“No, sir. But”—and a queer smile gleamed on the weatherbeaten face—“but I’m not one for to go for to say that even old England is never in the wrong. You’ve maybe heard o’ such matters as the work of the press-gangs, that force men to go to sea against their will; carry ’em off captive, in fact. Many a brave tar, in His Majesty’s Service at this moment, who’d give his life for his country, and never a moment’s hesitation, was kidnapped at the first and dragged away, unwilling enough, I can tell you.”[2] “More shame for them, if they didn’t want to fight for the liberties of England!” retorted little Will, with the dignity of a man three times his size. The chained and dejected conscripts followed in rear of the prisoners, as the march was resumed. Day after day it went on. A hundred leagues were not to be accomplished on foot quickly, by a large number of men and boys, of varying powers, many of them used to shipboard life, and entirely unused to long tramps. There were tender feet and weary limbs among them before long, and things grew worse each day. Food was poor, and at night when they halted they were put to sleep in the common prison of the place, no matter what manner of prison it might be. Roy would have found it hard to rest, in such accommodation as was provided, but that he was usually far too weary to keep awake. He was carefully guarding the money with which he had been abundantly supplied by his father; not allowing it to be known that he possessed more than a few loose coins, sufficient for immediate needs. Impulsive Roy would hardly have been so reticent, but for injunctions at the last from Ivor. Like Ivor, he was naturally open-handed and generous, and he could not but share freely what he had in hand with the middies, since they proved to be ill supplied with cash. At length the long march came to an end. Bitche was reached—a grim and solemn fortress, sheltering already hundreds of English prisoners, waiting to engulf these new arrivals in addition. Roy and the middies together were first taken to the “Petite Tête,” so-called, where each one underwent a severe searching, lest he should have concealed about him either weapons of defence, or instruments which might be used for purposes of escape. Roy’s bag of money and notes was detected in this search, and he knew that thenceforward the gendarmes would look upon him as lawful prey. No immediate attempt was, however, made upon him. He and the middies were led through gloomy passages to one of the great subterranean dungeons, descending some sixty steps, into a place which has been described as not unlike a huge wine-vault. Originally it had been dug out of the solid saltpetre rock, and was some thirty feet below the surface of the ground.