y returned into
the cell and waited. Casanova had made strong ropes by tying together
sheets, towels, and whatever else would serve. Now, since there was
nothing to be done till the moon sank, he sat down and wrote a courteous
letter to the Inquisition, explaining his reasons for attempting to
escape.

The spy, too cowardly to risk his life in so daring a venture, and
beginning to see that he had been imposed upon, begged Casanova on his
knees to leave him behind, praying for the fugitives--and this Casanova
was thankful to do, for Soradici could only have encumbered him. Father
Balbi, though for the last hour he had been heaping reproaches on his
friend's rashness, was less of a coward than the spy, and as the time
had come to start he followed Casanova. They crept out on the roof, and
began cautiously to ascend it. Half-way up the monk begged his companion
to stop, saying that he had lost one of the packages tied round his
neck.

'Was it the package of cord?' asked Casanova.

'No,' replied the monk, 'but a black coat, and a very precious
manuscript.'

'Then,' said Casanova, resisting a sudden temptation to throw Balbi
after his packet, 'you must be patient, and come along.'

The monk sighed, and followed. Soon they had reached the highest point
of the roof, and here Balbi contrived to lose his hat, which rolled down
the roof, failed to lodge in the gutter, and fell into the canal below.
The poor fellow grew desperate, and said it was a bad omen. Casanova
soothed him, and left him seated where he was, while he himself went to
investigate, his faithful tool in his hand.

Now fresh difficulties began. For a long time Casanova could find no way
of re-entering the palace, except into the cell they had quitted. He was
growing hopeless, when he saw a skylight, that he was sure was too far
away from their starting point to belong to any of the cells. He made
his way to it; it was barred with a fine iron grating that needed a
file. And Casanova only had one tool!

Sitting on the roof of the skylight, he nearly abandoned himself to
despair, till the bell striking midnight suddenly roused him. It was the
first of November: All Saint's Day--the day on which he had long had a
curious foreboding that he should recover his liberty. Fired with hope,
he set his tool to work at the grating, and in a quarter of an hour he
had wrenched it away entire. He set it down by the skylight, and went
back for the monk. They regained the