He remembered then that he had been within a few hours of liberty—he had been robbed of his life when he had almost grasped it with his hands.
The thought was agony, and he uttered a low, plaintive cry.
Besides this, he had seen his fellow-prisoners at work; he had seen how they obeyed the orders of men who spoke to them, not with words, but with gestures and with bells.
He knew his life in the prison had been one of indulgence and comparative luxury, when contrasted to the poor wretches he had seen in this part of the gaol.
Their infamous dress, their white faces, their servile compliance, had filled him with terror and dismay.
Hope—the last solace of the wretched—seemed to suddenly take wings and fly away.
He looked up at the window, which was little less than one great iron bar; he sounded the walls, so thick and strong; he breathed the air of his new cell, and it chilled him to the bone.
“Am I to remain in this miserable place?” he inquired.
“Yes, until your trial comes on,” replied one of the turnkeys. “Don’t blame us; it’s all your own fault.”
“But if I promise to remain quiet and behave better?”