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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1002.]      MARCH 11, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]

[Illustration: A YOUTHFUL PIANIST.]

_All rights reserved._]




“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.


CHAPTER XXIV.

A BARRED WINDOW.

How the next fortnight passed, Roy never afterwards could recall. He
was sick and dazed with the shock he had had, grieving for Will Peirce,
and all but hopeless. He had ceased to care for food, and, though he
slept much, passing hours at a time in heavy doze, it was not the kind
of sleep to rest him. Life at this time seemed awfully hard to live.
Sometimes he envied little Will.

The Colonel, who had spoken to him that day, spoke to him again often
when they met in the yard; and Roy was grateful, but he could not rouse
himself. He had lost all interest in what went on around him. He hated
the yard, and he always kept as far as possible from the spot where
that terrible exposure had taken place.

His one longing was to know how the other poor boys in the hospital
were; but accounts in that direction were uncertain and not to be
relied upon.

About a fortnight later, one cold afternoon, he was leaning against the
wall at the further end, hardly thinking, only drearily enduring. He
became aware of a man coming across the yard, carrying a large basket,
or _hotte_, piled up with loose wood—not a gendarme, but evidently one
employed in the fortress on manual work.

Something about the fellow arrested Roy’s attention, though why it
should be so Roy had no idea. He was of medium height, broad-shouldered
and long-limbed, and he walked in a slouching manner. As he drew near
the basket tilted over, raining the whole mass of wood at Roy’s feet.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Roy.

The man muttered something, and went slowly down upon his knees to pick
up the wood. No one else was near. A body of prisoners had been that
morning removed elsewhere, and the yard was not so full as usual. Roy,
after a moment’s hesitation, good-naturedly bent to help; and as he did
so, their faces came close together.

“Hist!” was whispered cautiously.

Roy started.

“Hist!”—again. “Does monsieur know me? But not a word—hist!”

Roy drew one quick breath. Then he picked up more pieces of wood,
tossing them into the _hotte_. He cast another glance at the man,
his whole being on the alert. In an instant he saw again the small
French town, the crowd in front of the _hôtel de ville_, the released
conscript, the old mother clinging to Denham’s hands, and Denham’s
compassionate face. All was clear.

“Jean Paulet,” he breathed.

“Hist!”—softly.

“But—you are he?”

“Oui, M’sieu.”

Jean piled some of the wood together, with unnecessary fuss and noise.

“Will M’sieu not betray that he has seen me before? It is important.”

“Oui.”

Roy tossed two more bits of wood into the _hotte_. Then he stood up,
yawned, and stared listlessly in another direction. After which he hung
lazily over the _hotte_, as if to play with the wood, and under cover
of it a touch of cold steel came against his left hand.

“Hist!”—at the same instant.

Roy grasped and slipped the something securely out of reach and out of
sight, without a moment’s hesitation. His right hand still turned over
the wood.

“Bon!” Jean murmured, making a considerable clatter. Then, low and
clearly—“Listen! If M’sieu will file away the bar of his window—ready
to be removed—I will be there outside, to-morrow night after dark. When
M’sieu hears a whistle—hist! But truly this weight is considerable—oui,
M’sieu—and a poor man like me may not complain.”

Jean hitched up the big _hotte_, now full, and passed on, grumbling
audibly, while Roy strolled back to his former position. His heart was
beating like a hammer, and he dreaded lest he might betray his change
of mood in his face. To return to his former dejected attitude was not
easy when new life was stirring in every vein; but he managed to shirk
observation, and when two o’clock came it was a relief to be alone in
his cell. He could safely there fling his arms aloft in a frenzy of
delight.

If only little Will might have escaped with him! That thought lay as a
weight of sorrow in his joy.

