In this vault, dimly-lighted, heavy and dank in atmosphere, with water here and there dripping from the roof or running down the walls, was gathered a motley crowd of some three hundred prisoners. English soldiers, English sailors, English middies, détenus from Verdun and elsewhere, were mingled with swindlers, pickpockets, and highwaymen; and even English gentlemen and officers of higher rank sometimes found themselves consigned here, though, unless they gave particular offence, they were more commonly installed in smaller rooms above ground. With the measured descent down and down those stone steps, Roy’s heart sank lower and lower. Was this what he had come to? And for how long? An outburst of uproarious cheering hailed the new arrivals, as the heavy doors were unlocked and they were ushered in. Three shouts were given; then each was hoisted on the shoulders of three or four men, and was paraded round the dungeon. After this rough welcome, came a severe blanket-tossing, which both Roy and the middies were wise enough to take in good part. Any who wished to fight were then cordially invited to do so; and lastly those who possessed money were called upon to treat others to drink, provided by the gendarmes. Such initiatory ceremonies being ended, comparative quiet descended on the scene. It was past eight o’clock when they first arrived, and night was near. Roy Baron’s first night in a French dungeon! Each prisoner was provided with a worn blanket, cast off by a French soldier; and wrapped in these the crowd of over three hundred men and boys laid themselves down to rest. Some slumbered silently; some tossed to and fro; some snored loudly; some talked or shouted in their sleep. Roy lay amid the throng, a ragged blanket round him also. At first he had rejected it with scorn; but these subterranean regions were cold and damp, and, shivering, he had at length drawn it round him, as he lay with arms crossed, and face pressed into them. The handcuffs had been removed. He was not thinking of the bruises which he had received, when the rough blanket-tossers had allowed him to drop upon the stone floor. Bruises to a hardy boy are a small matter. But the desolation of the lad that awful night went beyond bounds, and desperate blank despair took possession of him. For hours he hardly stirred. He could not sleep. He could only lie in a trance of misery. He saw no gleam of hope, no chance of escape from this terrible place. Yet, to stay on here, week after week, month after month, perhaps even as some had done year after year! Could he bear it? Through all previous troubles Roy had borne up bravely; but at last his spirit gave way beneath the strain. Molly’s face came up before his mind—not Molly the sedate and ladylike maiden of sixteen, but Molly the little eager girl whom he remembered. O to see her again! Roy pressed his face closer into the folded arms, writhing silently.