He grasped McNeil’s hand and crept into the chimney.
That night, when all was quiet in the cells, and only the distant booming of the English mortars, and the louder crash of their exploding shells, broke the silence, Phil and Tony crept into the chimney, leaving Pierre breathing heavily on his bed.
Phil climbed to the angle and helped Tony to reach his side. Then, taking it in turn, they stood on one another’s shoulders, and wrenched at the bars.
They were more solidly-wedged than had at first seemed likely, but the shell which had struck the stack had cracked the brickwork below, and this lessened the difficulty of their task. It was terribly hot work, however, and by the time two heavy bars had been wrenched free they were exhausted.
“We’ll jam the loose bars here,” said Phil in a whisper. “Who knows when we shall want weapons with which to defend ourselves!”
Tony chuckled. “You’re a cool hand,” he laughed. “Who’d have thought of all this if it hadn’t been for you. Now all’s plain sailing, and I prophesies complete success. Ah, if only that chap Stackanoff would get in my way I’d smash him into a jelly!”
Cautioning him to keep quiet, for both were by now still more doubtful of the cringing Pierre, they slipped down to the cell, and were soon sunk in deep sleep, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
On the following afternoon the cell door was thrown open, and Stackanoff stalked in with his guard. He glared at his prisoners in a manner that showed his temper had not improved since they saw him last.
“Ah!” he said at last, glancing at the trembling Pierre,—who thought his last hour had come,—and gloating over his terror, “the whole plot is discovered. You are all spies.”
With a sob the little Frenchman fell on his knees, and with clasped hands cried, “Mercy, Monsieur ze Russian, je suis innocent!”