"I was against it," murmured Simmons again.
"The inhuman fiends!" cried Harry. "Fanshawe, are you there?" he called into the mouth of the dungeon, his voice echoing strangely from the hollow.
"Yes," came the faint answer. "Who are you?"
"'Tis Harry Rochester, old fellow. We'll have you out in a trice,—and Lieutenant Buckley, too; is he with you?"
"Ay. Is the ladder down?"
"Yes. Come along; we're all friends here."
Soon Fanshawe's fair head appeared above the hole. Harry caught his arm and helped him to step on to the floor.
"God bless you, Harry!" he said feebly. His cheeks were drawn and pale; his eyes sunken and haggard; his hair was dank and disordered; and he tottered and would have fallen but for Harry's sustaining arm. After him came a young officer whom Harry did not know. He, too, showed signs of suffering, but his incarceration was shorter by several days than Fanshawe's, and he was not so much overcome by the sudden return to light and liberty.
"Poor old fellow!" said Harry, linking his arm in Fanshawe's. "Come and let me make you comfortable. I'll tell you all about things by and by, and hear what you have to tell. We must get you right first. Aglionby shall pay for this!"
The two luckless prisoners were taken to the hall and given food.