“I shall have to tell them at the canteen—­Mother Charcoal’s—­that I am going to leave.”

“That won’t do.  You must come at once if you come at all.  Which will you do?”

While she still hesitated, a voice from the subterranean regions at the end of the shop fell upon her ear.  Her heart gave a great jump at the sound—­it was Benito’s.  “Joe!  Joe!” he was crying, in feeble accents.

“It’s take it or leave it.  There are plenty of your sort about.  Well, what do you say?”

“I accept,” said Mariquita, eagerly.  “When shall I begin work?”

“Now, this minute.  Come down and help me to get a batch of bread out of the oven.”

They passed down into the cellar by a short ladder, and Mariquita found herself in a dimly-lighted cavernous den, hot and stifling, at one end of which glowed the grate below the oven.

“Joe!  Joe!” repeated Benito’s voice, and Mariquita, with difficulty, made out his figure lying on a heap of rags in a corner of the cellar.

“Well?” answered Joe, roughly, as soon as he had pointed out the bread-trays and desired her to get them in order.  “What’s wrong with you now?  You are always groaning and calling out.”

“Water!” asked Benito, piteously.  “This place is like a furnace.  I am suffering torments from raging thirst and this cruel wound.  Accursed Englishman! may I live to repay him!”

“You will have to hurry and get well, or the Russians will save you the trouble,” remarked Joe.

“That is my only consolation.  It was I who gave him to them.”

Although bending busily over her task, Mariquita felt her heart beat faster and faster.  These words, which she now overheard through such a strange chance, clearly referred to her lover.

“Will they hang him, do you think?” asked Benito.

“As sure as the sun breeds flies.  We have done our business too well to give him a chance of escape.”

“Would that I might hold the rope, that I might see his agony, his last convulsions!  That I might myself revenge the tortures he has made me bear!”

And Benito sank back upon his miserable bed, groaning with pain.

“Don’t whine like that, you miserable cur!” said Joe, brutally.  “It’s bad enough to have you here at all, without your disturbing the whole place.  Why did you come here?”

“Where else could I go?  I never expected to get so far.  I was faint from loss of blood, and in frightful pain.  I thought I should die as I crawled along.”

“Better you had than bring me into trouble, as you will if the provost-marshal finds you here.”

“It is cowardly of you to ill-treat and upbraid me.  Take care!  I am helpless now, but by-and-by, when I am well and strong, you shall suffer for your cruelty.”

“What! you threaten me?  But there, it is idle to waste words on such a wretched rogue; I have other work to do.  Now, young imp!” cried Joe, turning to Mariquita, “stir yourself, and let us get out this batch of bread.”