Fry. What did he tell you?
Hodges. Told us he loved us.
Fry. Loved who?
Hodges. All of us. Governor, turnkeys, and especially the prisoners, because they were in trouble. “My Master loves you, though He hates your sins,” says he; and “I love every mother's son of you.” What d'ye think of that? He loves the whole biling! Told 'em so, however.
Fry. Loves 'em, does he? Well, that's a new lay! After all, there's no accounting for tastes, you know. Haw! haw!
Hodges. Haw! haw! ho!
This same Sunday afternoon, soon after service, the chaplain came to Robinson's cell. Evans unlocked it, looking rather uneasy, and would have come in with the reverend gentleman; but he forbade him and walked quickly into the cell, as Van Amburgh goes among his leopards and panthers. He had in his hand a little box.
“I have brought you some ointment—some nice cooling ointment,” said he, “to rub on your neck. I saw it was frayed by that collar.”
(Pause.) No answer.
“Will you let me see you use it?”