"Perhaps he is afraid, comrade. Men have been shot for that in the last few months." "Afraid! Not he!" came the answer. "It is this way, Jacques. Monsieur is a man of honour, though he is only a youngster. He has been on parole up till lately, and that is why he has made no attempt. As to why he does not go now, well, I will give you the reason. He is no fool, comrade. Understand that. He is no fool, I say, for he knows that the sentries here are old soldiers and keep a good watch. Besides, could a cat escape from this place, and if it did, where is it to go? Nowhere! Unless a prisoner is tired of life and throws himself into the river. That would be better than to be butchered by the red villains whom we have hanging about the place. Tobacco, Jacques? Help yourself, but be gentle, please, for I have but my slender pay and allowances, and a smoke is a luxury." They stood together chatting for a while, and then separated to patrol the courtyard, passing Steve on each occasion and noticing that he was walking up and down rapidly, as was often his custom. "_Vraiment!_ These English make me smile," laughed one of the men, as he met his comrade opposite the guard-house. "One would think that monsieur earned his rations by walking this place. Now, if I were he----" "You would draw the rations first and sleep, leaving another to do the walking," was the laughing answer. "Peste take these English. It is because they are so energetic that they still keep up their opposition. Others would have given in long ago after suffering so many defeats." They stood together chatting for a time, their talk turning upon the surrender of Fort William Henry and the massacre which followed. Then they shook their heads and agreed that such a catastrophe would have ruined their own cause, while, strangely enough, it had made the enemy even more determined. And while they chatted Steve gradually approached the wall, and finally halted at the spot where Silver Fox had given his signal. It was absolutely dark down below, and though he peered into the black shadows, even his trained eyes failed to see any object. He was in the act of withdrawing his head when there was a movement below, and the faint bark of a dog. Then someone whispered. "Steve? Is that you, lad? Then catch this tackle." Something swished in the air, a bright object shot up from the black abyss, and the prisoner gripped an iron hook, to which a stout rope was attached. To place the hook in position was the work of a second, and within a minute he was down at the bottom of the wall, with his hand gripped firmly in that of his father. "Come. They will discover that you are gone in a very few seconds perhaps, and then there will be a noise. Ah! The sentries are calling."