The prisoner shuddered and hung his head.
“Don't be discouraged, Joram,” put in Mr. Eden kindly, “this gentleman is not a harsh judge, he will make allowances.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
“What made you attempt your life?” persisted Mr. Lacy. “Was it from religious despondency?”
“That it was not. What did I know about religion before his reverence here came to the jail? No, sir, I was clammed to death.”
“Clammed?”
“Yes, sir, clammed and no mistake.”
“North-country word for starved,” explained Mr. Eden.
“No, sir, I was starved as well. It was very cold weather, and they gave me nothing but a roll of bread no bigger than my fist once a day for the best part of a week. So being starved with cold and clammed with hunger I knew I couldn't live many hours more, and then the pain in my vitals was so dreadful, sir, I was obliged to cut it short. Ay! ay! your reverence, I know it was very wicked—but what was I to do? If I hadn't attempted my life I shouldn't be alive now. A poor fellow doesn't know what to do in such a place as this.”
“Well,” said Mr. Lacy, “I promise you your food shall never be tampered with again.”