ied, "Tournier always was a man, but he is more
a man than ever now, and is going to play the man with his troubles,
which is far harder work than fighting with sword and pistol."

Villemet, however, had been ordered back some time before, and returned
to prison, it must be owned, with very bad grace.

That nice little bedroom, so sweet and clean, with creepers peeping in at
him through the window, and reminding him of home; and those blue eyes,
that always looked so true, made it hard work to leave. He went off with
a heavy heart and the gloominess of a mute; and as he shook hands with
his friends, he made the most profound bow to Alice, and said, "Miss
Cosin, I am going from paradise to I'll not say what. You cannot imagine
how awful the change will be."

A shower of good wishes refreshed him for the moment, but they did not
prevent his entering the hated prison like a bear with a scalded head.

This amiable mood, not altogether to be wondered at, was not improved by
the atmosphere of the prison, which he found more than ever charged with
the depressing opinion among the prisoners that there was less likelihood
than ever of the war coming to an end. Villemet, as we have seen, was a
light-hearted fellow, even to a fault; but his light-heartedness was
simply nature's good gift to him, it was not the fruit of principle, like
the newly-found cheerfulness of his friend Tournier, and could not, or at
least did not, stand the strain of long continued uncertainty.

"I will stand this vile bondage no longer," he said to himself one day.
"Better be shot in trying to escape than stay longer in this foul den,
and lose all my best days of manhood, buried before my time. Honour!
What's honour among thieves? The English have robbed me of my liberty,
and I will rob them of my presence. So we shall be quits. If they catch
me, I will pay the penalty with my life. Is that not a fair bargain?"

It was bad logic. But when passion urges a man, good-bye to his logic!

Villemet said nothing to Tournier about it. He knew it would be of no
use. Nor did he say anything to anybody. He had no wish to incur the
responsibility of involving others in the rash attempt.

There was an inn called the "Wheat Sheaf" in the parish of Stibbington,
about five miles from the barracks. It was a favourite rendezvous of the
officers on parole, not for the sake of tippling, the chief attraction of
such places in these more enlightened days, but