“We won’t all three be needed for the work inside. One of us may remain here—nay, must! Those sergens de ville might be prowling about, or some of the convent people themselves: in which case we’ll need warning before we dare venture back over the wall. If caught on the top of it, the petticoats obstructing—aye, or without them—’twould go ill with us.”
“Quite true,” assents the Captain. “Which of us do you propose staying here? Jack?”
“Yes, certainly. And for more reasons than one. Excited as he is now, once getting his old flame into his arms he’d be all on fire—perhaps with noise enough to awake the whole sleeping sisterhood, and bring them clamouring around us, like crows about an owl, that had intruded into the rookery. Besides, there’s a staff of male servants—for they have such—half a score of stout fellows, who’d show fight. A big bell, too, by ringing which they can rouse the town. Therefore, master Jack must remain here. You tell him he must.”
Jack is told, with reasons given, though not exactly the real ones. Endorsing them, the Major says—
“Don’t be so impatient, my good fellow! It will make but a few seconds’ difference; and then you’ll have your girl by your side, sure. Whereas, acting inconsiderately, you may never set eyes on her. The fight in the front will be easy. Our greatest danger’s from behind; and you can do better in every way, as for yourself, by keeping the rear guard.”
He thus counselled is convinced: and, though much disliking it, yields prompt obedience. How could he otherwise? He is in the hands of men his superiors in rank as experience. And is it not for him they are there; risking liberty—it may be life?
Having promised to keep his impulsiveness in check, he is instructed what to do. Simply to lie concealed under the shadow of the wall, and should any one be outside when he hears a low whistle, he is not to reply to it.
The signal so arranged, Mahon and Ryecroft mount over the wall, taking the ladder along with them, and leaving the waterman to reflect, in nervous anxiety, how near his Mary is, and yet how far off she still may be!
Once inside the garden, the other two strike off along a walk leading in the direction of the spot, which is their objective point. They go as if every grain of sand pressed by their feet had a friend’s life in it. The very cats of the Convent could not traverse its grounds more silently.
Their caution is rewarded; for they arrive at the cloister sought, without interruption, to see its casement open, with a pale face in it—a picture of Madonna on a back ground of black, through the white film looking as if it were veiled.