Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing TimesMacKenna, Robert William
History
Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times
MacKenna, Robert William
Adventure stories; Covenanters -- Scotland -- Fiction; Love stories; Scotland -- History -- 17th century -- Fiction
work in one position cramped me. Rasp, rasp ... I felt the bar vibrate
like a violin string in the hand that held it. Rasp, rasp, rasp ... and
a puff of wind from the outside blew the iron dust into my mouth and
eyes. What cared I for that? Rasp, rasp, rasp ... and the top of the
bar was cut so thin that I could break it through. I gripped the file in
my teeth and, seizing the stanchion high up with both my hands, threw
all my weight upon it. It bent just above its base, but did not break,
and where its iron fibres were at tensest strain in the bottom of the
groove which I had already cut, I set the file to work once more. The
iron gave like crumbling bread before the teeth of the file, till the
bar was so thin that with one hand I could bend it in whichever
direction I pleased. One strong pull towards me, one mighty thrust
outwards, and the stanchion broke with a snap so sudden that the hand
which held it shot out through the window. I steadied myself with my
left hand on the inner edge of the sill; then I dropped down on tip-toe
and seized the rope. As I did so, my fingers touched the volume which
had brought me to safety. Breaking the string which bound it, I slipped
it into my pocket. It would never do to leave it, neither would it do
to leave behind me the disguise I had worn. I gathered up the bundle
and tied it tightly about with the cord, the end of which I took in my
teeth. Then with the rope round my neck I swarmed up the wall to the
window. To my joy, when I reached it, I found that in my efforts to
break the bar I had bent the lower end inwards. The stump, thus curved,
would give a securer hold to the rope upon which I was about to trust
myself. It seemed hardly strong enough to bear my weight, but its
length was ample, far greater than I should need. So I doubled it over
the stump of the stanchion and having passed it out over the sill, began
to worm myself through the window. Slowly and painfully I pushed my way
through, and at last my head and the upper part of my body were beyond
the aperture. I bent forward, gripping the rope as far off as my arms
could reach, and throwing my weight down upon my hands so that the rope
was taut, I wriggled myself through until I felt my toes were touching
the inner edge of the sill.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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