rs, spreading even
amongst those who had not yet seen him, and only knew there was a man to
be reviled. Tito's horrible dread was that he should be struck down or
trampled on before he reached the open arches that surmount the centre
of the bridge. There was one hope for him, that they might throw him
over before they had wounded him or beaten the strength out of him; and
his whole soul was absorbed in that one hope and its obverse terror.

Yes--they _were_ at the arches. In that moment Tito, with bloodless
face and eyes dilated, had one of the self-preserving inspirations that
come in extremity. With a sudden desperate effort he mastered the clasp
of his belt, and flung belt and scarsella forward towards a yard of
clear space against the parapet, crying in a ringing voice--

"There are diamonds! there is gold!"

In the instant the hold on him was relaxed, and there was a rush towards
the scarsella. He threw himself on the parapet with a desperate leap,
and the next moment plunged--plunged with a great plash into the dark
river far below.

It was his chance of salvation; and it was a good chance. His life had
been saved once before by his fine swimming, and as he rose to the
surface again after his long dive he had a sense of deliverance. He
struck out with all the energy of his strong prime, and the current
helped him. If he could only swim beyond the Ponte alla Carrara he
might land in a remote part of the city, and even yet reach San Gallo.
Life was still before him. And the idiot mob, shouting and bellowing on
the bridge there, would think he was drowned.

They did think so. Peering over the parapet along the dark stream, they
could not see afar off the moving blackness of the floating hair, and
the velvet tunic-sleeves.

It was only from the other way that a pale olive face could be seen
looking white above the dark water: a face not easy even for the
indifferent to forget, with its square forehead, the long low arch of
the eyebrows, and the long lustrous agate-like eyes. Onward the face
went on the dark current, with inflated quivering nostrils, with the
blue veins distended on the temples. One bridge was passed--the bridge
of Santa Trinita. Should he risk landing now rather than trust to his
strength? No. He heard, or fancied he heard, yells and cries pursuing
him. Terror pressed him most from the side of his fellow-men: he was
less afraid of indefinite chances, and he swam on, panting and