By little and little the prisoner had discovered that no amount of outcry or disturbance in the dungeon could be heard without; of this he had satisfied himself by a series of experiments. This was always a step gained in the furtherance of his plan.
Fortunately for himself, also, Maxwell was a large-boned man, especially in the wrists. Every set of fetters in the castle had been successively tried on him and found too tight; so for a time he had been bound hand and foot with ropes; but on his complaining that these cut him, they had been withdrawn, and his limbs suffered to remain at liberty.
So all the fine summer days, when the June roses were blooming without, and the June grass growing, and the June birds singing on the tree, while within the rat and the spider were the only living creatures, and a green slime on the wall the only vegetable production, Maxwell was preparing his escape, and biding his time patiently for a favourable opportunity to put it in execution.
When Ralph used to bring his prisoner a draught of wine, he would sometimes, if in a particularly good humour, condescend to stay for a few minutes and help him to partake of it. On these occasions Maxwell, by a studiously quiet and even languid demeanour, contrived to throw his jailer completely off his guard.
One day he requested the wine might be left with him to cheer his solitude when his agreeable friend was gone; another time he complained of indisposition, but thought he might relish a cup towards nightfall. By degrees he collected a Scottish pint or so of strong red wine in a stone jar that he had begged might be applied to the purpose.
The weather was very hot; even in a dungeon its inmate could tell that the summer sun was glowing bright and fierce without. Old Ralph arrived, according to custom, with his prisoner’s afternoon meal, and sat himself down on the stone floor like a man thoroughly overcome with his exertions.
‘Take a draught of wine, man,’ said Maxwell, pointing to the jar; ‘’t the coolest place in the castle here, and by St Andrew the prisoner hath the best of it to-day.’
The old man smiled grimly; then he took a hearty pull, as desired, and set the vessel down with a sigh of great satisfaction.
‘An old man’s bluid aye wants warmin’,’ said he, looking pensively into the vessel the while; ‘but I’ve kent it far hotter ower sea. When I was in Flanders wi’ Norman Leslie, ye ken;—aye! he was a wild lad, Norman, but a bra’ soldier, fair sir, a bra’ soldier as ever belted on a brand!—aweel, whan I was in Flanders wi’ Norman——;’ and forthwith the old man embarked upon a long story of which gallant Norman Leslie was the hero, moistening his narrative at frequent intervals with draughts of the strong red wine, and Maxwell watched with strung nerves and beating heart, how his eye grew dimmer and his speech more laboured as the tale progressed and the contents of the vessel waned.