‘Well, I guess he might.’
‘Do you mean to say that in all that time he would never come out at that little iron door, for exercise?’
‘He might walk some, perhaps—not much.’
‘Will you open one of the doors?’
‘All, if you like.’
The fastenings jar and rattle, and one of the doors turns slowly on its hinges. Let us look in. A small bare cell, into which the light enters through a high chink in the wall. There is a rude means of washing, a table, and a bedstead. Upon the latter, sits a man of sixty; reading. He looks up for a moment; gives an impatient dogged shake; and fixes his eyes upon his book again. As we withdraw our heads, the door closes on him, and is fastened as before. This man has murdered his wife, and will probably be hanged.
‘How long has he been here?’
‘A month.’
‘When will he be tried?’
‘Next term.’