Quite desperate by
that time, he snapped at the hand of his captor and sprang away
into the first dark opening. Frightened by the man's cry of pain,
and by the calls and scuffling search for him without, he slunk to
the farthest corner of a dungeon of the Middle Ages, under the
Royal Lodging.
When the hunt for him ceased, Bobby slipped out of hiding and made
his way around the sickle-shaped ledge of rock, and under the guns
of the half-moon battery, to the outer gate. Only a cat, a fox, or
a low, weasel-like dog could have done it. There were many details
that would have enabled the observant little creature to recognize
this barrier as the place where he had come in. Certainly he
attacked it with fury, and on the guards he lavished every art of
appeal that he possessed. But there he was bantered, and a feint
was made of shutting him up in the guard-house as a disorderly
person. With a heart-broken cry he escaped his tormentors, and made
his way back, under the guns, to the citadel.
His confidence in the good intentions of men shaken, Bobby took to
furtive ways. Avoiding lighted buildings and voices, he sped from
shadow to shadow and explored the walls of solid masonry. Again and
again he returned to the postern behind the armory, but the small
back gate that gave to the cliff was not opened. Once he scrambled
up to a loophole in the fortifications and looked abroad at the
scattered lights of the city set in the void of night.
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