Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER VOL. XX.—NO. 1002.] MARCH 11, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.] [Illustration: A YOUTHFUL PIANIST.] _All rights reserved._] “OUR HERO.” A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO. BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc. CHAPTER XXIV. A BARRED WINDOW. How the next fortnight passed, Roy never afterwards could recall. He was sick and dazed with the shock he had had, grieving for Will Peirce, and all but hopeless. He had ceased to care for food, and, though he slept much, passing hours at a time in heavy doze, it was not the kind of sleep to rest him. Life at this time seemed awfully hard to live. Sometimes he envied little Will. The Colonel, who had spoken to him that day, spoke to him again often when they met in the yard; and Roy was grateful, but he could not rouse himself. He had lost all interest in what went on around him. He hated the yard, and he always kept as far as possible from the spot where that terrible exposure had taken place. His one longing was to know how the other poor boys in the hospital were; but accounts in that direction were uncertain and not to be relied upon. About a fortnight later, one cold afternoon, he was leaning against the wall at the further end, hardly thinking, only drearily enduring. He became aware of a man coming across the yard, carrying a large basket, or _hotte_, piled up with loose wood—not a gendarme, but evidently one employed in the fortress on manual work. Something about the fellow arrested Roy’s attention, though why it should be so Roy had no idea. He was of medium height, broad-shouldered and long-limbed, and he walked in a slouching manner. As he drew near the basket tilted over, raining the whole mass of wood at Roy’s feet. “Hallo!” exclaimed Roy. The man muttered something, and went slowly down upon his knees to pick up the wood. No one else was near. A body of prisoners had been that morning removed elsewhere, and the yard was not so full as usual. Roy, after a moment’s hesitation, good-naturedly bent to help; and as he did so, their faces came close together. “Hist!” was whispered cautiously. Roy started. “Hist!”—again. “Does monsieur know me? But not a word—hist!” Roy drew one quick breath. Then he picked up more pieces of wood, tossing them into the _hotte_. He cast another glance at the man, his whole being on the alert. In an instant he saw again the small French town, the crowd in front of the _hôtel de ville_, the released conscript, the old mother clinging to Denham’s hands, and Denham’s compassionate face. All was clear. “Jean Paulet,” he breathed. “Hist!”—softly. “But—you are he?” “Oui, M’sieu.” Jean piled some of the wood together, with unnecessary fuss and noise.