When the second jailer appeared early in the evening, George stopped him and handed him five golden guineas. "Have a feast at my expense," he said. "Share it with the people here who have been so good to me; to-day is my birthday." (This was a fact, and, for that reason, William's as well.) "Listen, also; go you to Fraunce's Tavern and buy four bottles of the best Lone Star Madeira. Present them to the head prison-keeper with the compliments of an officer. Pretend you do not know from whom they come. He might not accept them from a prisoner in his care."
Probably the man had never held so much gold in the grasp of his dirty fingers before. He fairly grovelled. "Lord bless you, sir, leave me to do the lying," he said.
George's last generous offer had almost proved his undoing, for shortly after dark he had heard the sounds of carousing and some merriment from the jailer's quarters. The sentry at the head of the stairs had disappeared, and the sound of the file biting away the last remaining bits of steel would have been audible were it not for the clamor below. He was about to push the loosened iron out when a wheezy voice humming a snatch of a song was heard coming down the corridor. It was the head jailer.
"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage,"
he chanted thickly. "I can be generous as well as other folk. I am not a hard man. My guest of honor must drink with me." In an instant he was before the doorway. "Here's a good health to you, my unknown friend. Long live the King!" With that the jailer wavered unsteadily and tossed off a glass of Madeira.
George feared that he was about to be discovered, and pretended sleep; but this was all the visit amounted to, for soon he heard the heavy footsteps lumber down the stairway, still protesting that it was not "a flint heart."
Now was the time. George pushed the bars gently, and they came off without much trouble. He laid them on the quilt, and drew himself through the aperture, then he tiptoed carefully down the steps.
A ray of light from a room to the right showed that the door was partly ajar. He looked inside. The jailer was fast asleep. Before him on the table wore three empty bottles of Madeira. A heavy military cloak hung from a peg at one side, and a huge three-cornered hat above it. George throw the cloak about his shoulders and placed the hat upon his head. It came down over his ears. He drew the bolt of the big front door and stepped out under the stars—for it had ceased snowing—and into the court-yard. The only entrance was guarded by a man leaning on his musket.
How to pass him was the question. But as the young fugitive drew nearer he perceived that the tall soldier was fast asleep. He was leaning on one side of the door with his foot propped against a post on the other. His leg made a barrier.
Making his body as small as possible, George essayed to stoop under the outstretched leg; but his shoulder jostled the sentry, and he awoke. George recognized the ex-corporal.