"Consider now, monsieur," chimed in Pierre in a plaintive voice. "To make ze escape from this--ah--I do not know 'is name, mais--maison--oui, maison--comprenez-vous, monsieur? To make ze escape will bring ze death to us, ze bang and ze bullet. Alas, it will be for ze no good!" "Nonsense!" said Phil shortly. "If we want to get out we must chance that." "Mais, monsieur, we are so happy. Why should we make ze escape? See, ze wall is strong, and ze cannon will not reach us," Pierre answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Bah! thought you was for getting out?" cried Tony in disgust. "Look here, little 'un, if we tries the game you're welcome to this here cell to yourself." Pierre subsided into silence, and commenced to make beds of the blankets, while Phil and Tony made a thorough inspection of the cell. "Not a loophole for escape," growled Tony. "I suppose we'll have to dig our way out, for get away from here I will." "And I too, Tony," Phil answered quietly. "There must be a way. What is this?" and he pointed to an open grate, upon the hearthstone of which were the long-cold embers of a fire. He put his head into it and looked up the chimney, but all was black as night. Suddenly a familiar voice, sounding a long way off, reached his ear. "What can it be?" he cried, withdrawing his head. "I can hear that brute Stackanoff distinctly. Hush! I will get higher up into the chimney. Pierre, if you hear footsteps warn me in good time." Phil crawled beneath the overhanging lip of the grate, and stood up in the chimney. Then, finding a rest for his feet, he gradually ascended. Suddenly his head struck against some brickwork, and by stretching out his hands he found that the chimney bent upward at an easy slope. Surmounting the corner he crept up with some difficulty. The voice now sounded much nearer, so he lay still and listened. "Know, then, that I have set hands on your comrades, beggarly Englishman!" he heard Stackanoff cry in a cruel voice. "They have been taken as spies, and I hope will be shot. I promise you that you shall see the fun." "Wretch!" a weak voice replied, in tones which sounded like Lieutenant McNeil's, "have you not already ill-treated me sufficiently, and must you now persecute my poor countrymen? Were it not for this wound, which lames me, I would spring upon you and crush the life from your miserable carcass. Leave me, you coward!" A derisive laugh was the only answer, and, having waited in vain to hear more, Phil slipped back into the cell, looking more like a sweep than a British officer. He was greatly excited, and that, together with the fact that he was partially choked by soot, made it difficult to answer Tony's eager question. "What luck!" he cried at last. "This cell must communicate in some way with the next one, and in that is Lieutenant McNeil. Listen, and I will tell you what happened." Sitting on his blankets he rapidly communicated the words he had overheard.