This gave him comfort when he thought of his wife also. She would go with him, he was certain of that as he could be of anything in the future. He remembered, with pleasure, that old people, long married, and very much attached, were almost certain to die within a few weeks or months of each other. How many instances of this came within his own memory. It was a comforting theme, and he dwelt upon it with solemn satisfaction.
The keeper, when he came to bring the old man's dinner, gazed upon his benign and tranquil features with astonishment. Never in his life had he seen a prisoner so calm on the first day of confinement. It was impossible for philosophy or hardihood to assume an expression so gentle, and full of dignity.
"Tell me," said the old man, as the keeper lingered near the door, "tell me who occupied this cell last? It is a strange thing, but with so much to distract my thoughts, a curiosity haunts me to know something of the man whose bed I have taken."
The officer hesitated. It was an ominous question, and he shrunk from a subject well calculated to depress a prisoner.
"I have made out a portion of the history," said the prisoner; "enough to know that he was a sea-faring man, and had talent."
"And how did you find this out?" inquired the officer.
"There, upon the wall, is a rough picture, but one can read a great deal in it!"
The old man pointed to the wall, where a few unequal lines, drawn with a pencil, gave a rude idea of waves in motion. In their midst was a ship, with her masts broken, plunging downward, with her bows already engulfed in the water.
"Poor fellow! I thought it had been whitewashed over," said the officer. "He did that the very week before—before his execution."