“You see that he still expects you,” whispered Cahill to the Abbé; and the other assented with a faint nod of the head.
“No, sir; this way,” said the jailer; “he is now in the condemned cell.” And, so saying, he led the way along the corridor.
By the faint light of a small lamp, fixed high up in the wall, they could just detect the figure of a man, as he sat crouched on the low settle-bed, his head resting on his arms as they were crossed over his knees. He never moved as the grating sound of the heavy door jarred on the stillness, but sat still and motionless.
“The Abbé D'Esmonde has come to see you, Eustace,” said the jailer, tapping him on the shoulder. “Wake up, man, and speak to him.”
The prisoner lifted his head and made an effort to say something; but though his lips moved, there came no sounds from them. At last, with an effort that was almost convulsive, he pointed to the door, and said, “Alone—alone!”
“He wants to speak with you alone, sir,” whispered the jailer, “and so we will retire.”
D'Esmonde could not see them leave the cell without a sense of fear,—less the dread of any personal injury than the strange terror so inseparable to any close communion with one convicted of a dreadful crime,—and he actually shuddered as the massive door was banged to.
“You are cold, sir!” said the prisoner, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.
“No, it was not cold!” replied D'Esmonde.
“I can guess what it was, then!” said the other, with an energy to which passion seemed to contribute. “But I 'll not keep you long here. Sit down, sir. You must sit beside me, for there is no other seat than the settle-bed. But there is nobody here to see the great Abbé D'Esmonde side by side with a murderer.”