money would be necessary, and I had none.  And supposing that the gaoler and his two guards allowed themselves to be strangled—­for my hands were my only weapons—­there was always a third guard on duty at the door of the passage, which he locked and would not open till his fellow who wished to pass through gave him the password.  In spite of all these difficulties my only thought was how to escape, and as Boethius gave me no hints on this point I read him no more, and as I was certain that the difficulty was only to be solved by stress of thinking I centered all my thoughts on this one object.

It has always been my opinion that when a man sets himself determinedly to do something, and thinks of nought but his design, he must succeed despite all difficulties in his path:  such an one may make himself Pope or Grand Vizier, he may overturn an ancient line of kings—­provided that he knows how to seize on his opportunity, and be a man of wit and pertinacity.  To succeed one must count on being fortunate and despise all ill success, but it is a most difficult operation.

Towards the middle of November, Lawrence told me that Messer-Grande had a prisoner in his hands whom the new secretary, Businello, had ordered to be placed in the worst cell, and who consequently was going to share mine.  He told me that on the secretary’s reminding him that I looked upon it as a favour to be left alone, he answered that I had grown wiser in the four months of my imprisonment.  I was not sorry to hear the news or that there was a new secretary.  This M. Pierre Businello was a worthy man whom I knew at Paris.  He afterwards went to London as ambassador of the Republic.

In the afternoon I heard the noise of the bolts, and presently Lawrence and two guards entered leading in a young man who was weeping bitterly; and after taking off his handcuffs they shut him up with me, and went out without saying a word.  I was lying on my bed, and he could not see me.  I was amused at his astonishment.  Being, fortunately for himself, seven or eight inches shorter than I, he was able to stand upright, and he began to inspect my arm-chair, which he doubtless thought was meant for his own use.  Glancing at the ledge above the grating he saw Boethius, took it up, opened it, and put it down with a kind of passion, probably because being in Latin it was of no use to him.  Continuing his inspection of the cell he went to the left, and groping about was much surprised to find clothes.  He approached the recess, and stretching out his hand he touched me, and immediately begged my pardon in a respectful manner.  I asked him to sit down and we were friends.

“Who are you?” said I.