After a good deal of pushing and shoving, Henry found himself in something of an alcove, and here dropped on the bench which was built around two sides of the room. Beside him sat an old soldier, who was suffering from a heavy cold, and who coughed continually.
“It is not fit for a dog here,” said the old soldier. “I have been here two weeks, and I know. They mean to kill us all off.”
“Two weeks—in this hole!” cried Henry.
“Yes, and that is nothing. Some of the poor fellows have been here three months.”
“I couldn’t stand it—I’d—I’d die for the want of fresh air.”
“And that is what they want you to do. When you die they won’t have to feed you any more.” The cough of the old soldier grew steadily worse, and, although, at the last moment a surgeon came and gave him a little medicine, he died eight days later, and was carried away for burial in a trench outside of the town.
Henry had been separated from Pity-All-Sinners Skinner and from the English grenadier, and so knew absolutely nobody in the prison. More than this, no one seemed to care for him, and, if the truth must be told, he likewise cared for nobody. Everybody felt miserable and it was in very truth a struggle to keep body and soul together and to keep from catching some fatal disease.
The young soldier was in the prison over a month before Jean Bevoir came to see him. The French trader could only speak to him through the rudely slatted door and in the presence of the other captives.
“I trust zat you like ze surroundings,” said Bevoir, with a sickly grin. “It ees just suited to you, hey?”
“You’re a miserable scoundrel, Bevoir!” burst out Henry. “What have you told the commander about me?”