To while away the time he took off his shoes to see that they were all right.
They were peculiarly made, with false inner soles of many thicknesses of parchment, covered with oil silk and several layers of paint.
These were the precious documents that had been purposely written in that shape. The false soles were secured by stout canvas and thin leather covers which formed part of the shoes. They could not be taken out without cutting the shoes to pieces.
As far as he could see they seemed to have sustained no damage in spite of the wetting.
There were three minute slits or peepholes in the corners and middle of the room. These were evidently intended as lookout places and were covered with small sliding shutters which he opened. The night seemed almost interminable, but at length the dawn began to break. He waited as long as he dared and then woke Audry.
“Where am I?” she exclaimed; “oh, I remember. How are you and how is Aline?” She rose as she spoke and went towards the sleeping figure. “I suppose we ought to wake her,—Aline, dear, wake up.”
Aline opened her eyes and gradually roused herself. She was certainly better than on the previous night, but still obviously very ill. However, there was nothing to be done but to get her upstairs somehow, and then there was no alternative but to leave her in bed.
The children looked at each other. “Whatever shall we say?” said Audry.
“We must not say what is not true,” answered Aline.