THE TRIBULATIONS OF TRISTRAM.
"I think there must be some mistake," said Tristram, as he turned in
surprise and saw a tall man of soldierly presence, with three
stalwart comrades immediately behind him.
"No mistake at all," said the tall man, with conviction. "My orders
are to arrest and convey you back to The Hague."
"But I am about to leave Holland, and this will cause me considerable
delay."
"Undoubtedly."
"In that case," Tristram replied, springing back a pace and whipping
out his sword, "I must decline to follow you."
"Bah! This is folly."
"On the contrary, it is the conclusion of a valid syllogism which I
will explain to you if you have time."
"Seize him!" was the only answer. The four men drew their swords and
rushed forward together. Perceiving that he must be skewered against
the shop door if he awaited their onset, Tristram contented himself
with disarming his foremost assailant; then, springing wildly back on
his left heel, he spun round and began to run down the street for
dear life.
His movement had been so sudden that he gained a dozen yards before
his enemies recovered from their surprise and set off in pursuit.
Sword in hand, Tristram flew along the causeway, under the high
garden-walls, for the open country and the windmills ahead. He heard
the feet pounding after him, but luckily did not look behind.
Therefore he was ignorant that his leading pursuer carried a brace of
pistols in his belt and was pulling one out as he ran.
It was so, however; and in half a minute the pistol cracked out
behind him--as it seemed, at the very back of his ear.
He sped on nevertheless, not knowing if he were wounded or not, but
very wisely deciding that this was the surest way to find out.
As it happened, this pistol-shot proved of the greatest service to
him. For an inquisitive burgher, hearing the outcries along the
road, had popped his head out of his garden door at the very moment
that Tristram whizzed by, followed by the detonation. The burgher,
too, was uncertain about the bullet, but determined on the instant to
take the gloomier view. He therefore fell across the pavement on his
stomach and bellowed.
The distraction was so sudden that two of the pursuers tripped over
his prostrate form and fell headlong. Their swords clanged on the
cobbles. With the clang there mingled the sound of a muffled
explosion.
"Curse the idiot! You've killed him, Dick."
The pair picked themselves up as their comrades leapt past them.
Dick snatched up his second pistol, and resumed the pursuit without
troubling his head about the burgher.
The burgher picked himself up and extracted the ball--from the folds
of his voluminous breeches. Then he went indoors for ointment and
plaster, the flame of the powder having scorched him severely.
Later he had the bent guelder (which had diverted the bullet)
fastened to a little gold chain, and his wife wore it always on the
front of her bodice. Finally it became an heirloom in a thriving
Dutch family.
But he was a very slow man, and all this took a considerable time.
Meanwhile we have left Tristram running, about thirty yards ahead of
his foremost enemy.
He gained the end of the quiet suburb, still maintaining his
distance, and scanned the landscape in front. Evening was descending
fast. To his right he saw the waters of a broad canal glimmering
under the grey sky. Straight before him the high-road ran, without
so much as a tree to shelter him, for miles. On the horizon a score
of windmills waved their arms like beckoning ghosts. He was a good
swimmer. It flashed upon him that his one hope was to make for the
canal and strike for the farther bank. There was a reasonable chance
of shaking off one or more of his pursuers by this device.
He leapt the narrow ditch that ran parallel with the road, and began
to bear across the green meadows in a line which verged towards the
canal-bank, at an angle sufficiently acute to prevent his foes from
intercepting him by a short cut. By their shouts he judged that his
guess was fairly correct, and the prospect of having to swim the
canal daunted them somewhat. He looked over his shoulder. The pace
had told upon three of them, but one man had actually gained on him,
and could not be more than twenty strides behind.
"I shall have to settle with this fellow," he thought. "He is going
to catch me up before I reach the bank."
His first wind was failing him, and his heart began to thump against
his ribs. He spied a beaten path at this point that trended across
the meadow at a blunter angle than the one he was following.
Almost unconsciously he began to reason as follows:
"A beaten path is usually the shortest cut: also, to follow it is
usually to escape the risk of meeting unforeseen obstacles. But if I
change the angle at which I am running for one more obtuse, I give my
pursuer the advantage of ten yards or so. Yes; but I shorten the
distance to be covered, and, moreover, this is a long-distance man,
and he is wearing me down."
