As the sun declined, Gerard's heart too sank and sank; with the waning
light even the embers of hope went out. He was faint, too, with hunger;
for he was afraid to eat the food Ghysbrecht had brought him; and hunger
alone cows men. He sat upon the chest, his arms and his head drooping
before him, a picture of despondency. Suddenly something struck the wall
beyond him very sharply, and then rattled on the floor at his feet. It
was an arrow; he saw the white feather. A chill ran through him--they
meant then to assassinate him from the outside. He crouched. No more
missiles came. He crawled on all fours, and took up the arrow; there was
no head to it. He uttered a cry of hope: had a friendly hand shot it? He
took it up, and felt it all over: he found a soft substance attached
to it. Then one of his eccentricities was of grand use to him. His
tinder-box enabled him to strike a light: it showed him two things that
made his heart bound with delight, none the less thrilling for being
somewhat vague. Attached to the arrow was a skein of silk, and on the
arrow itself were words written.

How his eyes devoured them, his heart panting the while!

Well beloved, make fast the silk to thy knife and lower to us: but hold
thine end fast: then count an hundred and draw up.

Gerard seized the oak chest, and with almost superhuman energy dragged
it to the window: a moment ago he could not have moved it. Standing on
the chest and looking down, he saw figures at the tower foot. They were
so indistinct, they looked like one huge form. He waved his bonnet to
them with trembling hand: then he undid the silk rapidly but carefully,
and made one end fast to his knife and lowered it till it ceased to
draw. Then he counted a hundred. Then pulled the silk carefully up: it
came up a little heavier. At last he came to a large knot, and by that