the eternal Rest.

Before he reached the other prisoners, the large thumb had found its old
place in the little book, the lips formed the old old words; but it
might almost have been said of him already, that "his spirit was with
the God who gave it."

As for Monsieur the Viscount, it was perhaps well that he was not too
sensible of his position, for Antoine got him down the flight of stone
steps that led to the cell by the simple process of dragging him by the
heels. After a similar fashion he crossed the floor, and was deposited
on a pallet; the gaoler then emptied a broken pitcher of water over his
face, and locking the door securely, hurried back to his charge.

When Monsieur the Viscount came to his senses he raised himself and
looked round his new abode. It was a small stone cell; it was
underground, with a little grated window at the top that seemed to be
level with the court; there was a pallet--painfully pressed and worn,--a
chair, a stone on which stood a plate and broken pitcher, and in one
corner a huge bundle of firewood which mocked a place where there was no
fire. Stones by lay scattered about, the walls were black, and in the
far dark corners the wet oozed out and trickled slowly down, and lizards
and other reptiles crawled up.

I suppose that the first object that attracts the hopes of a new
prisoner is the window of his cell, and to this, despite his weakness,
Monsieur the Viscount crept. It afforded him little satisfaction. It was
too high in the cell for him to reach it, too low in the prison to
command any view, and was securely grated with iron. Then he examined
the walls, but not a stone was loose. As he did so, his eye fell upon
the floor, and he noticed that two of the stones that lay about had been
raised up by some one and a third laid upon the top. It looked like
child's play, and Monsieur the Viscount kicked it down, and then he saw
that underneath it there was a pellet of paper roughly rolled together.
Evidently it was something left by the former occupant of the cell for
his successor. Perhaps he had begun some plan for getting away which he
had not had time to perfect on his own account. Perhaps--but by this
time the paper was spread out, and Monsieur the Viscount read the
writing. The paper was old and yellow. It was the fly leaf torn out of a
little book and it was written in black chalk, the words--

"_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur._"
(Remember t