The White Mice

by Richard Harding Davis

“They are firing in half-minute intervals,” whispered Roddy. “I will try to set off the dynamite when they fire, so that in the casements, at least, no one will hear me. When the explosion comes,” he directed, “wait until I call you, and if I shout to you to run, for God’s sake,” he entreated, “don’t delay an instant, but make for the mouth of the tunnel.”

Inez answered him in a tone of deep reproach. “You are speaking,” she said, “to a daughter of General Rojas.” Her voice trembled, but, as Roddy knew, it trembled from excitement. “You must not think of me,” commanded the girl. “I am here to help, not to be a burden. And,” she added gently, her love speaking to him in her voice, “we leave this place together, or not at all.”

Her presence had already shaken Roddy, and now her words made the necessity of leaving her seem a sacrifice too great to be required of him. Almost brusquely, he started from her.

“I must go,” he whispered. “Wish me good luck for your father.”

“May God preserve you both!” answered the girl.

As he walked away Roddy turned and shifted his light for what he knew might be his last look at her. He saw her, standing erect as a lance, her eyes flashing. Her lips were moving and upon her breast her fingers traced the sign of the cross.

Her fingers traced the sign of the cross.

Roddy waited until his watch showed a minute to nine o’clock. To meet the report of the next gun, he delayed a half-minute longer, and then lit the fuse, and, running back, flattened himself against the side of the tunnel. There was at last a dull, rumbling roar and a great crash of falling rock. Roddy raced to the sound and saw in the wall a gaping, black hole. Through it, from the other side, lights showed dimly. In the tunnel he was choked with a cloud of powdered cement. He leaped through this and, stumbling over a mass of broken stone, found himself in the cell. Except for the breach in the wall the explosion had in no way disturbed it. The furniture was in place, a book lay untouched upon the table; in the draft from the tunnel the candles flickered drunkenly. But of the man for whom he sought, for whom he was risking his life, there was no sign. With a cry of amazement and alarm Roddy ran to the iron door of the cell. It was locked and bolted. Now that the wall no longer deadened the sound his ears were assailed by all the fierce clamor of the battle. Rolling toward him down the stone corridor came the splitting roar of the siege guns, the rattle of rifle fire, the shouts of men. Against these sounds, he recognized that the noise of the explosion had carried no farther than the limits of the cell, or had been confused with the tumult overhead. He knew, therefore, that from that source he need not fear discovery. But in the light of the greater fact that his attempt at rescue had failed, his own immediate safety became of little consequence. He turned and peered more closely into each corner of the cell. The clouds of cement thrown up by the dynamite had settled; and, hidden by the table, Roddy now saw, huddled on the stone floor, with his back against the wall, the figure of a man. With a cry of relief and concern, Roddy ran toward him and flashed his torch. It was Vicenti. The face of the young doctor was bloodless, his eyes wild and staring. He raised them imploringly.