Though this process of reasoning appeared to him deliberate enough,
in point of fact he had worked it out and put the conclusion into
practice in a couple of bounds. As he darted aside and along the
footpath he could hear the momentary break in his antagonist's
stride.
Tristram had hardly turned into this footpath, however, before he saw
the occasion of it. Just before him lay a plank, and beneath the
plank a sunken dyke, dividing the meadow so unexpectedly that at
fifty yards' distance the green lips seemed to meet in one continuous
stretch of turf. And yet the dyke was full forty feet wide.
He leapt on to the swaying bridge and across to the farther edge,
almost without a glance at the sluggish black water under his feet.
It is probable that his sudden weight jolted the plank out of its
position. For hardly was he safe on the turf again when he heard a
sharp cry. Throwing a look behind, he saw his pursuer totter, clutch
at the slipping timber, and, still clutching at it, turn a somersault
and disappear.
Tristram ran on. Then a series of shouts rang in his ear, and he
looked behind again. The other three men had come up, and were
running aimlessly to and fro upon the farther bank. From the pit at
their feet rose a gurgling and heartrending appeal for help. It was
plain the poor fellow was drowning, and equally plain that his
comrades could not swim. Tristram took a couple of strides, and
halted. Then he faced about and walked back towards the dyke, his
heart still knocking against his ribs.
"Help! help!" resounded from the depths of the dyke.
"Gentlemen," said Tristram, "are you aware that your comrade is
perishing?"
They stared at him helplessly. Without more to-do he slipped off his
shoes, and sliding down the bank, flung himself forward into the icy
water. In two strokes he was able to grasp the drowning man by the
collar and began to tug him towards the bank.
But it appeared that the fellow had other views on the right method
of being saved: for, casting his arms about Tristram's neck and
wreathing them tightly, he not only resisted all efforts to drag him
ashore, but began to throttle his rescuer. In the struggle both went
under.
As the water closed over them the drowning man relaxed his hold a
little, and Tristram, breaking free, rose to the surface coughing and
spouting like a whale. Another moment, and a hand appeared above the
water, its fingers hooked like a bird's talons. This grisly appeal
determined Tristram to make another attempt. He kicked out, seized
the uplifted arm just around the wrist, and with half a dozen fierce
strokes managed to gain the bank at the feet of his enemies.
While he dug a hand into the soft mud and paused for a moment to
shift his hold and draw breath, one of the three unclasped a leathern
belt and dangled it over the brink. Tristram reached out, caught it
by the buckle, and was helped up with his burden. Two pairs of
strong arms grasped and pulled him forward.
"Turn him--on his face and let the water--run out; then on his back--
give him air!" he gasped, and with that fainted clean away on the
green turf.
When his senses came back, the three men were bending over him.
"Where is the other one?" he asked feebly.
"Oh, Dick's all right." And indeed Dick was sitting up a few paces
off, and coughing violently.
"But look here, you've played us a pretty trick!" the voice went on.
Tristram did not know that his wig had been lost in the struggle, or
that the burnt cork which Captain Salt had applied was now running
across his face in a vague smear. He had forgotten all about his
disguise.
"I was thinking," he answered simply, "that you might give me the
start I held before this happened. Fifteen yards, gentlemen, is as
near as I can guess it. Don't you think that would be fair!"
"But why should we chase you at all?"
"Upon my word, sirs, _I_ don't know. I took it for granted that you
must have some motive."
"So we had; but it appears that you are not Captain Salt."
"That is certain. A man cannot well be his own father."
"But you are disguised to resemble him."
"Ah! I remember. It was a fancy of his to dress me thus, an hour
back. But stop a minute--I begin to perceive. You were after my
father?"
"Yes, to arrest him. The King suspects him of carrying treasonable
papers."
As the full treachery of his father's conduct began to dawn upon
Tristram, they heard the clatter of hoofs on the road at their back,
and turned. A thin moon hung in the twilight sky. It was just that
hour before dark when the landscape looks flat to the eye, and forms
at a little distance grow confused in outline. Yet they could see
the horseman plainly enough to recognise him. It was Captain Salt
who flew past, well out of pistol-shot, and headed southwards at a
stretch-gallop, his hands down and his shoulders bent as he rode.
"Devil seize him if he hasn't got my mare!" roared the man Dick,
forgetting his cough and leaping to his feet. "I can tell the sorrel
a mile away!"
