Midday came, and the crowd of prisoners was, as usual, ordered in. A hand touched Roy, and a rough voice ordered him to follow.
Roy faced the gendarme.
"Where?" he demanded blankly, in a moment realising what this might mean.
No answer was vouchsafed. These gendarmes were for the most part surly fellows, though even among them gleams of kindness towards the prisoners were not wholly unknown.
Roy had no choice but to obey. Resistance would have done himself no good, and might have drawn suspicion upon his comrades. The man laid a grip upon his arm, and led him—not down but up—past the ground floor, ascending to the floor above. At the end of a long passage, he stopped at a door, opened it, and thrust Roy in. The door was shut and the lock snapped.
Roy found himself alone in a small cell, with stone floor, stone ceiling, stone walls, one little iron-barred window, deeply embrasured, and a single wooden bench. Beside the bench were a jug of water, a hunch of bread, and some cheese.
Was he now condemned to solitary confinement—perhaps for weeks, perhaps for months, perhaps for years? And for what? What had he done to bring this upon himself?
But for the planned escape, so near at hand, he might have welcomed almost any change from the dungeon and its horrors. Now, however, now with freedom in sight, to be carried off, to be placed where he was, to be debarred from every hope of liberty—it was heart-breaking.
He flung himself upon the ground, hid his face on his crossed arms, and gave himself over to despair.
Would he never leave this awful place? Was this the way in which his prayers and his mother's prayers were to be answered? If so, what was the use of praying? He would give it all up. He would never pray again. It was of no use. Nothing was of any use.