The Battle of the Strong | Page 7

shop.
"Olivier Delagarde isn't so sure of him."
Olivier Delagarde! The lad started. That was his father's name. He
shrank as from a blow--his father was betraying Jersey to the French!
"Of course, the pilot, he's all right," the Frenchman answered the baker.
"He was to have been hung here for murder. He got away, and now he's
having his turn by fetching Rullecour's wolves to eat up your green-
bellies. By to-morrow at seven Jersey 'll belong to King Louis."
"I've done my promise," rejoined Carcaud the baker; "I've been to three
of the guard-houses on St. Clement's and Grouville. In two the men are
drunk as donkeys; in another they sleep like squids. Rullecour he can
march straight to the town and seize it--if he land safe. But will he
stand by 's word to we? You know the saying: 'Cadet Roussel has two
sons; one's a thief, t'other's a rogue.' There's two Rullecours-- Rullecour
before the catch and Rullecour after!"

"He'll be honest to us, man, or he'll be dead inside a week, that's all."
"I'm to be Connetable of St. Heliers, and you're to be harbour-master--
eh?"
"Naught else: you don't catch flies with vinegar. Give us your hand--
why, man, it's doggish cold."
"Cold hand, healthy heart. How many men will Rullecour bring?"
"Two thousand; mostly conscripts and devil's beauties from Granville
and St. Malo gaols."
"Any signals yet?"
"Two--from Chaussey at five o'clock. Rullecour 'll try to land at Gorey.
Come, let's be off. Delagarde's there now."
The boy stiffened with horror--his father was a traitor! The thought
pierced his brain like a hot iron. He must prevent this crime, and warn
the Governor. He prepared to steal away. Fortunately the back of the
man's head was towards him.
Carcaud laughed a low, malicious laugh as he replied to the
Frenchman.
"Trust the quiet Delagarde! There's nothing worse nor still waters. He'll
do his trick, and he'll have his share if the rest suck their thumbs. He
doesn't wait for roasted larks to drop into his mouth--what's that!" It
was Ranulph stealing away.
In an instant the two men were on him, and a hand was clapped to his
mouth. In another minute he was bound, thrown onto the stone floor of
the bakehouse, his head striking, and he lost consciousness.
When he came to himself, there was absolute silence round him-deathly,
oppressive silence. At first he was dazed, but at length all that had
happened came back to him.

Where was he now? His feet were free; he began to move them about.
He remembered that he had been flung on the stone floor of the
bakeroom. This place sounded hollow underneath--it certainly was not
the bakeroom. He rolled over and over. Presently he touched a wall--it
was stone. He drew himself up to a sitting posture, but his head struck a
curved stone ceiling. Then he swung round and moved his foot along
the wall--it touched iron. He felt farther with his foot-something
clicked. Now he understood; he was in the oven of the bakehouse, with
his hands bound. He began to think of means of escape. The iron door
had no inside latch. There was a small damper covering a barred hole,
through which perhaps he might be able to get a hand, if only it were
free. He turned round so that his fingers might feel the grated opening.
The edge of the little bars was sharp. He placed the strap binding his
wrists against these sharp edges, and drew his arms up and down, a
difficult and painful business. The iron cut his hands and wrists at first,
so awkward was the movement. But, steeling himself, he kept on
steadily.
At last the straps fell apart, and his hands were free. With difficulty he
thrust one through the bars. His fingers could just lift the latch. Now
the door creaked on its hinges, and in a moment he was out on the stone
flags of the bakeroom. Hurrying through an unlocked passage into the
shop, he felt his way to the street door, but it was securely fastened.
The windows? He tried them both, one on either side, but while he
could free the stout wooden shutters on the inside, a heavy iron bar
secured them without, and it was impossible to open them.
Feverish with anxiety, he sat down on the low counter, with his hands
between his knees, and tried to think what to do. In the numb
hopelessness of the moment he became very quiet. His mind was
confused, but his senses were alert; he was in a kind of dream, yet he
was acutely conscious of the smell of new-made bread. It pervaded the
air of the place; it somehow crept into his brain and his being,