“Thank heaven it is only an inconvenience!” said the locksmith. “If to sit here from fifteen minutes to half an hour in the dark, breathing this pestilential air is only an inconvenience, you may, perhaps, be grateful. For my part, I have no fancy for groping my way through the black labyrinth of passages that lie between us and the guardrooms; and you can tell your master, from me, that when we want work done again in the Bastille, he must come himself. We want no more bunglers.” “I beg ten thousand pardons—it was an accident!” “We do not permit of accidents here!” answered the man, by no means appeased by the humility with which the workman strove to atone for his fault. “For ten thousand francs I would not grope my way through the places that lead to this, with those slimy things creeping around one. Pah! It is bad enough when a light is there to frighten them away; but now, curses on your blundering! if I come back without a battle with the rats, it is more than I expect.” Monsieur Jacques knew by the keeper’s voice that he was outside of the cell. He could hear the lantern rattling against the stones of the wall as he staggered forward in the darkness; but he did not hear the muttered words which followed. “Confound the fool! he is safe enough from any chance of mischief. The prisoner hasn’t got the strength to speak; and as for seeing his face, let him try. One might as well look through sheet-lead as that darkness. Steady! Steady! How close the walls are together! How plainly you can hear the waters of the moat licking the stones. Heaven have mercy! Help! Help!” Christopher’s foot had slipped on the wet slabs of the floor; he caught at the wall but his hand had no power to clutch the dripping stones, and he went down with a crash, which reached the locksmith, who sat in the darkness, listening keenly. After a little Jacques heard a volley of muttered curses, and slow footsteps, picking their way through the distance. Then all was still, save the horrible lapping of waters against the walls, and the hard breathing of his fellow-prisoner, who seemed to stir faintly in the straw. For a half minute Jacques held his breath, and listened for those footsteps, or that voice to renew themselves. Then he reached cautiously forward and began to feel for something in his tool-case. A moment of stillness followed, then the sharp click of steel striking flint, and a few sparks of fire ignited on the dungeon floor. Quick as thought the man sprung to his feet, snatched a wisp of straw, and held it close to the sparks, blowing them with all the slow strength of his lungs into a tiny flame.