waiting, with the gloomiest of prospects in front, was as long and dismal a
time as any I have known.

It was just beginning to get light when a tap came on the door, and the
voice of the villainous old miller--

"Your breakfast is ready. We should start in half an hour."

"Hel-lo?" I asked, in as sleepy a fashion as I could make it.

He repeated his message, and Le Marchant, with his ear against the door,
nodded confirmation of our fears. The breakfast we were invited to
consisted of muskets and cutlasses and hard blows.

It was Le Marchant's very reasonable anger at this treacherous usage that
saved us in a way we had not looked for. But possibly there was in him some
dim idea of chances of escape in what might follow. Chance there was none
if we walked into the next room or tried the window.

Our comfortable bed consisted of sweet soft hay inside the usual covering.
He suddenly ripped this open, tore out the hay in handfuls and flung it
under the bedstead, then pulled out his flint and steel and set it ablaze.
The room was full of smoke in a moment, and we heard startled cries from
the outer room. Taking the stout oak chair by opposite legs we pulled till
they parted, and we were armed.

The door burst open and the miller went down headlong under Le Marchant's
savage blow.

"Next!" he cried, swinging his club athwart the doorway. But, though there