He assumed a respectful manner for the nonce, and, to all appearance, he felt deeply the painful situation in which he found himself placed.
He bowed submissively to the deputy-governor, who took but little notice of the obeisance.
“Do you want to see the doctor?” inquired the prison official.
“No, sir; I am in pretty good health. There is nothing the matter with me, beyond the fact that I am, of course, in great anxiety of mind.”
“Just so. Then you don’t require medical advice?”
“No, sir.”
“Explain to him what he is required to do,” said the deputy-governor, turning on his heel.
Two brushes were handed to Peace, and he was informed they were to be used in polishing the floor of his cell. He was also shown all the other arrangements with which, however, it is needless to say, he was already very well acquainted, but he listened to the warder’s instructions complacently enough.
Every morning he had to go on his hands and knees and polish the cell floor as well as wash and scrub the table, stool, and bason, and every article in the room.
After breakfast—which was served through the little trap in the door, and which consisted of a pint of gruel and a piece of bread—he was told to prepare for chapel.