It is the convict station at Portland, and the figures are the shadows of some of England's vilest criminals.
The sun sinks lower, the warders, stationed at measured intervals between the various gangs, yawn with weary impatience and long for the sound of the prison bell. When that rings, which it will do within half an hour, the gangs will have finished their work for the day and the march for the gloomy prison upon the heights will commence.
The warders yawn impatiently, but the silent, gray-clad figures feel no impatience. They have nothing to long for, nothing to hope for.
One and all toiling on this particular plain toil on till death, and that has been longed for so long that it seems so far off as to be hopeless.
Death comes to men free and happy, but them it seems to avoid; it leaves them to their most awful punishment of life.
The quarter has chimed, the warders have grown more impatient, perhaps less vigilant, or does this tall, thin figure with No. 108 stamped upon his arm only fancy so? For he has broken the rule which says that no man shall separate himself from his particular gang, and is crouching behind a bowlder. Is he resting? His hazel, hunted eyes flash from the nearest warder to the sentinels upon the battlements. His hand grasps the chain at his leg to deaden its rattle as he glides along. His eyes drop from the sentinel and travel swiftly but keenly along the grim rank of the next gang. They rest upon one gray-clad figure numbered ninety-nine. His breath comes faster, he crouches until his breast touches the ground, and, though his lips are too tightly pressed for speech, his eyes seem to speak in the intensity of their gaze.
Perhaps No. 99 feels their gaze, for as he stoops with the gang to heave the hard, cruel stone he lifts his small, villainous eyes and sees the dark, piercing ones fixed so earnestly upon him. A start, imperceptible, thrills through him, and, as he raises his shoulder, he contrives to lift one hand as a signal that he has seen and understands.
No. 108 seems satisfied, he drops his eyes with a sigh, and waits with sullen impatience.
The stone is upheaved. The gang moves round and pauses to gain breath.
A few of the miserable figures drop upon the stones.