There came a second crash, a third. Then all was silent and the ghosts that perhaps haunted this dungeon, spirits of those who suffered here in solitary confinement centuries ago, might, Dave supposed, walk in peace. It was Alice who broke that silence. Her voice was as calm and restful as it would have been were she seated before the fire in her own kitchen. She was speaking to the two waifs from London’s slums. They were curled up beside her on an ancient stone bench. “Yes, children,” was her answer to a whispered question, “Louise and Charlotte, the two lady spies, lived and worked as spies for a long time. They performed many daring feats. “You know,” she went on, and they were all listening now, “Louise and Charlotte always had messages to carry across the line. In places there was a river to cross. Always there was the terrible wall of barbed wire and traps. Louise, who could not swim and dared not trust a boat, went across the river many times on a large chopping bowl.” “Funny little boat,” Peggy whispered. “They used strange devices for hiding their messages.” Alice had a good memory. “Once when Louise was arrested she threw a black ball of yarn into the brush at the side of the road but held to the end until it had landed. The message was wound inside the ball of yarn.” “They didn’t find it. That was good!” Tillie whispered. “Go on! What else?” “Once the two girl spies seemed to be going on a picnic. They were munching bread and sausages as they marched along. Once more they were searched. Nothing was found. The message was in Louise’s sausage. “Oh yes,” Alice drew a heavy sigh. “Those two girls did marvelous things for their country. They set up a secret radio and sent over messages. They trained carrier pigeons to take messages across the line. Daring Frenchmen were carried over the line in airplanes to spy out the enemy’s defenses. Louise helped them. “And after that,” the story teller sighed more deeply, “there came darker days. The enemy counter-spies wove a web of evidence about them. They were arrested. Evidence was produced. They were court-martialed. The sentence was: ‘For Louise, death. For Charlotte, death.’” “And—and were they really shot?” Peggy whispered with a shudder. “Not yet.” Alice’s voice was low. “Their prison keeper had come to respect and love them as if they were his children. “‘Poor souls’, he said, ‘So they have condemned you to die? Ask what you will. It shall be granted.’ “When the day for their execution was near,” Alice went on, “they requested that they might spend their last night on earth together. “The keeper carried this request to the governor. He returned with a radiant face. ‘He has refused it,’ he whispered to Louise. Thank God! It means that they will not shoot you in the morning. Otherwise he would not have denied you.” “Oh, good!” Peggy breathed.