The chaplain passed on.
“Oh, father, perhaps we had better turn back,” cried Patty, in a state of alarm.
“Nay, nay, gell,” returned the farmer; “as we have come thus far, we may as well see un; it be our only chance, and as he told Joe that he would loike to ha’ a last look at us, why it be our duty to see ’im.”
“You need not be afraid, miss,” said the turnkey, “he’s calm enough now, and is quite resigned.”
“Oh, he be—be he?” said Jamblin.
When the farmer and his daughter entered the cell they inhaled a cold mephitic atmosphere like that of a funeral vault; one pale ray of light filtered through the iron bars; faint and solitary as a last hope, it could not illumine the whole of the cell.
They found themselves in the most horrible of twilights—the twilight of a dungeon.
When their eyes become accustomed to this sombre light they beheld a man seated on a rough wooden stool; he was ironed hand and foot; he was frightfully thin, wan, and worn; his eyes wore a hollow dejected look.
Mr. Jamblin failed to recognise in the miserable prisoner the stalwart ploughman who for years had been in his employ; he shuddered, the change was so awful.
When Giles Chudley recognised the two visitors he gave a start which resembled a spasm.