"Yes," came the faint answer. "Who are you?" "’Tis Harry Rochester, old fellow. We’ll have you out in a trice,—and Lieutenant Buckley, too; is he with you?" "Ay. Is the ladder down?" "Yes. Come along; we’re all friends here." Soon Fanshawe’s fair head appeared above the hole. Harry caught his arm and helped him to step on to the floor. "God bless you, Harry!" he said feebly. His cheeks were drawn and pale; his eyes sunken and haggard; his hair was dank and disordered; and he tottered and would have fallen but for Harry’s sustaining arm. After him came a young officer whom Harry did not know. He, too, showed signs of suffering, but his incarceration was shorter by several days than Fanshawe’s, and he was not so much overcome by the sudden return to light and liberty. "Poor old fellow!" said Harry, linking his arm in Fanshawe’s. "Come and let me make you comfortable. I’ll tell you all about things by and by, and hear what you have to tell. We must get you right first. Aglionby shall pay for this!" The two luckless prisoners were taken to the hall and given food. "I’ve fed ’em twice a day reg’lar," said Simmons. "They ha’n’t wanted for nothing, and I was against keeping ’em shut in that there damp and foul hole." "Silence, fellow! Go and bury the men killed in the fight. Then come to me." Having made Fanshawe and Buckley as comfortable as possible, Harry selected one of his own men to act as store-keeper, and then, as a sudden idea struck him, called for the landlord. The man could not at first be found, but after some search was discovered and hauled with many gibes into Harry’s presence. "Cease whimpering and listen to me," said Harry. "You must do something to earn your food. You shall be cook. Doubtless you know the arrangements of this place; go and prepare a good meal for the men, and do your best; it will be to your interest."