She reached the prison square, and slackening her pace, began creeping along in the shadow of the walls. The prison guard-room was lighted and the door open. As she paused uncertainly, flattening herself against the stones of the house opposite, the old guard came noisily out and, shouldering their guns, marched off across the square. The relief proceeded to make a round of the prison. Finding all secure, both men retired into the guard-room again and shut the door.
Lucy breathed a thankful sigh and moved cautiously on to where a shadow falling on the street gave her a chance to cross unseen. The next moment she was behind the prison and lifting herself up to Captain Beattie’s window.
He was there close by it, as though expecting her, and the warmth of his welcome did something toward cheering her depression.
“You got off safely that night, Lucy?” was his first eager question. “Those prowling soldiers didn’t see you? How that’s worried me!”
“Oh, they didn’t catch a glimpse of me. I’m sorry you’ve been anxious. Here’s all I could bring you, Captain Beattie,” she said smiling. “It’s better than nothing.”
For two days Lucy had saved a part of her bread and potatoes, and these she held out in her handkerchief, close to the bars. The young prisoner’s gratitude made her almost happy for a moment. The prison wall cast a deep shade on the moonlight-flooded courtyard, but in spite of it a little light penetrated the bars and, for the first time since she had visited the prison, Lucy could see the young officer’s face. It was thin and sad, though a brave smile touched his lips now in answer to her searching glance.
“What should I do without you, Lucy?” he asked, giving her hand a warm, friendly grasp, as she clung to the bars.
“Goodness, I don’t do much,” said Lucy, sighing. As she spoke she remembered that time was precious, and her voice grew alert and earnest. “You can’t possibly get out of here—that’s sure, isn’t it?”
The Englishman laughed rather bitterly. “Quite sure. The surest thing I know. Some famous prisoners I’ve read of contrived to saw their bars with a fish-bone or a pair of scissors, but I don’t seem to have the knack of it.”
“Don’t you ever wonder, though, what you’d do if you could manage to get out—how you would escape to our lines?”