He was across the room in an instant, bending over the man. Yes, he was sunk in a profound slumber, and, if Tom could have guessed it, Francisco's wine had something to say to the fellow's drowsiness. But whatever the cause Tom's attention was instantly switched in another direction, for it appeared that the fellow had dragged off his clothing, and there, thrown carelessly on the floor, was the uniform of a French soldier. "I think----" began our hero, cogitating deeply. "Ah! they're coming upstairs, that innkeeper and the grenadiers. I must chance it." He stooped over the clothing, dragged the red breeches over his own, pulled them tight at the waist, and threw on the long-tailed surcoat so loved by the French. Round went the belt, hitching with a click, while the hat followed in a twinkling. Then he sat down, dragged off his boots, and was in the act of pulling on one belonging to the sleeper, when he heard footsteps on the landing outside and gruff voices. "They'll look in here, and see that fellow asleep," he told himself. "No they won't, if I'm sharp. How's that?" Very swiftly he sprang towards the bed and dragged a curtain into position, for the latter hung from a horizontal iron rod, and was intended to shut off a cubicle containing the bed. He had hardly got back to his seat, and was again pulling on a boot, when there came a thump at the door and again loud voices. "I tell you that there is only a brother soldier of yours in here," he heard the innkeeper exclaim testily. "He is asleep, or was a little while ago. He has been here making merry with some friends, and fell asleep down below. We carried him to bed and pulled off his clothes." "Then if he is asleep, open and let us see him," he heard from the grenadier in villainous Spanish. "Open, man, in the name of the Emperor!" There was another bang at the door, which at once flew open. Tom, with his back to the entrance, leaned over and pulled at the boot. "Ha!" he heard from behind him. "The rascal! He is awake. Well, comrade?" "Well," answered our hero in a dull, thick voice. "Well." "That's you, eh?" "Me, right enough," Tom coughed sleepily. "What's the time?" "Time you were back in barracks," came the gruff answer. The door banged, and again voices were heard on the landing. "Not there," the grenadier told his friends. "The landlord is right. There is merely a sleepy, half-tipsy comrade. No wonder, too; these rascals of innkeepers sell the worst of wine at the highest figure. But search the other rooms. You, Jacques, stand at the head of the stairs; we will not have our bird bolting. Now, my man, lead on again." Tom listened attentively, and wondered what his next move should be.