There may be very demons in human form upon earth; yet man was made in the Image of God; and all the kindliness that is seen in the best of men is a glimmer of that Image.
[CHAPTER XXVII]
A BARRED WINDOW
How the next fortnight passed, Roy never afterwards knew. He was sick and dazed with the shock he had had, grieving for little Will, and all but hopeless. He had ceased to care for food; and though he dozed a great deal, it was not restful sleep. Life seemed terribly hard to get through. He often envied Will.
The Colonel who had spoken to him that day spoke again often, when they met in the yard; and Roy was grateful. But he could not rouse himself. He had lost all interest in what went on around him. He hated the yard, and always kept as far as possible from where the exposure of the murdered boys had taken place.
His one longing was to know how the other poor lads in the hospital were, but accounts were unreliable.
About a fortnight later, one cold afternoon, he was leaning against the wall at the further end, hardly thinking, only drearily enduring. He noticed a man coming towards him carrying a large basket or hotte, piled up with loose wood; not a gendarme, but evidently one employed about the fortress on manual work. He was broad-shouldered and long-limbed, and he walked in a slouching manner. At the moment that he came close to Roy, the basket tilted over, raining the whole mass of wood upon the ground.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Roy.
The man muttered something, and went slowly down upon his knees to pick up the scattered wood. No one else was near. A body of prisoners had been that morning removed elsewhere, and the yard was not so full as usual. Roy good-naturedly bent to help the man, and their faces came together.
"Hist!" was whispered cautiously. Roy started. "Hist!" again. "Does monsieur know me? But not a word!"