“Well, blessings on Emil, or Fritz, or Ludwig, or whoever he was,” Jim said, eating luxuriously. “This is the best blow-out I’ve had since—well, there isn’t any since, there never was anything so good before!”
“Never,” agreed Desmond. “By George, I thought we were done when that energetic gentleman wanted to begin overhauling the casks.”
“Me too,” said Jim. “Emil saved us there—good luck to him!”
They finished the last tiny crumb, and stood up.
“I’m a different man,” Desmond said. “If I have to run to-night, then the man that tries to catch me will have to do it with a bullet!”
“That’s likely enough,” Jim said, laughing. “Well, come and see how we’re going to get out.”
There seemed little enough chance, as they searched from floor to floor. The great door was strong enough to resist ten men; the windows were only slits, far too narrow to allow them to pass through, even had they dared risk the noise of breaking their thick glass. Up and up they went, their hearts sinking as their bodies mounted; seeing no possible way of leaving their round prison.
“Rats in a trap!” said Desmond. “There’s nothing for it but those beastly barrels again—and to watch our chance of settling Emil and his pal when they come to-morrow.”
“Let’s look out here,” Jim said.
They were at the top of the mill, in a little circular place, barely large enough for them to stand upright. A low door opened upon a tiny platform with a railing, from which the great sails could be worked; they were back now, but the wind was rising, and they creaked and strained at their mooring rope. Far below the silver sheet of the Rhine moved sluggishly, gleaming in the moonlight. The blockhouses stood out sharply on either bank.