Of the Man from Cornwall
window of which I have spoken, and which looked forth low upon a wide ditch half-full of very muddy water. There was a bar across it, which shook to the touch, and this it appeared we might remove; at least ’twas our one chance.
“Wrench!” says I to Baverstock, and we shook together.
Whether ’twas our united strength, or that the bar was insecure, and the masonry inferior, the room being long out of occupation, I know not; but the iron gave, and there was our egress ready. I squeezed through the narrow hole and dropped plump into the water, whither my companion followed; and, scrambling out upon the farther side, we came presently by devious bye-ways upon the meadows. I was in no mood for talking, as you may believe, neither by reason of my wounds, and the wetting which made them smart, nor because of the horrid affair of Sir Ralph’s death. Indeed, I was more than impatient to be rid of the man that had brought me into this needless business. And so, when he turned to me in a formal
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