“My dear young lady, I dare not break the rules,” he protested, “though I pity you from the bottom of my heart.”
“But think of him, cut off from everything—everything he has been used to, absolutely friendless, and cast among natives and criminals. He has no idea that I am in Bangalore. Surely I may send him one line to comfort him?”
“No, no, no, that would be against all rules.”
“It’s like beating with bare hands on a stone wall,” I cried in despair. “It makes me frantic to realise that I am within a few yards of my brother, and may not see him!”
“Well, if it comes to that, I might stretch a point,” said the superintendent. “He may not see you, but if you think you can bear it, I might let you have a peep at him.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times.”
“All right then, if you will not be upset, I’ll take you up to a place where you can get a glimpse of the yard.”
As he concluded, the kindly superintendent rose, opened a door, and ushered me along some bare stone passages. Then we passed through a large room, where convicts were working at hand looms, weaving various beautiful Indian carpets. They seemed to be really interested and engrossed in their work, which looked exceedingly intricate and tedious. My escort halted before one loom where two men were working, and pointed out a lovely blue and cream carpet, about half completed.
“This has been commissioned by an English countess,” he explained. “It has taken six months’ work, so far; most of the carpets on the looms are already sold; this is a particularly fine specimen, and we are very proud of it.”
He said something to the workers in their own language, and they received his comments with wide and appreciative grins.