"Long ago," he said, "I used to be weary, weary of sitting idle all the day; so I bribed one of the lay brothers with my last ducat to bring me this, only that I might set down therein whatever happened, for pastime."
"May I read it, my father?"
"And welcome, if thou wilt;" and he gave the book into the hand of his son. "At first, as you see, there be many things written therein. I cannot tell what they are now; I have forgotten them all;--but I suppose I thought them, or felt them--once. Or sometimes the brethren would come to visit me, and talk, and afterwards I would write what they said. But by degrees I set down less and less in it. Many days passed in which I wrote nothing, because nothing was to write. Nothing ever happened."
Carlos was soon absorbed in the perusal of the little book. The records of his father's earlier prison life he scanned with great interest and with deep emotion; but coming rather suddenly upon the last entry, he could not forbear a smile. He read aloud:
"'A feast day. Had a capon for dinner, and a measure of red wine.'"
"Did I not judge well," asked the father, "that it was time to give over writing, when I could stoop low enough to record such trifles? Yes; I think I can recall the bitterness of heart with which I laid the book aside. I despised myself for what I wrote therein; and yet I had nothing else to write--would never have anything else, I thought. But now God has given me my son. I will write that down."
Looking up, after a little while, from his self-imposed task, he asked, with an air of perplexity,--
"But when was it? How long is it since you came here, Carlos?"
Carlos in his turn was perplexed. The quiet days had glided on swiftly and noiselessly, leaving no trace behind.
"To me it seems to have been all one long Sabbath," he said. "But let me think. The summer heats had not come; I suppose it must have been March or April--April, perhaps. I remember thinking I had been just two years in prison."