His brain whirled but he would not go mad, nor lose consciousness, so long as he had the shadow of free will left.  Rather than lie there on his back, he would get off his bench, cost what it might, and drag himself to the mouth of the furnace.  There was a supply of wood there, piled up by the night boys for use during the day.  He could get to it, even if he had to roll himself over and over on the floor.  If he could do that, he could keep his hold upon his consciousness, the touch of the billets would remind him, the heat and the roar of the fire would keep him awake and in his right mind.

He raised himself slowly and put his uninjured foot to the floor.  Then, with both hands he lifted the other leg off the bench.  He was conscious of an increase of pain, which had seemed impossible.  It shot through and through his whole body; and he saw flames.  There was only one way to do it, he must get down upon his hands and his left knee and drag himself to the furnace in that way.  It was a thing of infinite difficulty and suffering, but he did it.  Inch by inch, he got nearer.

As his right hand grasped a billet of wood from the little pile, something seemed to break in his head.  His strength collapsed, he fell forward from his knee to his full length in the ashes and dust, and he felt nothing more.

CHAPTER X

The porter unbarred the door and looked out.  It was nearly noon and the southerly breeze was blowing.  The footway was almost deserted.  On the other side of the canal, in the shadow of the Beroviero house, an old man who sold melons in slices had gone to sleep under a bit of ragged awning, and the flies had their will of him and his wares.  A small boy simply dressed in a shirt, and nothing else, stood at a little distance, looking at the fruit and listening attentively to the voice of the tempter that bade him help himself.

Pasquale looked at the house opposite.  Everything was quiet, and the shutters were drawn together, but not quite closed.  The flowers outside Marietta’s window waved in the light breeze.

“Nella!” cried Pasquale, just as he was accustomed to call the maid when Marietta wanted her.

At the sound of his voice the little boy, who was about to deal effectually with his temptation by yielding to it at once, took to his heels and ran away.  But no one looked out from the house.  Pasquale called again, somewhat louder.  The shutters of Marietta’s window were slowly opened inward and Marietta herself appeared, all in white and pale, looking over the flowers.

“What is it?” she asked.  “Why do you want Nella?”

The canal was narrow, so that one could talk across it almost in an ordinary tone.

“Your pardon, lady,” answered Pasquale.  “I did not mean to disturb you.  There has been a little accident here, saving your grace.”

This he added to avert possible ill fortune.  Marietta instantly thought of Zorzi.  She leaned forward upon the window-sill above the flowers and spoke anxiously.