At this moment, as they stood gazing at the tiny aperture, there was a slight click at the back of them, and, turning round quickly, they saw a platter of food and jug of water inside the cell, and close against the wall; but of the aperture through which it had been passed they could discover no trace in that dim light, even after close and careful examination.
“It is as we thought,” said Roger; “it seems to be the custom in these Spanish prisons never to allow the prisoners to see or speak to anyone, even the jailer. You may depend upon it that we shall never have anyone entering this cell until they come to conduct us to the torture-chamber.” And he shuddered; the recollection associated with the word “torture” was exceedingly unpleasant.
“In that case,” agreed Harry, “we will try the effect of plugging that hole, and see what happens. But first we had better take our meal while we have the chance.”
Their dinner consisted of a slab of some kind of coarse, dark-coloured, ill-flavoured bread, and a bowl of maize-meal porridge such as has constituted the staple food of the natives of that part of the world for centuries.
They ate their food, but, hungry as they were, found great difficulty in swallowing the porridge, so exceedingly unpalatable was it.
Hunger, however, provides an excellent sauce, and they managed between them to finish the supply, and then emptied the water pitcher forthwith, as they were very thirsty.
“Now to hit upon a good way to stop up that villainous spy-hole,” said Harry, and looked around the cell for something which would answer the purpose.
They could see nothing suitable until their eyes fell upon the accumulation of dirt upon the window-ledge.
“Ah! I have it!” ejaculated Roger; and, climbing on Harry’s shoulders, he reached down a handful of the dust.
“Now mix this,” he went on, “with that liquor left from the porridge. That contains a good deal of sticky matter, and will make this stuff hold together.”