Then as the thought returned, clinching his teeth, he gathered the ends of the stocking and prepared with one fierce pull to save his shaken reason and end his miserable days. Now at this awful moment, While his hands griped convulsively the means of death, a quiet tap on the outside of the cell door suddenly rang through the dead stillness, and a moment after a human word forced its way into the cave of madness and death—
“BROTHER!”
When this strange word pierced the thick door and came into the hell-cave, feeble as though wafted over water from a distance, yet distinct as a bell and bright as a sunbeam, Robinson started, and quaked with fear and doubt. Did it come from the grave, that unearthly tone and word?
Still holding the ends of the stocking, he cried out wildly in a loud but quavering voice:
“Who—o—o calls Thomas Sinclair brother?” The distant voice rang back—
“Francis Eden!”
“Ah!—where are you, Francis Eden?”
“Here! within a hand's-breadth of you;” and Mr. Eden struck the door. “Here!”
“There! are you there?” and Robinson struck the door on his side.
“Yes, here!”