Roy dragged himself nearer, his heart beating in heavy strokes, while his head again seemed to be bursting open. Yes, these were the boys with whom he was to have made his escape—some of them, at least. And here was little Will Peirce, with blue eyes fast shut, lying in the placidest sleep, smiling to himself, in a calm waxen whiteness. He had tried to do his duty to the last. Brave little Will!
Roy caught his breath in one hard moan of bitter pain.
“Come away,” a voice said; and somebody drew him, unresisting, to the further side of the yard. Roy vaguely knew that it was an elderly English officer, one of the quietest and most retiring of the prisoners, seldom heard to speak. He made Roy sit down; and as the boy hid his face, a kind hand was on his arm.
“I know! You were with them, I believe. Don’t look any more. No good. It’s over for them.”
A sound asked the question which Roy could not put into words.
“It was last night. They tried to escape over the wall. It seems to have been planned for some time. But they were overheard and betrayed by a fellow-prisoner—the scoundrel! They got away safely to the top of the wall, and let down the rope. Their plan had been to descend one by one, I believe; but they found that too slow, and time was short. So when they had fastened the rope, they got upon it all together. A French officer was watching, and he seized that moment to cut it above.[2] The miscreant!—the hound!—he’ll have his deserts some day! They all fell. Several were killed instantly—as we see. Some with broken limbs are in hospital. This is not the first time that an escape has ended thus. The bodies are always exposed next day.”
Roy shuddered.
“You may be thankful that you were not among them.”
Another shudder.
The grey-haired Colonel bent gravely towards him.