Then followed a dismayed silence as they watched the escaping rider.
"She's the best nag of the four, too," one of the men muttered
gloomily.
"Boys," said the fellow who had first arrested Tristram, "he's done
us for a certainty. In an hour or two he'll reach the French
outposts. We must go back and patch up the best story we can find.
Young man," he added, turning sharply, "I'd like to be certain you're
as big a fool as you make out. Where d'ye come from, and where are
ye bound for?"
Tristram told his story ingenuously enough.
"We'll have to search you."
They searched him and found a sealed packet.
"What is this?"
"Pepper-cress seed."
"Pepper-cress be damned!" was the only comment.
However, when the packet was opened it was found that he spoke the
truth.
"Well, we can't take you along with us, or we shall have to tell his
Majesty the truth; which is something more improbable than I care to
risk. Moreover, you've saved a comrade--"
"And many thanks for it, my lad," Dick added, shaking Tristram by the
hand.
"Therefore you're free to go. The question is, where you do want to
go?"
"Harwich."
"Harwich is a long way; and you've lost your passport. However,
there's a chance you may find a boat on the coast to smuggle you
over. Cross the canal yonder, and bear away to the west. There's a
road'll take you to Nieupoort. But first you'll have to pass this
cursed dyke, unless you care to follow us back to the town and walk
round."
"Thank you, no; I'll push on. I've crossed the dyke twice already
this evening, and a second wetting won't matter much. Besides, I see
my sword and shoes lying on the other bank."
He said farewell, slid down into the dyke again, and swam across.
Then, regaining his property, he turned, called back another "Good
night!" and bore resolutely across the meadow, the water squishing in
his shoes at every step. The one purpose in his head was to reach
the coast. He was young and sick of heart, but his gentle mind
abhorred from considering his father's baseness. He thought only of
home and Sophia.
In a minute or two he began to run; for the night air searched his
sodden clothes and chilled him. The sky was starless, too, but he
saw the dull gleam of the canal, and made for it. Then he followed
the towpath southward for half a mile, and came to a bridge, and
crossing it found himself upon a firm high-road leading (as it
seemed) straight towards the west, for it certainly diverged from the
canal at something like a right angle. Unfortunately, Tristram could
not see in the gloom that the canal here took a sharp bend inland,
and in consequence he tramped on with his face set almost due south,
nothing doubting of his direction, but hoping, as each hour passed,
that the next would bring him within sound of the surf. The road ran
straight for mile after mile. Now and again he passed a small
cabaret brightly lit and merry with a noise of talk and laughter
that warmed his heart for a moment. In the stretches of darkness
between he met one or two wayfarers, who wished him "Good night" in
gruff voices and passed on. Not understanding what they said, he
made no reply, but pushed forward briskly, breaking into a run
whenever the cold began to creep upon him. By and by the road was
completely deserted. The lights no longer shone from the lower
floors of the wayside cottages, but, after lingering for a while in
the bedroom windows, vanished altogether. The whole country slept.
Then followed hour after hour of dogged walking. A thick haze
encircled the moon, and under it a denser exhalation began to creep
up from the sodden land. In the silence the fog gathered till it
seemed to bar the way like a regiment of white ghosts, wavering and
closing its ranks as the wind stirred over the levels. This wind
breathed on his right cheek steadily. He never guessed that it came
from the sea, nor remembered that when he ran towards the canal it
had been blowing full in his face.
It was in the chilliest hour--the one before dawn--that a voice
suddenly called out from the fog ahead:
"_Qui va la?_"
Tristram halted, then took another step forward in some uncertainty.
The voice repeated its challenge in an angrier tone; and this time
our hero stood stock-still. The misfortune was that he knew not a
word of the French language.
Once more the voice called. Then a trigger clicked, a yellow flare
leapt out on the fog with a roar, and something sang by Tristram's
ear. He jumped off the road and pelted across the meadow to his
right. A second shot was sent after him, but this time very wide of
its mark. Then, as it seemed, at his very feet a dozen black forms
rose out of the earth. He tripped over one and went floundering on
to his nose. As his hands touched the ground, a score of bright
sparks flew up and were extinguished. With a cry of pain he rolled
upon his back, and was at once pinned to the ground by a dozen firm
hands.
