to-morrow night?  The very act of thus climbing to his window, which he could not resist, was a serious offense; and if by any chance he should be found in possession of the file—­then all was over.  He was fully determined only to part with it with life itself.  For once, the picture of Trevethick and his son-in-law (for he had heard before he left Cross Key of Harry’s marriage with his rival), unsuspecting, complacent, and exposed to the full force of his revenge, failed to occupy his gloating thoughts; they were fixed as ever there, but on the means and not upon the end—­his whole being was engrossed in the coming enterprise.  He feared the warder should read that forbidden word “Escape” in his eager eyes, or on his restless lips.  A change of cell or a sudden examination of his bed-furniture—­no uncommon occurrence—­would prove his ruin.  He took the file out of his mattress, and placed it in his breast:  let that man beware who found it there!

At last the long night, which should have found him free, passed by, and the next weary day.  The appointed time had come.

It was past midnight, and not a sound was heard in the vast prison; there was no moon, but a few stars shone on him as he worked at the iron bars; the noise of his file was muffled—­he had rubbed it well with soap—­but every now and then he paused and listened.  He half fancied he could hear the distant tramp of the patrols, who, musket in hand, watched the walls of Lingmoor from the roofs of its four stone towers; but it was only fancy, and, at all events, no one else but they was stirring.  Years ago he had gauged those bars, and calculated that not less than three must be sawn through to give his body room to pass; but that was when he was young and plump and vigorous.  He was vigorous now—­the fever within him seemed to give him the strength of ten—­but he was an old man to look at, and the flesh had left his bones.  So much the better; there were only two bars to file instead of three.  Finding the space sufficient, he twisted his blanket into a rope, fastened it to the broken bars, and so, by its aid, slipped noiselessly into the yard.

That portion of the prison was low, and consisted but of two stories; another cell window was immediately beneath his own, but, as he knew, it was not used for prisoners.  Still, he trembled as he slipped past it.  Suppose a hand had been pushed through to clasp his limbs, or a voice had given the alarm, and warned the watchful guards!  But his feet touched ground in safety.  His eyes, accustomed for long years to cleave the darkness, guided him straight to the shed and to the coil of rope.  He seized it as the shipwrecked mariner clutches that which is thrown him from the shore to drag him through the roaring breakers, and then, winding it about his waist, he retraced his steps.  To return to his cell window was comparatively easy; but to stand upon its narrow ledge, and, clutching the parapet with his fingers, to draw himself up thereby, was a task