"Hold your tongue, Tim," Charlie said in a loud whisper.
Tim was silent, but the panting and puffing increased, and Charlie swam a stroke or two away, expecting every moment that Tim would fall. The Irishman, however, held on; but let himself into the water with a splash, which aroused the attention of the sentry above, who instantly challenged.
Tim and Charlie remained perfectly quiet. Again the sentry challenged. Then there was a long silence. The sentry probably was unwilling to rouse the place by a false alarm, and the splash might have been caused by the fall of a piece of decayed stone from the face of the wall.
"Tim, you clumsy fellow," whispered Charlie, "you nearly spoiled all."
"Shure, yer honor, I was kilt entirely, and my arms were pulled out of my sockets. Holy Mother, who'd have thought 'twould be so difficult to come down a rope! The sailors are great men, entirely."
"Now, Tim, lie quiet. I will turn you on your back, and swim across with you."
The moat was some twenty yards wide. Charlie swam across, towing Tim after him, and taking the greatest pains to avoid making the slightest splash. The opposite side was of stonework, and rose six feet above the water. As soon as they touched the wall, a stout rope was lowered to them.
"Now, Tim, you climb up first."
"Is it climb up, yer honor? I couldn't do it, if it was to save my sowl. My arms are gone altogether, and I'm as weak as a child.
"You go, Mister Charles. I'll hould on by the rope till morning. They can but shoot me."