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contiguous to the prisons. One of the assistants called out, "But,
sir governor, what shall we do with these caged birds here, if the
fire keeps a head?" The head jailer replied, "Why, I should not
like to have them roasted alive. Yet I cannot let them out of their
bars without special orders from the commission. You may run as
fast as you can, and get an order if you can."
"To be sure I will, but, you know, it will be too late for the
prisoners."
All this was said in the rude Venetian dialect, but I understood it
too well. And now, where was all my heroic spirit and resignation,
which I had counted upon to meet sudden death? Why did the idea of
being burnt alive throw me into such a fever? I felt ashamed of
this unworthy fear, and though just on the point of crying out to
the jailer to let me out, I restrained myself, reflecting that there
might be as little pleasure in being strangled as in being burnt.
Still I felt really afraid.
"Here," said I, "is a specimen of my courage, should I escape the
flames, and be doomed to mount the scaffold. I will restrain my
fear, and hide it from others as well as I can, though I know I
shall tremble. Yet surely it is courage to behave as if we were not
afraid, whatever we may feel. Is it not generosity to give away
that which it costs us much to part with? It is, also, an act of
obedience, though we obey with great repugnance."
The tumult in the jailer's house was so loud and continued that I
concluded the fire was on the increase. The messenger sent to ask
permission for our temporary release had not returned. At last I
thought I heard his voice; no; I listened, he is not come. Probably
the permission will not be granted; there will be no means of
escape; if the jailer should not humanely take the responsibility
upon himself, we shall be suffocated in our dungeons! Well, but
this, I exclaimed, is not philosophy, and it is not religion. Were
it not better to prepare myself to witness the flames bursting into
my chamber, and about to swallow me up.
Meantime the clamour seemed to diminish; by degrees it died away;
was this any proof that the fire had ceased? Or, perhaps, all who
could had already fled, and left the prisoners to their fate.
The silence continued, no flames appeared, and I retired to bed,
reproaching myself for the want of fortitude I had evinced. Indeed,
I began to regret that I had not been burnt alive, instead of being
handed over, as a victim, into the hands of men.
The next morning, I learnt the real cause of the fire from
Tremerello, and laughed at his account of the fear he had endured,
as if my own had not been as great--perhaps, in fact, much greater
of the two.
CHAPTER L.
On the 11th of January, 1822, about nine in the morning, Tremerello
came into my room in no little agitation, and said,
"Do you know, Sir, that in the island of San Michele, a little way
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