"Ay," said Geoffrey, "that was the year the Irish were here."
Featherstone had gone to Sydney's assistance, and with the aid of a sharp flint soon uncovered the whole inscription. It ran thus:
| Sacred to the Memory of the FRENCH AND AMERICAN PRISONERS OF WAR, Who Died in Dartmoor Prison during the Years 1811-16. ——— Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. |
Underneath were the words, "Erected 1867."
Very tender and true was the touch of nature that made these four prisoners, now looking at the ancient letters, akin with those who slept below, and with those who had so lovingly preserved their memory. The sudden uncovering of the inscription seemed to give a talismanic value to the words. The centuries cleared away like the mist from the moor, and the four Royalist prisoners saw the brave Americans carry their dead comrades to their English grave; they saw their set faces as they faced the armed guards and invited their own destruction; they saw the Frenchmen who had followed Napoleon from Egypt to Waterloo laid here by their younger fellows who still dreamt of future glory under their world-conquering Emperor. And when all this phastasma cleared away came another picture of the Celtic patriots raising the cairn and cutting the sweet old Roman words on the monolith.
"May they rest in peace!" said the old Duke, taking off his convict's cap.
"Amen!" said Sydney.
"How this day's work would have suited John Dacre," said Featherstone with a deep sigh; and the name brought tears to the eyes of the four prisoners, who went on with their labor in silence.
But interesting as was this employment to the Royalists, it was on quite another account that Geoffrey had, while acting as clerk in the Governor's office, secured this work for them. The truth was that he expected to hear from friends outside who might help them to escape. A letter which he had received from his old servant Reynolds had puzzled him exceedingly with its repeated regrets for the difficulty of getting admission to the prison. But at last the idea struck Geoffrey that Reynolds was hinting that he should seek employment outside the walls. The restoration of the old monument soon gave the opportunity, and Geoffrey had seized it.
He had said nothing of all this to the others; for he might have quite misinterpreted Reynolds's letter, and he did not wish to raise vain hopes. There was not the least sign as yet that he had been right. The old high-road across Dartmoor, it is true, passed the spot at which they were working, skirting the very prison wall; but it was an empty and desolate path.