Whether the man spoke truth or not, Richard believed him.  It was more than probable that he would be reported, and by the very voice that uttered the menace.  In a twelvemonth’s time there were three hundred and sixty-five opportunities, ten times told, of its being fulfilled.  If such a sentence was ever passed upon him, as it was almost sure to be, Richard was well resolved that it should not be carried out; rather should this man die, and he himself, his slayer, be hung for it.  His desire for vengeance upon those who had blasted his young life so cruelly was as strong as ever—­nay, stronger, fiftyfold; but he knew that he could never bear the lash.  Somehow or other, therefore, at all risks, he must escape from Lingmoor.

Robert Balfour was to be set free in a few days, his conduct, though not good, having earned that much of remission.  Richard was not envious of him, yet the contrast of their two positions made him perhaps more desperate and reckless.  Of late months the old man had been admitted to certain privileges accorded to such as have almost worked out their time, or who are otherwise recommended for them.  He had been employed as “a cleaner,” then as “a special”—­in which position he was permitted to work out of doors without an attendant warder, and even (in his particular case, for he was growing very old and feeble) to have leave of absence for an hour or two.  On some occasions it was his duty to bring round the prisoners’ meals; and then he saw Richard, and could even exchange a word or two with him alone.  This happened upon the afternoon of the day when the public flogging had taken place.

“Balfour,” said Richard, earnestly, “will you do me a favor?”

“Yes, lad, any thing,” replied the old man, softly.  The word “lad” seemed so inapplicable to that gray-headed, care-lined face, which he had known so young and comely, that the misuse of it touched the speaker.  “You know I will.”

“Even though you should run a risk,” said Richard, “within a day or two of your freedom?”

“Ay; for your sake, I would do that and more.”

“God bless you, if there be a God!” answered those haggard lips.  “Ask leave to go to the village to-morrow, and get me a file.”

“Hush!—­the warder.”

The conversation thus interrupted was resumed next day.

“Here is the file,” said Balfour; “hide it in your mattress.  But, lad, you will be mad to use it.  I pray you be patient.  It is only a twelvemonth now.”

Richard shook his head, with a ghastly smile.  “I must try,” said he.

“Nay, nay; you will be retaken and flogged, lad; think of that.”

“I shall never be retaken, Balfour, at least alive.”

It was easy enough to read in Richard’s face the corroboration of his words.

“Have you any plan?” asked the old man, disconsolately.

“I have.  From my window here I see an open shed, with a coil of rope in it.  I shall file my bars, and get that rope to-night; climb back again here, and over the roof.  I have calculated the distance from outside.  I feel sure I can reach the parapet with my finger-tips as I stand upon the window-ledge, then let myself down into the exercising-yard upon the west side.”