy was unbelief. Still he avowed that he devoted himself toevery indulgence; that happiness meant pleasure, pleasure excess;that out of the convulsive throes of the wildest debauchery, great andglorious sensations, ennobling thoughts spring--just as the volcano infull eruption throws up gold amid the lava: and he bade me, if I wouldknow myself, to taste of this same existence.'

  'Poor boy, these were trying temptations,'

  'Not so,' broke in Gerald proudly; 'I wanted to be something better andgreater than this,'

  'And what would you be?' asked the Marquise, as she turned a look ofinterest on him.

  'Oh, if a heart's yearning could do it,' cried Gerald warmly, 'I wouldbe like him who rides yonder; I would be one whose words would givevoice to many an unspoken emotion--who could make sad men hopeful, andthrow over the dreariest waste of existence the soft, mild light ofideal happiness.'

  She shook her head, half-sorrowfully, and said, 'Genius is the giftof one, or two, or three, in a whole century!' 'Then I would be asoldier,' cried the boy; 'I would shed my blood for a good cause. Astout heart and a strong arm are not rare gifts, but they often win rarehonours.'

  'Count Alfieri has been thinking about you,' said she, in a tone halfconfidential. 'He told me that, if you showed a disposition for it, hewould place you at the University of Sienna, where you could follow yourstudies until such time as a career should present itself.'

  'To what do I owe this gracious interest in my fate, lady?' asked heeagerly. 'Is it my casual resemblance to the prince he was so fond of?'

  'So fond!' exclaimed she; then, as quickly correcting herself, sheadded: 'No, not altogether that--though, perhaps, the likeness may haveserved you,'

  'How kind and good of him to think of one so friendless!' mutteredGerald, half aloud.

  'Is the proposal one you would like to close with? Tell me frankly,Gherardi, for we are speaking now in all frankness!'

  'Perhaps I may only lose another friend if I say no!' said he timidly;and then, with bolder accents, added: 'Let me own it, madame, I have notaste for study--at least such studies as these. My heart is set uponthe world of action: I would like to win a name, no matter how brief thetime left me to enjoy it.'

  'Shall I tell you _my_ plan--'

  '_Yours!_' broke he in. 'Surely you too have not deigned to remember me?'

  'Yes; the Count interested me strongly in you. This morning we talkedof little else at breakfast, and up to the moment we overtook you at thegate. His generous ardour in your behalf filled me with a like zeal, andwe discussed together many a plan for your future; and mine was, thatyou should enter the service of the King----'

  'What King?'

  'What other than the King of France, boy, the heir of St. Louis?'

  'He befriended the cause of Charles Edward, did he not?' asked Geraldeagerly.

  'Yes,' said she, smiling at the ardour with which he asked the question.'Do you feel deep interest in the fortunes of that Prince?'

  The youth clasped his hands together and pressed them to his heart,without a word.

  'Your family, perhaps, supported that cause?'

  'They did, lady. When I was an infant, I prayed for its success; as Igrew older, I learned to sorrow for its failure.'

  There was something so true and so natural in the youth's expression ashe spoke, that the Marquise was touched by it, and turned away her headto conceal her emotion.

  'The game is not played out yet, boy,' said she at last; 'there aregreat men, and wise ones too, who say that the condition of Europe, thepeace of the world, requires the recognition of rights so just as thoseof the Stuarts. They see, too, that in the denial of these claims theChurch is wounded, and the triumph of a dangerous heresy proclaimed. Whocan say at what moment it may be the policy of the Continent to renewthe struggle?'

  'Oh, speak on, lady: tell me more of what fills my heart with highesthope,' exclaimed he rapturously. 'Do not, I beseech you, look on me asthe poor stroller, the thing of tinsel and spangles, but as one in whoseveins generous blood is running. I am a Geraldine, and the Geraldinesare all noble.'

  The sudden change in the youth's aspect, the rich, full tones of hisvoice, as, gaining courage with each word, he asserted his claim toconsideration, seemed to have produced an effect upon the Marquise, whopondered for some time without speaking.

  'Mayhap, lady, I have offended you by this rash presumption,' saidGerald, as he watched her downcast eyes and steadfast expression; 'butforgive me, as one so little skilled in life, that he mistakes gentleforbearance for an interest in his fortunes.'

  'But I _am_ interested in you, Gherardi; I _do_ wish to befriend you.Let me h
ear about your kith. Who are these Geraldines you speak of?'

  'I know not, lady,' said he, abashed; 'but from my childhood I wasever taught to believe that, wherever my name was spoken, men wouldacknowledge me as noble.'

  'And from whom can we learn these things more accurately? have youfriends or relations to whom we could write?'

  Just as she spoke, the head of the cavalcade passed beneath a deepgateway into the court of an ancient palace, and the echoing soundsof the horses' feet soon drowned the voices of the speakers. 'This is"Camerotto," an old villa of the Medici,' whispered the Marquise.'We have come to see the frescoes; they are by Perugino, and of greatrepute.'

