“Tell ’em I tried to do my duty, all along,” Will said, as manly a note breathing through his hushed tones as if he had measured six feet in length. “And Roy—mind you tell my mother”—the blue eyes showed a sudden moisture—“mind you tell her—I’d never funk anything, if it wasn’t doing what’s wrong. And I haven’t forgot what she said to me when I was leaving home. Tell her that. And I’ve got the little Bible she gave me, and I’ve said my prayers too. I don’t mind telling this to you, because you’re not the sort to jeer at a fellow. Mind, Roy, don’t you forget.”
“And, Will, if it’s the other way—you’ll tell my people—tell ’em I’ve tried too——”
Roy’s voice broke.
“Yes, I know. I’ll tell ’em. I’ll say you’re as brave a chap as any officer in his Majesty’s Navy. Couldn’t say more than that, could I?”
“Only that I’ve tried—that too, you know. And my mother and father—and Molly—and Denham——”
Somebody came nearer, and they dashed into careless talk about nothing in particular.
As it grew dark they were ordered in—all of them—to the dank damp oppressive dungeon, which for several weeks had been Roy’s habitation.
He looked round that night, with a strange moved gaze, when the bulk of the prisoners were asleep, sitting up and clasping his hands round his knees. One more night beside this—only one!—only one!—and then away and away for dear old England, for the land of freedom!
It was worth while making the attempt, even though in that attempt he should die instead of getting away. He was so sick and weary of this long close captivity. He had the craving of a caged bird for light and air, for exercise and active life. At the bare notion of liberty once more, his heart danced and sang. Then he bowed his head on his knees, and he prayed passionately that—if only it might be—he should succeed, and should find his way home—home to Molly, to the dear old country! O the rapture of it!
“For Christ’s sake—for Christ’s sake—O God, let me go; do not let them take me!” he implored.