CHAPTER XXXIV.
A dungeon is by no means an agreeable place; and the dungeon of poor Edward Langdale was not an agreeable dungeon. As was common at that time, before Vauban and others had introduced a better system of fortification, the principal defence of the Castle of Coiffy was a wet ditch or fosse, which differed little from those we see surrounding old castles of the feudal period. This wet ditch was supplied with abundance of water from a spring a little higher up the hill, which, indeed, was the source of one of the principal confluents of the Aube; but the soil, as I have said elsewhere, being somewhat sandy, the banks suffered the water to percolate, somewhat to the detriment of the foundations of the castle; and, had not the masonry been very heavy and the mortar somewhat better than we use in building cockney villas, the square flanking-tower to the right of the gateway as you look east would have been down fifty years before and crushed to death the denizens of poor Edward's dungeon,—if it had been furnished with tenants at that time.
Now, doubtless the reader learned in romance-composition may imagine that I am merely preparing the way for a fine scene of escape from prison, with melodramatic incidents, new songs, scenery, and decorations. But, as I am sorry to say no such heroic result was at this time achieved by Lord Montagu's page, I cannot use it as an incident in this part of my true history. I only mention the percolation of the water of the fosse, and its effect upon the foundations amongst which that and other dungeons were placed, to show that the place of the poor youth's confinement was as damp and disagreeable as it could be. Some stones had fallen from the vault above, some large detached pieces of mortar, green and shiny, covered the mud or stone floor, and the walls were all glistening with dampness; but those walls were too thick and the blocks of stone of which they were composed too heavy for any unaided prisoner to have worked his way out, with the utmost diligence. In one corner of the miserable hole was a sort of camp-bedstead, with a straw bed covered with yellow and green stains from long exposure to the foul, moist air,—disgust and sickness and death to lie upon; and in another corner, high up on the wall, was a little grated window, not so high as the opposite parapet of the glacis, but sufficiently so to admit the air and the sounds from without. The wall was too thick to allow of a prisoner catching even a glimpse of the blue sky or to permit one ray of the sun to enter, even at his rising or his setting. It was indeed a desolate chamber. What an expressive word that desolate is! Although sometimes in the heats of an almost tropical climate—heats often more intense than I ever heard of in the tropics themselves—I sometimes grumble a little at the power and ardor of the sun, yet what would the earth be without him? what is any place on the earth's surface which he does not visit? Desolate, desolate indeed!
The first sound which Edward heard after the bolts had ceased to grate in their sockets was that of a cannon, apparently from the walls of the castle. Some few minutes after the same sound seemed to be repeated from a distance. It might be an echo. He could not tell. But a moment or two after another report was heard, certainly nearer; and then two more confirmed his fancy that they were signal-guns announcing that the well-watched English envoy had been captured and was a prisoner at Coiffy. Some three hours then passed, if not in perfect silence, at least only enlivened by the voices of some soldiers on the ramparts; and then came the squeaking of the wry-necked fife and the beating of drums, intimating to Edward that troops of some kind were drawing round Coiffy. Then were heard voices on the drawbridge, and gay laughter, as if officers were being received into the castle with signs of honor.
All that passed away, and silence resumed her reign till night fell. The light in the lantern burned down almost to the socket. No meat, no drink, had been brought to the prisoner; and he began to ask himself if it could be their intention to starve him there in darkness. His feelings were not pleasant.
Just about that time there was some noise and bustle heard from without,—probably on the drawbridge or at the gate,—the tramp of horses, and voices speaking. Then for a few minutes all was silent again. Then there were sounds just above, more distinct and clear than any he had hitherto heard,—people speaking, and others moving slowly about,—evidently penetrating to the cell which Edward tenanted by the broken parts of the vault on which the flooring of the upper chamber rested.
"Oh!" cried a voice, with a groan, "you have got me by the shoulder just on the wound! Do not do that! Put your hand lower down: not there, not there!—lower still. That young devil! he does not miss his mark, indeed!"
"Lay him on the bed,—flat on his back," said another voice. "Now, Brin, is not that easier for you?" And then followed several sentences in a language Edward did not understand at all.
"The two blacksmiths," said Edward to himself. "They have just brought in the wounded man."
For some half-hour various sounds succeeded, some distinct, others confused, to which the young prisoner did not pay much attention; and then there was a sort of lull,—not quite silence, but still much less bustle. Even slight sounds were easily distinguishable in the dungeon; for the roof was so far dilapidated that here and there the rays of light from above found their way through a chink in the flooring and traced a yellow line upon the pavement. He could hear the wounded man groan and ask in a faint tone for drink.