  The party descended, and entering the villa, wandered away in groupsthrough the rooms. It was one of those spacious edifices which weretypes of mediaeval life, lofty, splendid, but comfortless. Droppingbehind the well-dressed train as they passed on, Gerald strayed aloneand at will through the palace, and at last found himself in a smallchamber, whose one window looked out on a deep and lonely valley. Thehills which formed the boundaries were arid, stony, and treeless,but tinted with those gorgeous colours which, in Italian landscape,compensate in some sort for the hues of verdure, and every angle andeminence on them were marked out with that peculiar distinctness whichobjects assume in this pure atmosphere. The full blaze of a noonday sunlit up the scene, where not a trace of human habitation nor a track ofman's culture could be seen for miles.

  'My own road in life should lie along that glen,' said Gerald dreamily,as he leaned out of the window and gazed on the silent landscape, andsoon dropped into a deep reverie, when past, present, and future wereall blended together. The unbroken stillness of the spot, the calmtranquillity of the scene, steeped his spirit in a sort of dreamylethargy, scarcely beyond the verge of sleep itself. To his half-wakingstate his restless night contributed, and hour by hour went overunconsciously: now muttering verses of his old convent hymns, nowsnatches of wild peasant legends, his mind lost itself in close-wovenfancies.

  Whether the solitary tract of country before him was a reality or a meredreamland, he knew not. It needed an effort to resume consciousness, andthat effort he could not make; long fasting, too, lent its influence toincrease this state, and his brain balanced between fact and imaginationweariedly and hopelessly. At moments he fancied himself in some palaceof his ancestors, dwelling in a high but solitary state; then wouldhe suddenly imagine that he was a prisoner, confined for some greattreason--he had taken arms against his country--he had adhered to acause, he knew not what or whose, but it was adjudged treasonable. Then,again, it was a monastery, and he was a novice, waiting and studyingto assume his vows; and his heart struggled between a vague cravingfor active life and a strange longing for the deathlike quiet of thecloister.

  From these warring fancies he started suddenly, and, passing his handacross his forehead, tried to recall himself to reason. 'Where amI?' exclaimed he, and the very sound of his own voice, echoed by thedeep-vaulted room, almost affrighted him. 'How came I here?' mutteredhe, hoping to extricate himself from the realm of fancy by the utteranceof the words. He hastened to the door, but the handle was broken andwould not turn; he tried to burst it open, but it was strong and firm asthe deep wall at either side of it; he shouted aloud, he beat loudly onthe oaken panels, but though the deep-arched ceiling made the noise seemlike thunder, no answer was returned to his call. He next turned to thewindow, and saw to his dismay that it was at a great height from theground, which was a flagged terrace beneath. He yelled and cried atthe very top of his voice; he waved his cap, hoping that some one at adistance might catch the signal; but all in vain. Wearied at last by allhis attempts to attract notice, he sat moodily down to think over hisposition and devise what was to be done. Wild thoughts flashed at timesacross him--that this was some deep-laid scheme to entrap him; thathe had been enticed here that he might meet his death without marks ofviolence; that, somehow, his was a life of consequence enough to provokea crime. The Prince that he resembled had some share in it--or Mariettahad vowed a vengeance--or the Jesuit Fathers had sent an emissary todespatch him. What were not the wild and terrible fancies that filledhis mind: all that he had read of cruel torturings, years' longsuffering, lives passed in dreary dungeons, floated mistily beforehim, till reason at last gave way, and he lost himself in these sadimaginings.

  The ringing of a church bell, faint and far away as it sounded, recalledhim from his dreamings, and he remembered it was the 'Angelus,' whenlong ago he used to fall into line, and walk along to the chapel of thecollege. 'That, too, was imprisonment,' thought he, but how gladly wouldhe have welcomed it now! He leaned from the window to try and make outwhence the sounds came, but he could not find the spot. He fancied hecould detect something moving up the hillside, but a low olive scrubshaded the path, and it was only as the branches stirred that heconjectured some one was passing underneath. The copse, however,extended but a short way, and Gerald gazed wistfully to see if anythingshould emerge from where it finished. His anxiety was intense as hewaited; a feverish impatience thrilled through him, and he strained hiseyes until they ached.

  At last a long shadow was projected-on the road; it was broken,irregular, and straggling. It must be more than one--several--aprocession, perhaps, and yet not that--there was no uniformity in it. Heleaned out as far as he could venture. It was coming. Yes, there it was!A donkey with heavy panniers at his side, driven by an old man; a womanfollowed, and after her a girl's figure. Yes, he knew them and her now!It was the Babbo! and there was Marietta herself, with bent-down head,creeping sadly along, her arms crossed upon her breast, her whole airunspeakably sad and melancholy. With a wild scream Gerald called to themto turn back, that he, their companion, their comrade, was a captive. Heshouted till his hoarse throat grew raw with straining, but they heardhim not.

