“Perhaps he is dozing,” thought Robinson. “I won't disturb him.”
Then he composed himself, lying close to the door to be near his friend.
After a while Mr. Eden scratched the door with his key. There was no answer; then he rose softly and went to his own room.
Robinson slept—slept like an infant after this feverish day. His body lay still in a hole dark and almost as narrow as the grave, but his spirit had broken prison. Tired nature's sweet restorer descended like a dove upon his wet eyelids, and fanned him with her downy wings, and bedewed the hot heart and smarting limbs with her soothing, vivifying balm.
At six o'clock Evans went and opened Robinson's cell door. He was on the ground sleeping, with a placid smile on his face. Evans looked down at him with a puzzled air. While contemplating him he was joined by Fry.
“Ugh!” grunted that worthy, “seems to agree with him.” And he went off and told Hawes.
Directly after chapel, which he was not allowed to attend, came an order to take Robinson out of the dark cell and put him on the crank.
The disciplinarian, defeated in his attempt on Robinson, was compensated by a rare stroke of good fortune—a case of real refractoriness even this was not perfect, but it answered every purpose.
In one of the labor cells they found a prisoner seated with the utmost coolness across the handle of his crank. He welcomed his visitants with a smile, and volunteered a piece of information—“It is all right.”
Now it couldn't be all right, for it was impossible he could have done his work in the time. Hawes looked at the face of the crank to see how much had been done, and lo! the face was broken and the index had disappeared. As Mr. Hawes examined the face of the crank, the prisoner leered at him with a mighty silly cunning.