growing agitation was almost entirely among the lower ranks of

soldiers and sailors, although the officers, in their separate quarters, knew what was going on, and more or less sympathized with it.

There was, however, a particular reason for this state of things.  It did not originate it, but had a great deal to do with aggravating it.  The prisoners, especially the rank and file, were not in the hands of a sympathetic controller.  It was with them, as it sometimes is now, with large institutions where numbers are collected.  The governor may be an excellent disciplinarian, and do his duty admirably; but the inmates never feel, consciously or unconsciously, that there is one over them who takes an interest in their welfare.  They are in the cold, and, like plants, no one is likely to grow better in the cold.  Such was the character of the administration of Captain Mortimer, the Admiralty agent.  He had charge of the comforts of the prisoners; he treated them well according to the letter of his duty; but it was with coldness and want of sympathy.  And

what he did, as is always the case, his subordinates did likewise.  And there can be little doubt that this coldness of treatment had much to do with the increase of insubordination in the prison.

Victor Malin was a ringleader from the first in this matter.  He was about forty years old; and, as a young man, had taken an active part in all the diabolical horrors of the streets of Paris during the reign of terror.  He had seen Louis XVI. guillotined, and a few months later the poor Queen, and had screamed with joy over it.  He had seen heads cut off by the score, and enjoyed his dinner all the more for the sight.  He was therefore a brute, a great big brute, with plenty of animal courage; and there was no wickedness under the sun that he had not practised in his time.  He was also one of the very few among the prisoners who insulted the venerable chaplain when he could, though all the notice the good man took of it was to mutter to himself, “N’importe.”

The days were getting short and the nights long when, one evening, a council of war was being held in one of the barrack rooms.  Not all the inmates were engaged in it, but only a select few, round one of the tables at the end of the huge caserne.  By far the greater part (and there must have been over two hundred crowded together in it,) were amusing themselves in various ways, so far as a very limited choice would allow.  But a Frenchman will beat an Englishman hollow in finding amusement out of little or nothing; aye, and enjoying it too with lively satisfaction.  Some were busy at work over the manufacture of those singularly ingenious models, toys, boxes, and other articles, for sale, which are so well known and so justly admired all round the neighbourhood, and found in almost every house to this day.  These were the quiet and sensible men, who made the best of their misfortunes.  Others were playing dominoes, draughts, backgammon, and cribbage, the boards and

appliances all their own work.  Some sang songs to a small admiring audience.  All talked and at the same time, and nowhere more than where card-playing was going on, which was all over the room, and the more vociferously because, if they could, they played for money or money’s worth, from a penny to an old shirt, or blanket, or even the next day’s rations.

The noise was deafening.  Yet amidst it all the council of war went on deliberating as calmly as if they were chatting together in some peaceful meadow, with only the chirping of birds to disturb them.  They literally put their heads together, as, figuratively, conspirators always do, and so made one another hear.

They were a sorry lot, both in face and clothing.  Not one had a decent set of garments on him.  The only difference between the soldiers and the sailors who composed the council was—the soldiers’ clothes were in rags, while the sailors mended theirs.  In face they

were all alike unsavoury, but Victor Malin “took the cake.”

“Comrades,” he was saying, leaning forward and speaking with a harsh powerful voice into the space between the bowed heads of the others, where, by the way, there must have been some blue fire playing: “Comrades, we must not follow the advice of our brother Poivre there.  Delay with us is dangerous.  Every day makes it more likely that these soldiers,”—there was an adjective prefixed, a favourite one, applied by him to almost everything—“will find out what we are planning.  The dark nights, now there is no moon, will favour us when once we get away.  Now or never is the word.  The men in all the other yards are waiting for the red flag to be hoisted over our prison.  To-morrow morning, at daybreak, let us begin.”

Marc Poivre, the man he had alluded to, was a tall, lank fellow, with muscles of iron, and sunken fiery eyes, that betokened a fierce

temper which would not brook much contradiction.

“I say, wait!” was his sententious reply.

“What for?” said Malin.

“Till the days get shorter still.  Till we know more for certain that the others are ready.  Till the soldiers have lost the suspicions they certainly have, that something is up.  Only to-day I heard one of the red-coats say to his fellow, ‘When are they going to kick up a row?’  You know, yourself, Malin, they have doubled the guard all round.”

“Are you afraid?” sneered Malin.

The sunken eyes burned.  But it was not the time for quarrelling: so Poivre restrained himself, and only said, “I will answer you another time.  Begin to-morrow if you will.  Have your own way.  I am content.”

All the others agreed to this, for Poivre was not popular among them.  He was too fond of brawling; and most councils, especially small ones, are ruled by personal prejudices of some

sort, rather than by honest, independent opinion.

Then all the councillors got on their legs, and shouted, “Silence!  Silence!”

It took some little time to get it owing to the babel that was going on.  At last they prevailed, and then Malin addressed those present in his stentorian voice:

“Brothers!  Our captivity will end to-morrow.  It will be our own fault if we are not all free men before another sun sets.  Then many hours of darkness will befriend us.  Hide by day and hurry on by night.  Make for the sea, but not all in the same direction.  With the first light of day, our companions, all over the prison, will see the red flag flying.  Then shout!  Shout every one of you.  Keep on shouting! and the walls of our jail will fall down flat.”

“Like the walls of Jericho,” cried a derisive voice.  Some said Poivre’s.  Malin knew it was, and did not forget it.  But it damped his ardour for a moment, though the prisoners

were too numerous to hear, or too interested to heed it.

“To-morrow!  Liberty!” was all the mighty voice of Malin could add; and then an outburst of cheers followed that made the red tiles of the long roof rattle.

The morning broke; and then, sure enough, the guards observed the red flag waving in the breeze.  They had not long to wait before the meaning of it was made plain.  A tremendous shout arose from the yard where the flag was hoisted, and then