Hours passed in one long agony. All that day he was left alone. At nightfall a gendarme brought his allowance of coarse food, and went away. Roy drank the water, and pushed the black bread aside, too sick with misery to eat. The boys would now be escaping. He followed in imagination every step of theirs, envying them bitterly. That they should be on their way to dear old England, and that he should be held back! It was too terrible too awful! too cruel!
He had no sleep that night. He could not see the pitying angels who hovered over him in the darkness. He could not know what was going on in another part of the fortress. He could not guess how some of his comrades won their freedom.
All the next morning he lay upon the ground, listless, hopeless, careless of what might happen next.
At midday he was ordered to go down into the yard. That was the hour when the inhabitants of the great dungeon retired into their cavern, and when the better class of prisoners might take their turn of fresh air—if any air could be fresh which had just been breathed by hundreds of men. Roy wondered languidly at being treated thus. He had expected to remain in his cell. It mattered little either way, he said to himself, as he found his way thither. All hope for the present was at an end.
On reaching the yard, his first impression was of an unusual gravity among even the gravest of the prisoners there before him. One or two half spoke to Roy, and stopped, thinking from his look that he already knew,—that he would not be taken by surprise. And so he was allowed to pass on, unhindered. He saw the expression in their faces, and he wondered a little, indifferently.
Then indifference fled, and a dazed bewilderment took possession of him. His brain swam, and he staggered to the wall, clutching it for support, staring and shuddering.
His eyes had fallen on something unexpected—on—what was it? What could it mean?
A row of boys lying on the ground, peacefully asleep. Ah, so peacefully! so awfully white and still, in their brave blue uniforms, some of them spattered with mud. But they did not seem to mind. A smile was on one quiet face; a second wore a look of high repose; one or two carried a defiant frown, as if at the last moment they had known what was come to them; and another was a little grieved, but not much. And all were free. They had won their liberty, though not the liberty for which they had craved and striven, but doubtless a better freedom. Only, the poor mothers of those lads, away at home, what would it have been to them to see their boys lying here?
Roy dragged himself nearer, his heart beating in heavy strokes, while his head seemed to be bursting open. Yes, these were the boys with whom he was to have made his escape—some of them at least. And here was little Will Peirce, with blue eyes fast shut, lying in the placidest sleep, smiling to himself, in a calm waxen whiteness. He had tried to do his duty to the last. Brave little Will!
Roy caught his breath in one hard moan of bitter pain.