At the first he had flattered himself that mid-day, or thereabouts, would bring him his deliverance. The whole incident was so preposterous that, under the burden of his more private affairs, he would not consider it seriously. But, as the morning passed, and the chill dark day drew on, his anger and anxiety increased upon him to such an extent that he might hardly restrain himself from giving them childish expression in a furious onslaught on the panels of his door.
He refrained, however, and, listening at the keyhole instead, was presently aware of the regular tramp of a sentry in the passage. By-and-by, when the footsteps came opposite him, he kicked out and hailed—
“Hullo, there!”
The man stopped.
“Qu’as-tu?” he growled. “Ne t’emporte pas, citoyen.”
“My temper!” shouted Ned; “but I shall likely lose my senses if I am left longer without food.”
“As to that,” said the sentry—and broke off and retreated.
In a very little while the key turned once more, and a jailer entered with a platter of uninviting scraps.
“Take the filth away!” cried Ned furiously. “Thou canst procure me something fit to eat, I suppose?”
“Surely, for the paying, citizen.”