He had blundered full-tilt across the embers of a French camp-fire.
A lantern was lit and thrust close to his face. He blinked painfully
for a moment or two, and then perceived that he lay within a circle
of fierce, grey-coated soldiers, who were putting him a score of
questions in a tongue which he felt sure it would take him a year to
master.
He endeavoured to say so.
"Ar-r-rh!" exclaimed one of the soldiers, spitting contemptuously,
"_C'est un Anglais_."
"_Espion!_"
"_J'en reponds_." He gave an order, and in a trice Tristram's wrists
were strapped together with a handkerchief. Then he was heaved up on
his feet, and a couple of men took him, each by an arm. They were
about to march him off, when a voice hailed them, and up rode a
general officer, with two dragoons cantering behind him for escort.
"_Qu'y a-t-il, mes enfants?_" He had plainly been disturbed by the
noise of the firing.
The soldiers murmured, "M. de Soisson!" and presented arms.
Then they explained matters, and thrust Tristram forward, holding the
lantern uncomfortably near his face.
M. de Soisson began an interrogatory in good French. As the prisoner
shook his head, he harked back and repeated his questions in
extremely bad English. Tristram answered them truthfully, which had
the effect of raising disbelief in M. de Soisson's breast. After ten
minutes this disbelief grew to such an extent that the peppery
officer turned to the sergeant and ordered Tristram to be taken off
to the barn where the deserters were kept under guard.
This barn lay a mile to the rear, across half a dozen meadows, over
which Tristram was hurried at a quick trot, with the point of a
bayonet at his back to discountenance delay. On arriving at the
building he was held while the sergeant unlocked the door. Then he
was kicked into inner darkness. He stumbled over the legs of a man
who cursed him volubly, and dropped on to a heap of straw.
Within ten minutes he was asleep, utterly worn out both in body and
mind.
Three hours passed, and then the door of the barn was flung open and
another sergeant appeared with a squad of soldiers at his back.
He strode through the barn, kicking the sleepers, among whom was our
hero. Tristram sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was one of at least
three dozen poor wretches, hollow-eyed, lean of cheek, and shivering
with famine, whom the sergeant proceeded to drive into a small crowd
near the entrance, shouting an order which was repeated outside.
Six men appeared, each carrying a load of chains. With these he
fastened his prisoners together, two-and-two, by the wrist and ankle,
and marched them out into the open air.
Outside the rain was descending sullenly, and in this downpour the
captives waited for a mortal hour. Then three men came along,
bearing trays heaped up with thick hunks of brown bread. A hunk was
doled out to each of the gang, and Tristram ate his portion greedily,
slaking his thirst afterwards by sucking at the sleeve of his cloak.
He had hardly done when the sergeant gave the word to march.
That day they tramped steadily till sunset, when they reached the
town of Courtrai, and were halted on the outskirts. Here they
remained for half an hour in the road while the sergeant sought for
quarters. Tristram's comrade--that is to say, the man who was
attached to him by the wrist and ankle--was sulky and extremely
dejected. As for Tristram, his very soul shuddered as he looked back
upon the journey. He was wet to the skin and aching; his teeth
chattered with an ague; his legs were so weary that he could scarcely
drag them along. But worse than the shiverings, the weariness, and
the weight of his fetters, were the revolting sights he had witnessed
along the road--men dropping with hunger and faintness, kicked to
their feet again, prodded with bayonets till the blood ran, knouted
with a thick whip if they broke step, jeered at when they shrieked
(as some did) for mercy. There was worse to come, and he alone of
all the gang was ignorant of it. Very merciful was the confusion of
tongues which hid that knowledge from him for a few hours.
At length they were marched back half a mile and turned into a barn,
narrower than their shelter of the previous night. Nor was there any
straw in it. They slept on the hard bricks, pillowing their heads on
each other's legs, or lay awake and listened to their fellows' moans.
Two sentries with loaded muskets kept guard by the door, and looked
in whenever a chain clanked or some unfortunate began to rave in his
sleep. Before morning a third of the gang was sickening for
rheumatic fever or typhus. At six o'clock the sergeant entered and
examined them. Then he retired, and came back in another hour with a
covered wagon, into which the sick were hoisted and packed like
herrings. All who had power to move their legs were afterwards
turned out and treated to a pound and a half of the "King's bread"
and a drink of water before starting. Tristram was one of these.
