To be free again! O to be free!—free under the blue sky, free to breathe heaven’s breezes, free to sun himself in heaven’s smile, free to stretch his limbs, free to be a light-hearted English boy once more, instead of a careworn man before his time. Roy flung his arms out and clutched the prison wall, in that craving to be away. Mid-day came, and the crowd of prisoners were ordered in. A hand touched Roy, and a rough voice ordered him to follow. Roy faced the gendarme. “Where?” he demanded blankly, in a moment realising what this might mean. No answer was vouchsafed. These gendarmes were for the most part surly fellows, though even among them gleams of kindness towards the prisoners were not wholly unknown. Roy had no choice but to obey. Resistence would have done himself no good, and might have drawn suspicion upon his comrades. The man laid a grip upon his arm, and led him, not down but up, past the ground floor, ascending to the floor above. At the end of a long passage he paused at a door, opened it, and thrust Roy in. The door was shut, and the lock snapped. Roy found himself alone in a small prison-like cell, with stone floor, stone ceiling, stone walls, one little iron-barred window, deeply embrasured, and a single wooden bench. On the bench lay a folded blanket. Beside the bench were a jug of water and a hunch of bread, with cheese. Was he now to be condemned to solitary imprisonment—perhaps for weeks, perhaps for months, perhaps for years? And for what? What had he done to bring this upon himself? Roy’s head seemed to be bursting. But for the planned escape, so near at hand, he might have welcomed almost any change from the dungeon and its horrors. Now, however, now, with freedom in sight, to be carried off, to be placed where he was debarred from every hope of liberty, this was heart-breaking. He flung himself upon the ground, hid his face on his crossed arms, and gave himself over to despair. Would he _never_ leave this awful place? Was _this_ the way in which his prayers and his mother’s prayers were to be answered? If so, what was the use of praying? He would give it all up. He would never pray again. It was no use. Nothing was of any use. Hours passed in one long agony. All that day he was left alone. At nightfall a gendarme brought him his allowance of coarse food, and left him again. Roy drank the water, and pushed the rest aside, too sick with misery to care to eat. The boys would now be escaping. He followed every step of theirs in imagination, envying them bitterly. That they should be on their way to dear old England, and that he should be cut off! It was too terrible—too awful—too cruel. He had no sleep that night; and he could not see the pitying angels who hovered over him. He could not know what was going on in another part of the fortress, or guess how some of his comrades won their freedom. All the next morning he lay on the ground, listless, hopeless, careless of what might happen next.