ter
for the darkest reflections--since he saw himself in a place where, if
the unreal seemed so true, reality might one day become a dream. In
other words, he feared approaching madness.

But at last came daybreak, and by-and-by the gaoler returned, asking the
prisoner if he had had time to find out what he would like to eat.
Casanova was allowed to send for all he needed from his own apartments
in Venice, but writing-implements, any metal instruments whatever, even
knife and fork, and the books he mentioned, were struck from his list.
The inquisitors sent him books which they themselves thought suitable,
and which drove him, he said, to the verge of madness.

He was not ill-treated--having a daily allowance given him to buy what
food he liked, which was more than he could spend. But the loss of
liberty soon became insupportable. For months he believed that his
deliverance was close at hand; but when November came, and he saw no
prospect of release, he began to form projects of escape. And soon the
idea of freeing himself, however wild and impossible it seemed, took
complete possession of him.

[Illustration]

By-and-by he was allowed half an hour's daily promenade in the corridor
(galetas) outside his cell--a dingy, rat-infested place, into which old
rubbish was apt to drift. One day Casanova noticed a piece of black
marble on the floor--polished, an inch thick and six inches long. He
picked it up stealthily, and without any definite intention, managed to
hide it away in his cell.

Another morning his eyes fell upon a long iron bolt, lying on the floor
with other old odds and ends, and that also, concealed in his dress, he
bore into his cell. When left alone, he examined it carefully, and
realised that if pointed, it would make an excellent spontoon. He took
the black marble, and after grinding one end of the bolt against it for
a long while, he saw that he had really succeeded in wearing the iron
down. For fifteen days he worked, till he could hardly stir his right
arm, and his shoulder felt almost dislocated. But he had made the bolt
into a real tool; or, if necessary, a weapon, with an excellent point.
He hid it in the straw of his armchair so carefully that, to find it,
one must have known that it was there; and then he began to consider
what use he should make of it.

He was certain that the room underneath was the one in which on entering
he had seen the secretary of the Inquisition, and which was probably