He saw it all. They had shot Blob, who lay without, breathing his last. The door, left unguarded, had slammed, and they were nabbing Kit and Knapp in the drain.
His hand was upon the catch once more. Should he go?—dared he stay?
His spirit wrought within him.
Strong man though he was, he was whimpering in the darkness.
To slink behind that iron door was eternal shame; to go was inevitable ruin. Could he save his own old skin at the cost of that boy's? And yet he could not get away from the remorseless fact that to save his own skin might be to save his country.
His agony was short but terrible. The patriot prevailed over the man. The discipline of twenty years' soldiering had taught him life's hardest lesson—to sacrifice his feelings to his duty. He made his choice, and chose the path that has always seemed best to Englishmen in such case.
He slammed the bolts home.
He was up the ramp in a moment, and had banged the trap-door behind him.
Old Piper turned from the loop-hole.
"Seems there's summat up yonder behind the trees, sir. I yeard—Ah! what'll that be?"