The same motive prevented his hazarding a question or exclamation at the time the little gifts were thrust in. How could he tell who might be within hearing? If it were safe to speak, surely the person outside would try the experiment.
It was generally very early in the morning, at the hour when the outer door was first opened, that the gifts came. Or, it delayed a little later, he would often notice something timid and even awkward in the way they were pushed through the grating, and the approaching and retreating footsteps, for which he used to listen so eagerly, would be quick and light, like those of a child.
At last a day came, marked indeed with white in the dark chronicle of prison life. Bread and meat were conveyed to him as usual; then there was a low knock upon the door. Carlos, who was standing close to it, responded by an eager "Chien es?"
"A friend. Kneel down, señor, and put your ear to the grating."
The captive obeyed, and a woman's voice whispered, "Do not lose heart, your worship. Friends outside are thinking of you."
"One friend is with me, even here," Carlos answered. "But," he added, "I entreat of you to tell me your name, that I may know whom to thank for the daily kindnesses which lighten my captivity."
"I am only a poor woman, señor, the alcayde's servant. And what I have brought you is your own, and but a small part of it."
"My own! How?"
"Robbed from you by my master, who defrauds and spoils the poor prisoners even of their necessary food. And if any one dares to complain to the Lords Inquisitors, he throws him into the Masmurra."
"The--what?"