The fever had relieved him of his companion, and this day he marched
with more comfort, albeit his wrists were bound together and a rope
of ten yards or more tied him by the waist to a couple of fettered
deserters in front.
The weather had lifted somewhat; but the roads were still heavy, and
their pace was regulated by the covered wagon, which seemed to loiter
malevolently, as if to get every possible jolt out of the rutted
highway. With every jolt came a scream from one or more of the sick
men inside. Some, however, were past screaming, and babbled
continuously in high delirium; and the ceaseless, monotonous talk of
these tortured Tristram's ears from Courtrai to Lille.
They reached Lille long after dark, and were driven through the
streets, between the bright windows of happier men, to the gloomy
tower of Saint Pierre, that at this time was set apart for
galley-slaves. On entering the prison they were marshalled in a long
corridor, where a couple of jailers searched them all over.
Nothing was found on Tristram but his packet of pepper-cress seed,
which the searchers obligingly returned. As soon as this ceremony
was over, all who were not broken with fever were led up two flights
of stone stairs. An iron door was opened, and the sound of heavy
snoring struck their ears. Inside they perceived by the light of the
jailer's lantern a dozen figures stretched on straw pallets, and
between the sleepers as many more empty couches, for which the
newcomers were left to scramble. Tristram secured one as the door
clanged and left them in pitch-black night, but gave it up to a
pitiful wretch who crept near and kissing his hand implored leave to
share it. Curling himself up upon the bare floor, he was quickly
asleep and dreaming of Sophia.
A hand shook his shoulder and aroused him. Looking up, he saw a
couple of villainous faces, which he did not recognise as belonging
to the gang he had been walking with for two days. It was morning,
as he could perceive by the light that was strained through a
cobwebbed grating over his head.
The two men demanded if he wished to be tossed in a blanket.
Tristram, not understanding, shook his head.
They thereupon demanded money and began to threaten. Tristram hit
one violently in the eye, and catching the other by the throat
pounded his head against the wall of the dungeon. He was surprised
at the strength left in him, and also at a fury which he had never
felt before in his life. A few of the prisoners roused themselves
listlessly and laughed. He kicked the two fellows out of the way and
lay down again.
Later in the morning he witnessed the game they had meant to play
with him. One of his comrades, a wretched boy, blue with starvation,
denied them money, for the simple reason that he had none in his
pocket. Four of the old hands thereupon produced a filthy
counterpane of coarse cloth and stretched their victim upon it.
Then each took a corner, and raising it as high as they could reach,
they let the counterpane fall on the stone flooring with a horrible
thud. Tristram leapt forward indignantly and caught one of these
ruffians a blow on the back of the neck that sent him down like an
ox. Upon this the other three dropped their sport and fell upon him,
like angry women, tooth and nail. Nobody interfered. He was driven
back against the wall, where he leant, just contriving to keep his
adversaries at arm's length with his fists, and feeling, now that the
first spurt of wrath had left him, that within three minutes he must
faint from hunger and weakness.
There is no knowing how the affair would have ended had not the door
been thrown open at this moment. A couple of priests advanced
between the files of prisoners, who sat up at once and started to
howl out a dismal litany at the top of their lungs. Tristram's
assailants left him hurriedly, and, shrinking back to their pallets,
began to lift their voices with the rest. The noise was like that of
a cat's battle, and the priests marched to and fro while it
continued, smiling to left and right and exhorting the poor devils to
an increase of fervour. One of them spied Tristram and whispered to
his brother; and the pair seemed about to address him, when three
jailers entered with large trays, bearing the prisoners' breakfasts.
The litany ceased and the singers glanced at these trays with greedy
eyes.
It proved to be the best meal that Tristram had swallowed since his
misfortunes began, there being a pint of soup to each man in addition
to the usual brown bread. After devouring it, Tristram sat with his
back to the wall, wondering if the three ruffians would renew their
attack; but they appeared to have forgotten their resentment, and
even his presence. Some of his fellow-miserables fell to chatting;
others to plaiting ropes out of the straw on which they lay; while
some occupied themselves in keeping a look out for the rats that
swarmed everywhere and stole out in the dim light to gnaw the pieces
of bread which the prisoners saved and hid away for future use.
