They all backed away, huddled together like sheep frightened by the dogs; and for the rest of the night there was no recurrence of the row. We went back to our side and resumed guard over the women; half our number crouched on the ground and the rest of us did sentry work.
The rowdies across the dividing line gave very little trouble after that. There were occasional wranglings among themselves, as they fought for room to crouch or lie down, or struggled for space to breathe; but they had had their lesson and were careful not to provoke another attack from us.
Many of them were soon fast in drunken sleep, as their stertorous breathing and loud snoring evidenced. But contrasted with the din and racket in the past hours, this was comparative peace and silence.
How any one could sleep under such conditions baffled me. The reek and noisome stench of the place were appalling; and although I stood as near as I could get to one of the windows, I was almost suffocated and felt sick, stifled, and overpowered.
The women also slept, all but the two who watched over them and tended them with the care and vigilance of tender-hearted womanhood. The endurance of the young girl was as wonderful as her staunch courage and her magnetic handling of her troubled sisters. She even outlasted the big brawny woman who fell asleep soon after the dawn broke. The light struggled through the windows, and the abject wretchedness and squalor of the scene were infinitely more depressing and horrible in the light than they had seemed in the feeble rays of the gas jets.
Only once did she show even a sign of breaking down. That was about two hours after the dawn when she was near me and I asked her why she was a prisoner and spoke in praise of her conduct.
She told me that she was a political prisoner, and that her real name was Pia Rosada, but she had been arrested in a different one. She was a keen revolutionary, goaded into rebellion by the ill-treatment of her relatives. She was only a suspect; but she knew much and looked forward to some kind of torture being employed to force her to turn informer. “They may do what they will, I shall tell nothing,” she said, her eyes lighting with resolution and dauntless courage—a martyr in the making.
“I am sorry for you,” I murmured.
“I would die a hundred deaths first,” she answered. Then her look changed. Her clear gaze was troubled and she glanced round at the women. “Do you think we have no cause to revolt? Look at these poor creatures;” and her eyes filled with tears. But she dashed them away. “We cannot afford the luxury of tears,” she said hurriedly, and slipped from me to go to one of her charges who woke and sat up and began to weep. In a minute she was soothed and comforted by the touch of those wonderful hands, the glance of the magnetic eyes, and the soft whisper of the sweet calming voice.
My thoughts flew to Miralda, and with a shudder of fear I pictured her in the midst of such a scene of abomination and desolate misery.