It was a singular thing, but, from the first, old Mr. Wilcox never seemed to entertain a hope of escaping from the prison by any means but a violent death. It was to this that all his Christian energies were bent from the earliest hour of confinement.
The night came on, but its approach was perceptible only by the shadows that crept across the loop-hole which served as a window. In the darkness that soon filled the cell the old man lay down in his clothes and tried to sleep. Now it was that his soul yearned toward the poor old wife who had been so long sheltered in his bosom; the fair grand-daughter too—it seemed as if his heart would break as their condition rose before him in all its fearful desolation.
Deep in the night he fell asleep, and then his brain was haunted with dreams, bright, heavenly dreams, such as irradiate the face of an infant when the mother believes it whispering with angels. But this sweet sleep was of brief duration. He awoke in the darkness, and, unconscious where he was, reached out his arm. It struck the cold, hard wall, and the vibration went through his heart like a knife. She was not by his side. Where, where was his poor wife? He asked this question aloud; his sobs filled the cell; the miserable pillow under his head soaked up the tears as they rained down his face. A dread of death could not have wrung drops from those aching eyes; but tears of affection reveal the strength of a good man. There are times when the proudest being on earth might be ashamed not to weep.
He did not close his eyes again that night, but wept himself calm with broken prayers. Low, humble entreaties for strength, for patience and for charity, rose from his hard bed. Slowly the cell filled with light, and then he saw, for the first time, a book lying on a small shelf, fastened beneath the window. He arose, eagerly, and took it down. A glow spread over his face. It was one of those cheap Bibles, which the Tract Society scatters through our prisons. As he opened the humble book, a sunbeam shot through the loop-hole, and broke in a shower of light over the page. Was it chance that sent the golden sunbeam? Was it chance that opened the book to one of the most hopeful and comforting passages of Scripture?
He took an old pair of steel spectacles from his pocket, and sat down to read. Hours wore away, still he bent over those holy pages as if they had never met his eyes before. And so it really seemed, for we must suffer before all the strength and beauty of the book of books can penetrate the heart. A noise at the door made him look up. His breath came fast. It required something heavier than that iron door, to lock out the sympathies of two hearts that had grown old in affection. His hands began to tremble; he took off the spectacles, and hastily put them between the pages of his Bible. It was of no use trying to read then.
The bolt was shot, the door swung open with a clang, and there stood a group of persons ready to enter.
"Husband! oh, husband!" cried old Mrs. Wilcox, reaching both hands through the door as she stooped to come in.
The prisoner took her hands in his, and kissed them as he had done years ago, when those poor withered fingers were rosy with youth. The door closed softly then, for old Mrs. Gray was not one to force herself upon an interview so mournful and so sacred.