But there was little leisure for regrets. He had a task to accomplish
in a given time, and it might not be an easy task. Many a time he had
examined the stout iron bar wedged firmly in across the small window.
If that could be taken out, he would be able to squeeze himself
through; but to take out the bar, or at least to move it on one side,
meant first to file nearly through it—quite through, indeed, for the
noise of breaking it might not be risked. What might lie on the other
side, down below, he could only guess, since the deep embrasure within,
and the thickness of the wall without, prevented him from seeing.

The gendarmes visited him at stated intervals, and he could pretty well
reckon upon their visits; yet he knew well that he was never secure
against a sudden interruption at any moment. He had to work at the bar
in a difficult and cramped position, supporting himself in a corner
of the slanting embrasure and filing lightly, so that no sound should
reach the ears of any passer-by outside, while his own hearing had to
be incessantly strained towards the cell-door to catch the faintest
intimation of anybody entering.

One narrow escape of detection he had. Absorbed in his toil, he failed
to hear the first preliminary click of the lock, and the door began to
open. Roy flung himself to the ground, reckless of bruises, and the
noise of his fall was happily drowned in the creak of the door. When
the gendarme entered, he found a sleepy prisoner, lying with head on
folded arms. Roy wondered that the thumping of his heart did not betray
him.

Thoughtful Jean had provided him with three files; and but for this the
plan would have proved a failure. Two of them broke. The third held out
to the end.

A good part of the night he worked, growing terrified lest the task
should not be done in time. In the dark, by feeling instead of sight,
silently and persistently, despite aching muscles, he kept on at it.
His hands were strained and bleeding, and next day he had carefully
to guard them from notice. In the morning he was again up in the
embrasure—after the usual visit from a gendarme—filing, filing, softly
and steadily. By mid-day he had worked his way through the heavy bar.

Roy stirred it cautiously. Yes, it yielded. The other end alone would
not hold it firm. One good wrench, and it could be forced aside.

That was all he had now to do. The bar would have to remain in position
till the last moment. He cleared away every speck of iron filing, and
then he had to go into the yard. What if the gendarmes should examine
the cell during his absence and find out what he had done? What if,
any hour before night, they should take it into their heads to test
the bar? What if, before Jean came, Roy himself should be removed
elsewhere? Then came another question. What if his mother’s prayers
were being answered?

And by-and-by the afternoon had waned away without any mischance, and
the gendarme’s evening visit had been safely paid. Roy’s allowance of
food lay upon the floor, the window had not been examined, and Roy was
left alone for the night. He wisely disposed of the food, knowing that
he would need all his strength. Then he waited, minute after minute, in
a suspense hardly to be imagined, not to be described.

A slight faint whistle, close to the window.

In a moment Roy was up in the slanting embrasure, where for hours he
had clung, getting through his task.

Jean’s hand met his, and together, noiselessly, they wrenched the bar
aside.

“Hist! Be still as death!” whispered Jean.

Roy squeezed himself through the opening, Jean’s grasp steadying him.
He found his feet to be resting on the topmost rung of a ladder. Jean
whispered one or two directions, then himself went down and held it
firm below while Roy followed. Little need was there to bid the boy
be quiet in his movements. The slightest sound might betray them,
destroying every hope of escape.

The moment Roy reached the bottom, Jean’s hand grasped his wrist and
led him away. The ladder had to remain where it was. Its removal would
have meant too great a risk. Roy could not see where they were, for
pitch darkness surrounded them; but Jean moved with confidence, though
with extreme care.

Soon they had to pass near a sentry, and a sharp challenge rang out.
Roy’s heart leaped into his mouth, and Jean promptly replied with the
password for the night. Veiled by the darkness, which was increased by
a drizzling rain, they went by in safety.

The outer wall at length was gained—that same wall which the middies
had reached in their attempted escape, though at a different part of
it. Jean had chosen this mode of escape, not daring to take Roy under
the eyes of sentries at the gates, where, despite his command of the
password, the prisoner must almost inevitably have been found out.

