In the midst, after how long I know not, a voice reached me. He was summoning me, if I needed it, to supper. If I needed it! What cruelty! He would not give my pride a chance. Half in fear, half fury, I turned my face to the wall, and did not answer.
He wasted no time on me. I heard him withdraw in a moment, whistling. I had hoped he would think me escaped; would venture in, perhaps, panic-struck, to encounter the full torrent of my indignation. But he showed no concern whatever. He felt secure of his wretched little trapped bird, I supposed. And he was justified—was justified. Then I cried as I had never cried before. He might have had some patience, some consideration. At last, quite famished and exhausted, I fell asleep.
I awoke, in full day, to find him standing over and regarding me. I felt weak, and too utterly subdued to resent his presence as it deserved. There was no pity in his eyes even then. I closed my own, feeling my throat swell.
“I thought you might be hungry,” he said. “Are you?”
At that, for all my efforts, the tears came.
“Don’t you know?” I said. “But I suppose you think to starve me into submission.”
“Submission to what?” said he. “You were offered food, and refused it. But I have brought you some bread.”
He held out to me a dry crust. I turned from it in anger.
“O, very well!” said he, and was returning it to his pocket.
Then physical need conquered me. I could not face the thought of another day’s starvation. I sat up, and held out my hands.