St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in EnglandStevenson, Robert Louis
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St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
‘Be so obliging as to let me be!’ said I. ‘I am neither a coward nor a
fool. What do _you_ know of whether the rope be long enough? But I
shall know it in ten minutes!’
The good old fellow laughed in his moustache, and patted me.
It was all very well to show the disposition of my temper before a friend
alone; before my assembled comrades the thing had to go handsomely. It
was then my time to come on the stage; and I hope I took it handsomely.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said I, ‘if the rope is ready, here is the criminal!’
The tunnel was cleared, the stake driven, the rope extended. As I moved
forward to the place, many of my comrades caught me by the hand and wrung
it, an attention I could well have done without.
‘Keep an eye on Clausel!’ I whispered to Laclas; and with that, got down
on my elbows and knees took the rope in both hands, and worked myself,
feet foremost, through the tunnel. When the earth failed under my feet,
I thought my heart would have stopped; and a moment after I was demeaning
myself in mid-air like a drunken jumping-jack. I have never been a model
of piety, but at this juncture prayers and a cold sweat burst from me
simultaneously.
The line was knotted at intervals of eighteen inches; and to the inexpert
it may seem as if it should have been even easy to descend. The trouble
was, this devil of a piece of rope appeared to be inspired, not with life
alone, but with a personal malignity against myself. It turned to the
one side, paused for a moment, and then spun me like a toasting-jack to
the other; slipped like an eel from the clasp of my feet; kept me all the
time in the most outrageous fury of exertion; and dashed me at intervals
against the face of the rock. I had no eyes to see with; and I doubt if
there was anything to see but darkness. I must occasionally have caught
a gasp of breath, but it was quite unconscious. And the whole forces of
my mind were so consumed with losing hold and getting it again, that I
could scarce have told whether I was going up or coming down.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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