Bred in the Bone; Or, Like Father, Like Son: A NovelPayn, James
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Bred in the Bone; Or, Like Father, Like Son: A Novel
Payn, James
English fiction
That portion of the prison was low, and consisted but of two stories;
another cell window was immediately beneath his own, but, as he knew, it
was not used for prisoners. Still, he trembled as he slipped past it.
Suppose a hand had been pushed through to clasp his limbs, or a voice
had given the alarm, and warned the watchful guards! But his feet
touched ground in safety. His eyes, accustomed for long years to cleave
the darkness, guided him straight to the shed and to the coil of rope.
He seized it as the shipwrecked mariner clutches that which is thrown
him from the shore to drag him through the roaring breakers, and then,
winding it about his waist, he retraced his steps. To return to his cell
window was comparatively easy; but to stand upon its narrow ledge, and,
clutching the parapet with his fingers, to draw himself up thereby, was
a task that few, without the hope of liberty to spur them, could have
accomplished. Three times he failed; without something more of purchase
for his hold, he felt the thing was beyond his powers. The question was,
how broad was the stone coping? If, by a sudden spring, he could catch
the other side of it, he might succeed; but if he missed, his hands
would slide from the smooth surface, his feet could not regain their
stand-point, and he would fall backward twenty feet or so upon the stone
courtyard.
There was nothing for it but to run the risk. He gathered his strength
together, shut his eyes, and made a vigorous spring: one hand caught a
firm gripe, and, after a sharp struggle, the other gained it; then he
drew himself slowly up, and lay down in the gutter of the roof to gather
breath and look about him. The prison was built like the four spokes of
a wheel; and, indeed, with the high wall circling round it, did closely
resemble that image. Nearly the whole of the building could have been
seen, had it been light enough, from his present position; but, as it
was, only the west wing was dimly visible, with its guardian tower
standing blackly up against its dark back-ground of wintry night sky. He
could not make out the sentry on its top; but now and then, when his
circuit brought him nearest to his hiding-place, he could hear his
measured footfall.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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