Orme lay for a considerable time in a dull stupor, unable to collect his thoughts, but by degrees his senses came back, and he awoke to the situation in which he was placed. He believed that it was idle to hope for mercy; he was in the hands of a man who was not likely to trouble himself further about his fate. He felt that he must die, and that he must face death with what courage he could command. He had never thought much about it before, but now when he stood face to face with death, it became so real and so terrible that for a time he stood aghast at the contemplation. He saw with awful vividness the preparations of the morning, and he thought of the moment when his soul and body would part company for ever. He was young, and the great mysteries of life and death had never troubled him. The path of his duty had been simple and plain; to stand by the truth, to show himself modest and pure and valorous always, to betray no trust, and to worship God according to the custom of his fathers--this was his creed and his plan of life; according to this he had sought to live and die. He had no desire for the martyr´s death and the martyr´s crown; he loved life and clung to it, and now all the more when he was in danger of losing it. Men like Hackett might find consolation and support in religion at a time like this, but for himself it could not lift him superior to the fear of suffering and the dread of death. There was, however, some consolation in the thought that he had striven honestly to do his duty, and that he had not begged in any unmanly way for life. Then his thoughts took another turn, and his whole past life unrolled itself before him. Incidents of his boyhood that he had long forgotten came fresh into his mind. He saw the stream and the stepping-stones where he had been used to fish, and the patches of sunshine glinting on the water through the willows; the old stone house and its tall chimneys lifting themselves among the oaks and firs; the dark wainscoted room where his father had taught him from Tacitus and Cæsar; and he longed with a great longing for life.
He raised himself from the straw and stretched out his hands in the darkness. The walls of the shieling in which he was confined were of wood, and he did not doubt that had he not been disabled he could have forced his way out. As it was escape even yet might be possible. To feel again the fresh wind blowing across the hillside and see the clear light of the stars, and the dark green fields stretching under them--the thought gave him strength and courage. Feeling carefully along the walls of the shed, and searching for a loose plank he came to the door which opened from without. He stood listening for the tread of the sentry´s feet, but there was no sound audible but the beating of his own heart that throbbed wildly with the hope of escape. The door was not guarded. The planks of which the door was made, were light and had been roughly put together, but he found it impossible to make any impression upon them, though he strained and pulled till his wound broke out afresh. In the darkness he searched for a weapon that might assist him, but he could find nothing suited to his purpose. Again he followed the walls of the shed with his hands, searching carefully for a weak place in the timbers, but again he was unsuccessful. Then the great wave of hope subsided, and he threw himself once more upon the straw to compose his mind to meet with resignation the fate that was before him. There seemed to be no hope of escape left. By degrees he grew calm, and from some odd corner in his brain there came to his mind the lines--
“Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage.”
Again and again they repeated themselves until they seemed almost to lose their meaning for him; but the feeling remained with him, and by and by he found himself looking forward to the morning with resignation.
Suddenly in the unbroken quiet he heard the sound of footsteps on the causeway without; then the door of the shed was opened, someone entered, and the flash of a lantern for a moment dazzled his eyes. It was De Laprade, flushed with wine and somewhat unsteady in his gait. Closing the door behind him, he looked round and saw Gervase lying in the corner.
“Eh, mon ami!” he said, laying down the lantern and removing his cloak, “but you have had a bad quarter of an hour. It was my fear that they would hang you at once, for these gentlemen are not nice in their manners nor long in their grace. It would give me much delight to measure swords with Galmoy, but the barbarian will not fight save when he is drunk, and then I am generally far from sober myself. These are not comfortable quarters,” he added abruptly, looking round him and shrugging his shoulders.
“They are good enough for a dying man who has but a few hours to live,” said Gervase gravely.