Next day he told Clelia of his message, and of his unwillingness to leave the prison.  She gave no answer, but burst into tears.  How could she tell him that she herself must presently leave—­for marriage or a convent?

Next day, Fabrice, by his gaoler’s connivance, received a long letter from Clelia.  She urged him to escape, declaring that at any time the Prince might order his execution, and in addition that he was in danger of death by poison.  Straightway he sought an interview with Clelia, with whom he had not hitherto conversed save by signals from their windows.  The gaoler arranged that they should meet when Fabrice was being conducted from his cell to the roof of the Farnese tower, where he was occasionally allowed to take exercise.

“I can speak but few words to you,” she said trembling, with tears in her eyes.  “Swear that you will obey the Duchess, and escape when she wishes and as she wishes.”

“And condemn myself to live far away from her whom I love?”

“Swear it! for my sake, swear it!” she implored hint.

“Well then, I swear it!”

The preparations were quickly advanced.  Three knotted ropes were smuggled with Clelia’s aid into Fabrice’s cell—­one for descending the 35 feet between his window and the roof of the citadel; another for descending the tremendous wall of 180 feet between the roof and the ramparts; a third for the 30 feet between the top of the ramparts and the ground.

A feast-day, when the garrison of the citadel would presumably be drunk, was chosen for the attempt.  Fabrice spent the time of waiting in cutting a hole in his shutter large enough to enable him to get through.  Fortunately, on the night of the feast-day a thick fog arose and enveloped the citadel.  The Duchess had seen to it that the garrison was plentifully supplied with wine.

Fabrice attached one of the shorter ropes to his bed, and struggled through the shutter—­an ungainly figure, for round his body was wound the immense rope necessary for the long descent.  Once on the roof-platform he made his way along the parapet until he came to a new stove which he had been told marked the best spot for lowering the rope.  He could hear the soldiers talking near at hand, but the fog made him invisible.  Unrolling his rope, and fastening his rope to the parapet by threading it through a water-duct, he flung it over; then, with a prayer and a thought of Clelia, he began to descend.

At first he went down mechanically, as if doing the feat for a wager.  About half-way down, his arms seemed to lose their strength; he nearly let go—­he might have fallen had he not supported himself by clinging to the vegetation on the wall.  From time to time he felt horrible pain between the shoulders.  Birds hustled against him now and then; he feared at the first contact with them that pursuers were coming down the rope after him.  But he reached the rampart undamaged save for bleeding hands.