About four in the afternoon the great door was flung open again and
the chief jailer appeared, with four turnkeys and the soldiers of the
prison guard, all armed to the teeth with pistols, swords and
bayonets. Their object, it turned out, was to examine the four walls
and the floor very minutely, to see if the prisoners were making any
holes or planning any attempt to escape. They spent a full half an
hour in routing out the prisoners and searching high and low with
their lanterns, using great roughness and the most abominable talk.
Tristram watched their movements for some time, but at length curled
himself up in his corner, which had already been explored. He was
closing his eyes, and putting a finger in each ear to shut out the
riot, when a smart blow descended across his thighs.
One of the soldiers was belabouring him with the flat of a sword, as
a hint to stand up.
Tristram did so, and now observed that a dozen of the men with whom
he had marched during the two previous days were collected in a
little group by the door. He was taken by the arms and hustled
forward to join them. As he came close and could see their faces in
the dingy twilight, he saw also that, though big, strapping fellows,
the most of them were weeping, and shivering like conies in a trap.
He was still wondering at the cause of their agitation when the
jailer reopened the door and they were marched out, down the stone
stairs, then sharply to the right and along a narrow corridor.
A lamp flickered at the farther end, over a small door studded with
iron nails; and before this door another small company of soldiers
was drawn up in two rows of six, with their backs to either wall of
the corridor. Between them the prisoners were forced to defile,
still cringing and weeping, as the small door opened and they passed
into the chamber beyond.
And now for the first time Tristram felt thoroughly alarmed.
The chamber was narrow and lofty, and without any window that he
could perceive. But just now it was full of a red light that poured
out through the eyes of a charcoal brazier in the far corner.
Two grim figures in leathern aprons stood over this brazier, with the
glare on their brutal faces--the one puffing with a pair of bellows
till the room was filled with suffocating vapours, the other diving a
handful of irons into the glowing centre, wherein five or six already
glowed at a red heat.
Beside them, and watching these operations with a business-like air,
stood a gentleman in a handsome suit and plumed hat.
"_Premiree fournee!_" announced the sergeant in a loud tone,
marshalling the prisoners along the wall. Four or five of them had
by this time broken out into loud sobs and cries for mercy.
The gentleman scarcely turned his head, but continued to watch the
heating of the irons. At length, satisfied that all was ready, he
turned and walked in front of the line, examining each prisoner
attentively with an absolutely impassive face.
Coming to Tristram--who by this time was committing his fate to
Heaven--he paused for a moment, and beckoning the sergeant put a
question or two. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders and spread out
both palms apologetically. Then the gentleman addressed a sentence
to Tristram, and receiving no answer but a shake of the head, cast
about for a moment and began again in English.
"You are Englishman?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not French deserter?"
"Certainly not."
"Then what the devil you do here?"
This was a question that seemed to require a deal of answering.
While Tristram was perpending how best to begin, his interrogator
spoke again:
"Speak out. I am M. de Lambertie, Grand Provost of Flanders.
You had better speak me the truth."
Our hero began a recital of his woes, condensing as well as he could.
After a minute, M. de Lambertie interrupted him.
"I beg your pardon. I speak the English ver' well; but _mordieu_ if
I can comprehend a word as you speak it! _Tenez donc_--You are a spy?"
"Not a bit."
"Well, well," said the Grand Provost, altogether gravelled, "you
_must_ be something--come!"
He called the sergeant again; who plainly could give no information,
and was quite as plainly surprised that any fuss should be made over
an affair so trivial. Indeed, the sergeant ventured to suggest that
Tristram should be branded on the off-chance of its turning out for
his good.
"But no," said M. de Lambertie, "I am a man of justice and of logic.
It is incredible that a youth who cannot speak a word but English
should be a deserter from our Majesty's army. Moreover, I am a
physiognomist, and his face is honest. Therefore," concluded the man
of logic, "he shall go to the galleys."
This was interpreted to Tristram, who found the argument fallacious,
but fell on his knees and kissed M. de Lambertie's hand.
"Take him away," said the Grand Provost. He was dragged to his feet
and led to the door, followed by the desperate eyes of his comrades.
He heard their sobs and outcries renewed above the steady pant of the
bellows. Then the door clanged. The soldiers took him upstairs and
cast him back into the great dungeon.
The next morning he started in a chain of thirty-five slaves for the
galleys at Dunkirk.