No. 99 flings himself sullenly upon the stone behind which crouches No. 108, and so effectually conceals the piercing eyes from the warders' catlike vigilance.
"Jem," says a low, hoarse voice from below the stone. "Can you hear me? Don't turn your head, and speak low."
"I hear," replies No. 99, with a hoarse voice.
"Jem, there's a chance; don't start or I'll kill you. There's a chance, but it wants working. I've been wanting to speak to you for six weeks. Warder No. 24 drinks like a fish. He'll be drunk to-night—to-night at seven. I've the stuff in the corridor. Our cells are opposite. He carries the keys in his breast pocket. At half-past seven to-night, Jem, he or I will be a dead man. You know me and my stroke. If I can get a clear blow with the iron jug and without noise we are free. Once in the corridor with his keys, we can gain this cursed cliff. Don't speak—he's looking this way! The tide comes in at ten; we must swim for it—go this minute, or we are lost."
A warder leaps along the stones; No. 99 rises as if rested; No. 108 crawls like a serpent back to his proper gang.
Crash, crash, the last stone is lifted for to-night; the bell chimes the hour, the gangs form with listless, weary sullenness into lines, stalwart warders, well armed, order them sternly to march. Another dreary, hopeless day of toil is done.
The sun has sunk, the red glow has left the sky, darkness has fallen upon the surging sea and barren shore.
The tramp of the sentinels can just be heard above the rattle of the falling beach. It is too dark to see them, but two figures are crawling under the beetling cliffs, they crawl hand in hand, fearful of losing each other for a moment. Not a word is spoken, their movement makes no sound. Five, ten, twenty minutes pass, and then they stop and draw long, husky gasps of relief.
"Jem," says one, "where are we?"
No. 99 shakes his head and peers into the darkness.