mounting upon my stool, I
thrust my head and shoulders into the hole. I had wriggled through as
far as my waist, when my companion seized me suddenly by the knees, and
yelled at the top of his voice: 'Help! Help! A prisoner is escaping!'

Ah, my friends, what did I not feel at that moment! Of course, I saw in
an instant the game of this vile creature. Why should he risk his skin
in climbing walls when he might be sure of a free pardon from the
English for having prevented the escape of one so much more
distinguished than himself? I had recognized him as a poltroon and a
sneak, but I had not understood the depth of baseness to which he could
descend. One who has spent his life among gentlemen and men of honour
does not think of such things until they happen.

The blockhead did not seem to understand that he was lost more certainly
than I. I writhed back in the darkness, and seizing him by the throat, I
struck him twice with my iron bar. At the first blow he yelped as a
little cur does when you tread upon its paw. At the second, down he fell
with a groan upon the floor. Then I seated myself upon my bed, and
waited resignedly for whatever punishment my gaolers might inflict upon
me.

But a minute passed and yet another, with no sound save the heavy,
snoring breathing of the senseless wretch upon the floor. Was it
possible, then, that amid the fury of the storm his warning cries had
passed unheeded? At first it was but a tiny hope, another minute and it
was probable, another and it was certain. There was no sound in the
corridor, none in the courtyard. I wiped the cold sweat from my brow,
and asked myself what I should do next.

One thing seemed certain. The man on the floor must die. If I left him I
could not tell how short a time it might be before he gave the alarm. I
dare not strike a light, so I felt about in the darkness until my hand
came upon something wet, which I knew to be his head. I raised my iron
bar, but there was something, my friends, which prevented me from
bringing it down. In the heat of fight I have slain many men--men of
honour, too, who had done me no injury. Yet here was this wretch, a
creature too foul to live, who had tried to work me so great a mischief,
and yet I could not bring myself to crush his skull in. Such deeds are
very well for a Spanish partida--or for that matter a sansculotte of the
Faubourg St Antoine--but not for a soldier and a gentleman like me.

However, the heavy breathing