as gently as I could upon the moist earth,
and, crouching against the wall, asked myself
what I should do next. To climb the cliff
would be to offer myself as a target to the first
soldier who saw me. To venture along the
ravine would be, perhaps, to encounter Gasparo
and his captors face to face. Besides, it was
getting dusk, and, under cover of the night, if I
could only conceal myself till then, I might yet
escape. But where was that concealment to be
found? Heaven be thanked for the thought!
There was the ditch.

Only two windows looked out upon the garden
from the back of the guard-house. From one
of those windows I had just now let myself down,
and the other was partly shuttered up. I did
not dare, however, openly to cross the garden.
I dropped upon my face, and crawled in the
furrows between the rows of vegetables, until I
came to the ditch. Here, the water rose nearly
to my waist, but the banks on either side were
considerably higher, and, by stooping, I found
that I could walk without bringing my head to
the level of the road. I thus followed the course
of the ditch for some two or three hundred yards
in the direction of Toulon, thinking that my
pursuers would be less likely to suspect me of
doubling back towards prison, than of pushing
forward towards the country. Half lying, half
crouching under the rank grasses that fringed
the bank above, I then watched the gathering
shadows. By-and-by I heard the evening gun,
and a moment after, something like a distant
sound of voices. Hark! was that a shout?
Unable to endure the agony of suspense, I lifted
my head, and peeped cautiously out. There
were lights moving in the windows of the guard-
house—there were dark figures in the garden—
there were hasty tramplings of feet upon the
road above! Presently a light flashed over the
water only a few yards from my hiding-place!
I slid gently down at full length, and suffered
the foul ooze to close noiselessly over me. Lying
thus, I held my breath till the very beatings of
my heart seemed to suffocate me, and the veins
in my temples were almost bursting. I could
bear it no longer—I rose to the surface—I
breathed again—I looked—I listened. All
was darkness and silence. My pursuers were
gone by!

I suffered an hour to go by, too, before I
ventured to move again. By that time it was
intensely dark, and had begun to rain heavily.
The water in the ditch became a brawling
torrent, through which I waded, unheard, past the
very windows of the guard-house.

After toiling through the water for a mile or
more, I ventured out upon the road again: and
so, with the rain and wind beating in my face,
and the scattered boulders tripping me up
continually, I made my way through the whole
length of the winding pass, and came out
upon the more open country about midnight.
With no other guide than the wind, which was
blowing from the north-east, and without even a
star to help me, I then struck off to the right,
following what seemed to be a rough by-road,
lying through a valley. By-and-by the rain
abated, and I discerned the dark outlines of a
chain of hills extending all along to the left of
the road. These, I concluded, must be the
Maures. All was well, so far. I had taken
the right direction, and was on the way to
Italy.

Excepting to sit down now and then for a few
minutes by the wayside, I never paused in my
flight the whole night through. Fatigue and
want of food prevented me, it is true, from walking
very fast; but the love of liberty was strong
within me, and, by keeping steadily on, I
succeeded in placing about eighteen miles between
myself and Toulon. At five o'clock, just as the
day began to dawn, I heard a peal of chimes,
and found that I was approaching a large town.
In order to avoid this town, I was forced to
turn back for some distance, and take to the
heights. The sun had now risen, and I dared
go no farther; so, having pulled some turnips in
a field as I went along, I took refuge in a little
lonely copse in a hollow among the hills, and
there lay all day in safety. When night again
closed in, I resumed my journey, keeping always
among the mountains, and coming now and then
on grand glimpses of moonlit bays, and tranquil
islands lying off the shore; now and then, on
pastoral hamlets nestled up among the palmy
heights; or on promontories overgrown with
the cactus and the aloe. I rested all the second
day in a ruined shed at the bottom of a deserted
sand-pit, and, in the evening, feeling that I could
no longer sustain life without some fitting
nourishment, made my way down towards a tiny
fishing village on the coast below. It was quite
dark, by the time I reached the level ground. I
walked boldly past the cottages of the fishermen,
meeting only an old woman and a little child on
the way, and knocked at the curé's door. He
opened it himself. I told my story in half a
dozen words. The good man believed and pitied
me. He gave me food and wine, an old
handkerchief to wrap about my head, an old coat to
replace my convict's jacket, and two or three
francs to help me on my way. I parted from
him with tears.

I walked all that night again, and all the
next, keeping somewhat close upon the coast,
and hiding among the cliffs during the daytime.
On the fifth morning, having left Antibes behind
me during the night's march, I came to the
banks of the Var; crossed the torrent about
half a mile below the wooden bridge; plunged
into the pine-woods on the Sardinian side of the
frontier; and lay down to rest on Italian ground
at last!

How, though comparatively safe, I still
pursued my journey by the least frequented ways
—how I bought a file at the first hamlet to which
I came, and freed myself from the iron anklet—
how, having lurked about Nice till my hair and
beard had grown, I begged my way on to Genoa
—how, at Genoa, I hung about the port, earning
a scanty livelihood by any chance work that I
could get, and so struggled, somehow, through
the inclement winter—how, towards the early