However, station after station was passed, and nobody came into their carriage. At last they stopped at a larger station, and a good many people were on the platform: Alfred took this opportunity and appealed in gentle but moving terms to the first good and intelligent face he saw. “Sir,” said he, “I implore your assistance.”
The gentleman turned courteously to him. The keepers, to Alfred's surprise, did not interrupt.
“I am the victim of a conspiracy, sir; they pretend I am mad: and are taking me by force to a madhouse, a living tomb.”
“You certainly don't appear to be mad,” said the gentleman.
The head keeper instantly showed him the order and a copy of the certificates.
“Don't look at them, sir,” cried Alfred; “they are signed by men who were bribed to sign them. For pity's sake, sir, judge for yourself. Test my memory, my judgment, by any question you please. Use your own good sense; don't let those venal rogues judge for you.”
The gentleman turned cold directly.
“I could not take on me to interfere,” said he. The unsworn affidavits had overpowered his senses. He retired with a frigid inclination. Alfred wrung his handcuffed hands, and the connecting chain rattled.
The men never complained: his conduct was natural; and they knew their strength. At the next station he tested a snob's humanity instead of a gentleman's. He had heard they were more tender-hearted. The answer was a broad grin, repeated at intervals.
Being called mad was pretty much the same thing as being mad to a mind of this class: and Alfred had admitted he was called mad.