"He was arrested last Thursday, at Brisighella.
He defended himself desperately and wounded the
captain of the squadron and a spy."
"Armed resistance; that's bad!"
"It makes no difference; he was too deeply
compromised already for a pistol-shot more or less
to affect his position much."
"What do you think they are going to do with
him?"
She grew a shade paler even than before.
"I think," she said; "that we must not wait to
find out what they mean to do."
"You think we shall be able to effect a rescue?"
"We MUST."
He turned away and began to whistle, with his
hands behind his back. Gemma let him think
undisturbed. She was sitting still, leaning her
head against the back of the chair, and looking
out into vague distance with a fixed and tragic
absorption. When her face wore that expression,
it had a look of Durer's "Melancolia."
"Have you seen him?" Martini asked, stopping
for a moment in his tramp.
"No; he was to have met me here the next
morning."
"Yes, I remember.
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