Years ago he had gauged those bars, and calculated that not
less than three must be sawn through to give his body room to pass; but
that was when he was young and plump and vigorous. He was vigorous
now--the fever within him seemed to give him the strength of ten--but he
was an old man to look at, and the flesh had left his bones. So much the
better; there were only two bars to file instead of three. Finding the
space sufficient, he twisted his blanket into a rope, fastened it to the
broken bars, and so, by its aid, slipped noiselessly into the yard.
That portion of the prison was low, and consisted but of two stories;
another cell window was immediately beneath his own, but, as he knew, it
was not used for prisoners. Still, he trembled as he slipped past it.
Suppose a hand had been pushed through to clasp his limbs, or a voice
had given the alarm, and warned the watchful guards! But his feet
touched ground in safety. His eyes, accustomed for long years to cleave
the darkness, guided him straight to the shed and to the coil of rope.
He seized it as the shipwrecked mariner clutches that which is thrown
him from the shore to drag him through the roaring breakers, and then,
winding it about his waist, he retraced his steps. To return to his cell
window was comparatively easy; but to stand upon its narrow ledge, and,
clutching the parapet with his fingers, to draw himself up thereby, was
a task that few, without the hope of liberty to spur them, could have
accomplished.
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