“Oh! is he? Fry” (turning to a warder), “what has 19's treatment been?”
“Been in his cell, sir, without labor since he came. Blackhole yesterday, for communicating in chapel.”
“What is the matter with him?”
“Doctor says he is sinking.”
“What the devil do you mean by his sinking?”
“Well, sir,” replied the surgeon, with a sort of dry deference, “he is dying—that is what I mean.”
“Oh, he is dying, is he; d—n him, we'll stop that. Here, Fry, take No. 19 out into the garden, and set him to work. And put him on the corridors to-morrow.”
“Is he to be let talk to us, sir?”
“Humph! yes!”
Robinson was taken out into the garden; it was a small piece of ground that had once been a yard; it was inclosed within walls of great height, and to us would have seemed a cheerless place for horticulture, but to Robinson it appeared the garden of Eden. He gave a sigh of relief and pleasure, but the next moment his countenance fell.