In a quiet corner, where nobody was or seemed to be near, Jean drew
down the end of a stout rope, already secured at the top of the wall,
the loose end having been knotted up out of easy reach. This had been
his doing after dark, before he went to Roy’s cell. With the help of
the rope they made their way to the top, Roy first, Jean next, pulling
it up after them, and lowering it on the other side. Then, together,
they trusted their weight to it once more.

As they hung over the depth, Roy could not but recall the cold-blooded
act of two or three weeks earlier and its dire consequences. If any man
had obtained an inkling of Jean’s intentions, or had discovered the
rope placed in readiness, the same tragedy might now be repeated on a
smaller scale. One clear cut would do the business. He and Jean would
fall heavily downward, and, in an instant, he too, like little Will,
might be in that land where battles and dungeons and cruel separations
are things of the past.

These thoughts came to Roy—unbidden—even while his whole attention
was bent to the task of working himself, hand under hand, swiftly and
noiselessly, down the rope. Already his hands were torn and strained,
yet, under the excitement of the moment, he felt no pain.

The rope remained taut. There was no sudden yielding from above—no
abrupt and helpless plunge earthward. He and Jean arrived in safety on
firm ground.

Again Jean gripped his wrist.

“Now, M’sieu, hist!” he whispered; and as fast as might be, yet with
extreme caution, avoiding even the sound of a footfall, they hurried
away from that grim surrounding wall. Roy could not see in the darkness
where they were, or whither they were going. He could only trust
himself blindly to Jean’s guidance, and Jean seemed to be in no doubt.
He never paused or faltered.

Running at full speed, then slackening for breath, running again, and
halting anew, walking at a brisk swing, then breaking into a fresh race
side by side, only to come to another short pause—so they passed the
hours of that night. During the first twenty or thirty minutes extreme
care was needful; and more than once Jean had to make use of the
password, which he had somehow learnt. When once thoroughly away from
Bitche, however, immediate discovery became less likely; and the chief
aim then was to put as wide a space as possible between themselves
and the fortress before morning. That was as much as Roy had in mind.
Jean’s object was more definite, including arrival at a particular
hiding-place within a given time; but at present he attempted no
explanations.

So soon as Roy’s disappearance should become known, and the gendarmes
should have started in pursuit, Roy’s danger—and, for the matter of
that, Jean’s also—would be intensified a hundred-fold. At present they
had a clear field, favoured by darkness and by the fact of a world
mainly asleep.

Few words were spoken by either. While in the vicinity of Bitche even
the lightest whisper meant a risk of being overheard; and when the fear
lessened, breath and strength were too precious to be wasted.

Roy’s powers were severely taxed. Excitement kept him going. But he had
slept and eaten little, and had worked hard, during the last thirty
hours; and after six months without proper exercise, he was direfully
out of training. His muscles had grown flabby, and he so soon began to
pant as to become angry with himself. Still, he fought doggedly onward,
making no complaint.

At first they followed by-paths or kept to fields for greater safety;
but by-and-by Jean struck into the high road, and here advance was
easier. It was unlikely that Roy would be missed before early morning;
and, even if pursued now, they would see the approaching gendarmes
before they could be seen, and to hide in the darkness would not be
difficult.

As hour passed after hour, and still they made uninterrupted progress,
Roy grew light of heart. Breathlessness, aching limbs, sharp cold,
growing hunger—all these were as nothing compared with the fact that he
was free! No stone walls, no iron-bound and padlocked doors, shut him
ruthlessly in!

From time to time a brief halt became necessary, and Roy was allowed to
fling himself flat on the icy ground for ten minutes, after which he
could always start with redoubled energy.

“Wonder what happened to take you to Bitche, Jean?” he said, after one
of these breaks.

“M’sieu, I had a friend at Bitche.”

“A gendarme! A soldier?” asked Roy, with quickness.

“Oui, M’sieu. Un soldat. M’sieu will perhaps refrain from putting many
questions. It is a friend whom I have known from boyhood. He was taken,
like others, in the conscription, and no kind