oing to the wash-stand,
poured a jugful of cold water over his head and face. He came back quite
composed, and sat down to think.

And it was for such things as these--for these false and slavish people,
these dumb and soulless gods--that he had suffered all these tortures
of shame and passion and despair; had made a rope to hang himself,
forsooth, because one priest was a liar. As if they were not all liars!
Well, all that was done with; he was wiser now. He need only shake off
these vermin and begin life afresh.

There were plenty of goods vessels in the docks; it would be an easy
matter to stow himself away in one of them, and get across to Canada,
Australia, Cape Colony--anywhere. It was no matter for the country, if
only it was far enough; and, as for the life out there, he could see,
and if it did not suit him he could try some other place.

He took out his purse. Only thirty-three paoli; but his watch was a
good one. That would help him along a bit; and in any case it was of no
consequence--he should pull through somehow. But they would search
for him, all these people; they would be sure to make inquiries at the
docks. No; he must put them on a false scent--make them believe him
dead; then he should be quite free--quite free. He laughed softly to
himself at the thought of the Burtons searching for his corpse. What a
farce the whole thing was!

Taking a sheet of paper, he wrote the first words that occurred to him:

"I believed in you as I believed in God. God is a thing made of clay,
that I can smash with a hammer; and you have fooled me with a lie."

He folded up the paper, directed it to Montanelli, and, taking another
sheet, wrote across it: "Look for my body in Darsena." Then he put on
his hat and went out of the room. Passing his mother's portrait, he
looked up with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders. She, too, had lied
to him.

He crept softly along the corridor, and, slipping back the door-bolts,
went out on to the great, dark, echoing marble staircase. It seemed to
yawn beneath him like a black pit as he descended.

He crossed the courtyard, treading cautiously for fear of waking Gian
Battista, who slept on the ground floor. In the wood-cellar at the back
was a little grated window, opening on the canal and not more than four
feet from the ground. He remembered that the rusty grating had broken
away on one side; by pushing a little he could make an aperture wide
enough to climb out by.