"Yes, and more easily than I anticipated. After the twelve or fifteen years that I have been here, they have doubtless ceased to think of my escape as a possibility: indeed, it's very likely that they no longer know who I am. They keep me, as they keep the chain hanging from yonder ring. The constable and the regent are dead, and they alone remembered me. Who would now recognize the name of Etienne Raymond, even in this place, if I should pronounce it? No one." Aubry felt the perspiration starting from every pore as he thought of the oblivion into which this lost existence had fallen. "Well?" he exclaimed questioningly,--"well?" "For more than a year," said the old man, "I dug and dug, and I succeeded in making a hole under the wall large enough for a man to pass through." "But what did you do with the dirt you took from the hole?" "I strewed it over the floor of my cell, and trod it in by constantly walking upon it." "Where is the hole?" "Under my bed. For fifteen years no one has ever thought of moving it. The jailer came down into my cell only once a day. When he had gone, and the doors were closed, and the sound of his footsteps had died away, I would draw out my bed and set to work; when the time for his visit drew near, I would move the bed back to its place, and lie down upon it. "Day before yesterday I lay down upon it never to rise again. I was at the end of my strength: to-day I am at the end of my life. You are most welcome, young man: you shall assist me to die, and I will make you my heir." "Your heir!" said Aubry in amazement. "To be sure. I will leave you this dagger. You smile. What more precious heritage could a prisoner leave you? This dagger is freedom, perhaps." "You are right," said Aubry, "and I thank you. Whither does this hole that you have dug lead?" "I had not reached the other end, but I was very near it. Day before yesterday I heard voices in the cell beside this." "The devil!" said Aubry, "and you think--" "I think that you will have finished my work in a very few hours." "Thanks," said Aubry, "thanks." "And now, a priest. I would much like to see a priest," said the moribund. "Wait, father, wait," said Aubry; "it is impossible that they would refuse such a request from a dying man." He ran to the door, this time without stumbling, his eyes being somewhat accustomed to the darkness, and knocked with feet and hands both. A turnkey came down. "What's the matter, that you make such an uproar?" he demanded, "what do you want?" "The old man here with me is dying," said Aubry, "and asks for a priest: can you refuse?" "Hum!" grumbled the jailer, "I don't know why these fellows must all want priests. It's all right: we'll send him one." Ten minutes later the priest appeared, carrying the viaticum and preceded by two sacristans, one with the crucifix, the other with the bell.