Once more the past rushed by with tenfold force. All this was bad enough, but worse followed.
He fancied something supernatural passed him like a cold blast.
His limbs shook as with palsy, and his teeth chattered. Thick beads of perspiration oozed from his forehead and temples, and coursed down his cheeks.
He cried most piteously for help. He said the cell was full of evil spirits—uncouth forms were flitting about him—horrible faces were grinning hideously at him. He screamed and cursed, and prayed, and dashed himself frantically against the door, and ran round his cell like a mad person. But no one came to his assistance. He flung himself once more on his bed, and uttered a plaintive moan.
How long a time he had passed in his miserable prison house he could not possibly tell—to him it appeared an age. He was, however, aroused from his state of lethargy by the cell door being suddenly flung open, and when this had been done he beheld Davis—the man he had knocked down with the ladder—peering in. The warder tossed in the rug which was to cover him for the night.
Peace sprang from his rude couch, and rushed towards the door.
“You’ll kill me, that’s what you’ll do,” he said, in a whining voice.
“How long am I to be shut up in this cursed place? Tell me that. How long?”
“I don’t know—the governor has not determined.”
“It’s cruel—monstrous, inhuman.”