ips formed the old old words; but
it might almost have been said of him already, that "his spirit was
with the GOD who gave it."

As for Monsieur the Viscount, it was perhaps well that he was not too
sensible of his position, for Antoine got him down the flight of stone
steps that led to the cell by the simple process of dragging him by
the heels. After a similar fashion he crossed the floor, and was
deposited on a pallet; the gaoler then emptied a broken pitcher of
water over his face, and locking the door securely, hurried back to
his charge.

When Monsieur the Viscount came to his senses he raised himself and
looked round his new abode. It was a small stone cell; it was
underground, with a little grated window at the top that seemed to be
level with the court; there was a pallet--painfully pressed and
worn--a chair, a stone on which stood a plate and broken pitcher, and
in one corner a huge bundle of firewood which mocked a place where
there was no fire. Stones lay scattered about, the walls were black,
and in the far dark corners the wet oozed out and trickled slowly
down, and lizards and other reptiles crawled up.

I suppose that the first object that attracts the hopes of a new
prisoner is the window of his cell, and to this, despite his weakness,
Monsieur the Viscount crept. It afforded him little satisfaction. It
was too high in the cell for him to reach it, too low in the prison to
command any view, and was securely grated with iron. Then he examined
the walls, but not a stone was loose. As he did so, his eye fell upon
the floor, and he noticed that two of the stones that lay about had
been raised up by some one and a third laid upon the top. It looked
like child's play, and Monsieur the Viscount kicked it down, and then
he saw that underneath it there was a pellet of paper roughly rolled
together. Evidently it was something left by the former occupant of
the cell for his successor. Perhaps he had begun some plan for getting
away which he had not had time to perfect on his own account,
Perhaps--but by this time the paper was spread out, and Monsieur the
Viscount read the writing. The paper was old and yellow. It was the
fly-leaf torn out of a little book, and on it was written in black
chalk, the words--

"_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur._" (Remember the Saviour.)

He turned it over, he turned it back again; there was no other mark;
there was nothing more; and Monsieur the Viscount did not conceal from
hi