I looked about me. The cell was plainly but handsomely furnished, the settee whereon I lay having coverings of China silk, wrought in many colours with pictures of dragons. A little table of cedar stood beside. The floor was covered with a mat of grasses, woven in strands of red and green. There was no lamp; the light, which was bright as day, proceeding I knew not whence. The cell was provided with air, it appeared, by a row of round holes, the size of musket-bores, pierced along the walls.
Soon Ambrose returned, bearing upon a salver a dainty repast of fish, fowl, and fruit; and, having set it down upon the little table, he asked me pleasantly how I did.
“Very well, I thank you,” said I, “but you, Ambrose, do scarce look as hearty as you ought, dwelling, as you do, in the Promised Land!”
He stared at me, then laughed a shrill laugh.
“So you know of us,” said he, “who told you? Ouvery?”
“No,” said I, “but another.”
“Another? and who was he? But tell me, pray, how Ouvery died. He was a notable villain.”
“He was so,” said I. “But who told you that he was dead?”
“Why,” said he, “the Doctor had it from one of your men.”
“They are, then, fallen into his hands?” said I.