“The fellow won't speak, gentlemen,” said the superintendent one morning to a very numerous party, who, in all the joyousness of life and liberty, came to heighten their zest for pleasure by the sight of sorrow and pain. “He was never very communicative about himself, but latterly he refuses to utter a word.”
“He still persists in asserting his innocence?” asked one of the strangers, but in a voice easily overheard by me.
“Not to any of us, sir,” replied the turnkey, gruffly; “he may do so with his fellows below in the hold, but he knows better than to try on that gammon with us.”
“I must say,” said one, in a half-whisper, “that, even in that dress, he has the look of a gentleman about him.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed another, “if his story were to be true!”
I know not what chord in my heart responded to that sudden burst of feeling. I am fully convinced that, to anything like systematic condolence or well-worded compassion, I should have been cold as a stone; and yet I burst into tears as he spoke, and sobbed convulsively.
“Ah! he's a deep one,” muttered the turnkey. “Take him down with you, corporal;” and I was marched away, glad to hide my shame and my sorrow in secret.
Various drafts had been made of those who had been my companions, until at last not one remained of those originally sentenced at the same assizes with myself. What this might portend I knew not. Was I destined to end my days on board of this dark and dismal hulk?—was I never to press earth once more with my feet? How simply that sounds; but let me tell you, there is some strange, high instinct in the heart of man that attaches him to the very soil of earth. That clay of which we came, and to which we are one day to return, has a powerful hold upon our hearts. He who toils in it loves it with a fonder love than the great lord who owns it. Its varied aspects in sunshine and in shade, its changeful hues of season, its fragrance and its barrenness, are the books in which he reads; its years of fruitfulness are the joyous episodes of his existence. The mother earth is the parent that makes all men akin, and teaches us to love each other like brethren.
“Well, Gervois,” said the turnkey to me one morning, “you are to go at last, they say. Old Hanchett has argued your case till there is no more to be said of it; but the Lords have decided against you, and now you are to sail with the next batch.”
The announcement gave me neither pleasure nor pain; even this evidence of Hanchett's kindness towards me did not touch my feelings, for I had outlived every sentiment of regard or esteem, and lay cold and apathetic to whatever might betide me.