  A deep, narrow gorge lay between them, with a brawling rivulet farbelow, and though the boy shouted with all his might, the voice neverreached them. There they walked along up the steep path, whither to,he knew not. That they meant to desert him was, however, clear enough.Already in that far-away land to which they journeyed no part wasassigned him. And Marietta!--she to whom he had given his heart, shewhom he bound up with all his future fortunes--she to leave him thuswithout a word of farewell, without one wish to meet again, without oneprayer for his welfare! Half-maddened with grief and rage--for in hisheart now each sentiment had a share--he sprang wildly to the window,and gazed downward at the terrace. Heaven knows what terrible thoughtsebbed and flowed within him as he looked! Life had little to attracthim to it; his heart was well-nigh broken; a reckless indifference wasmomentarily gaining on him; and he crept farther and farther out uponthe window-sill, till he seemed almost to hang over the depth beneathhim. He wanted to remember a prayer, to recall some words of a litanyhe had often recited, but in his troubled brain, where confusion reignedsupreme, no memory could prevail; thoughts came and went, clashing,mingling, conflicting, like the storm-tossed sea in a dark night, andalready a stupid and fatalist indifference dulled his senses, and oneonly desire struggled with him--a wish for rest!

  Once more, with an effort, he raised his eyes toward the mountain side.The little procession was still ascending, and nigh the top. At a shortdistance behind, however, he could see Marietta standing and lookingapparently toward Florence. Was it that she was thus taking a lastfarewell of him, muttering, among some broken words of affection, someblessing upon him! A sudden thrill of joy--it was hope--darted throughhim as he gazed; and now bending over, he perceived that the steep wallbeneath the window was broken by many a projection and architrave, themassive pediment of a large window projecting far, about six feet fromwhere he sat. Could he gain this he might descend by the column whichsupported it, and reach a great belt of stonework that ran about fifteenfeet from the ground, and whence he might safely venture to drop. Ifthere was peril to life in every step of this dangerous exploit, therewas, in the event of success, a meeting once more with Marietta--ameeting never to part again. Whateve
r the reasons for having desertedhim he was determined to overbear. Some one must have calumniated him:he would meet the slander. Marietta herself would do him justice; hewould soon show her that the passing vision of ambition had no hold uponhis heart, that he only cared for her, wished for nothing beyond theirown wayward life. As he thus reasoned, he tore his mantle into longstrips, which he twisted and knotted together, testing its strength tillassured that it would bear his weight. He then fastened one end tothe window-bars, and grasping the cord in both hands, he prepared todescend. Could he but gain the pediment in this wise, the rest of thedescent would not be difficult.

  With one fervent prayer to Her whose protection he had learned toimplore from very infancy, he glided softly from the window-sill andbegan the descent. For a second or two did he grasp the stone ledge withboth hands, as if fearing to loose his hold, but at length, freeing onehand and then the other, he gave himself up to the cord. Scarcely hadhis full weight straightened the rope than the frail texture began togive way; a low sound, as of the fibres tearing, met his ear, and justas his feet touched the pediment the rope snapped in two, and the shockthrowing him off his balance, he swayed forward. One inch more and hisfate was certain; but his body recovered its equipoise, and he cameback to the wall, where he stood motionless, and almost paralysed withterror. The ledge on which he stood, something less than two feet inwidth, was slightly sloped from the wall, and about forty feet fromthe ground. To crouch down upon this now and reach the column whichsupported it" was his next task, nor was it till after a long strugglewith himself that he could once again peril life by such an attempt.

  By immense caution he succeeded in so bending down that he at lastgained a sitting position on the ledge, and then, with his face tothe wall, he glided over the pediment and grasped one of the columns.Slipping along this, he arrived at the window-sill, from which the dropto the ground was all that now remained. Strange was it that this latterand easier part of all the danger affrighted him more than all he hadgone through. It was as if his overtasked courage was exhausted; asthough the daring energy had no more supplies to draw upon; for therehe sat, hopelessly gazing at the ground beneath, unable to summonresolution to attempt it.

  The brief season between day and dark, the flickering moments ofhalf-light passed away, and a night calm and starlit spread over thescene. Except the wild and plaintive cry of an owl from an ivy-cladturret above him, not a sound broke the stillness, and there Gerald sat,stunned and scarce conscious. As darkness closed round him, and he couldno longer measure the distance to the ground beneath, the peril of hisposition became more appalling, and he felt like one who must await themoment of an inevitable and dreadful fate. Already a sense of wearinesswarned him that at the slightest stir he might lose his balance, andthen what a fate--mutilation perhaps, worse than any death! If he couldmaintain his present position till day broke, it was certain he must berescued. Solitary as was the spot, some one would surely pass and seehim, but then, if overcome by fatigue, sleep should seize him--even nowa dreary lassitude swept over him: oftentimes his eyes would close, andfancies flit across him, that boded the approach of slumber! Torturedbeyond endurance by this long conflict with his fears, he resolved, comewhat might, to try his fate, and, with a shrill cry for mercy upon hissoul, he dropped from the ledge.

  When the day broke he was there beneath the window, his foreheadbleeding and his ankle broken. He had tried to move, but could not,and he waited calmly what fate might befall him. He was now calm andself-confident. The season of struggle was over; the period of soundthought and reflection had begun.