His anxiety was great to see what his hot dinner was. It happened to be a soup day; and his disgust on finding that he was to dine off a little thin broth and a piece of bread defies description.
He entreated the warder, in the sweetest tones his rough voice could command, to bring him something better than that.
The warder only laughed at him.
From entreaties he passed to threats, and from threats to a savage blow with his fist, which would have annihilated the jocund official had he not parried it with the iron door, which rang beneath the shock, and covered the brawny hand with blood.
He howled with pain, and stretched himself on his bed in sulky silence.
After this he became a little more tractable; contenting himself with grumbling at everything that was brought him.
His sister paid him a visit. She informed him that she had obtained some money towards paying counsel for his defence.
Upon hearing this he seemed greatly pleased; despite his recklessness and bravado, he had become sad and serious as the time for the opening of the assizes approached.
He still clung to hope, even as a drowning man might cling to a spar.
At length the day arrived on which the trial had been appointed to take place. The facts connected with the charge of murder were simple enough.