"You had better do so," O'Sullivan said. "You are the lightest of us, and, I fancy, the strongest, too."
"Very well. I don't think that it will make any difference, for the rope is strong enough to hold the three of us together. However, here goes. We may as well leave our coatees behind us. They might get us into difficulties, if we took them."
So saying, he took off his coat, fastened the end of the rope securely to the bars that had been left for the purpose, and, holding it firmly, made his way through the opening and swung himself over. With his muscles strengthened by military exercises and sword practice, he found it easier work than he had expected. The depth was some sixty feet, and in a couple of minutes his feet touched the ground.
Mike had been hanging on by the rope to steady it, and as Desmond descended, he seized him by the hand and shook it enthusiastically, murmuring brokenly, "My dear master, thank God that you are free!"
"Thanks to you also, my dear fellow. Now, hold on again. My friends O'Neil and O'Sullivan shared my cell with me, and are following me."
He added his weight to that of Mike, and it was not long before O'Neil came down; but not so quietly as Desmond had done, for his strength had failed him, and the rope had slipped rapidly through his fingers, and Mike and Desmond narrowly escaped being knocked down by the suddenness with which the descent was made. He stood for a minute, wringing his hand, and swearing in an undertone in English, Irish, and French.
"By the powers," he said, "it has taken the skin off the inside of my hands, entirely! A red-hot poker could not have done it more nately!
"Mike, you rascal, what are you laughing at? I have a mind to break your bones before thanking you."
O'Sullivan succeeded better, but was completely exhausted when he joined his friends.
"Now, Mike, where are the disguises?"