RUINS OF THE PALACE OF THE INDIAN KING
V.
IN PRISON.
The guard admitted Ammon on his passport. As they passed through the corridors of the jail, he eagerly scanned every group of prisoners in anticipation of recognizing a familiar form. When they reached the large sunny courtyard in the middle of the rambling buildings his hopes ran high, for the place was crowded. Here were the prisoners accused of petty thieving. In the center, in a murky looking fountain, a bronze Hercules bathed his mighty shoulders. Others fashioned sandals, wove baskets, or arranged ingenious feather work. One clever person manufactured a tiny stringed instrument out of bits of wood that he inlaid with mother of pearl. Queer sight in a jail incarcerating thieves, wrought the jewelers, tracing filigree work out of gold. Another group cooked over clay ovens filled with glowing charcoal. The attendant explained to Ammon that the trinkets were sold to defray the expenses of board. Prisoners were dependent on their own ingenuity or the bounty of their friends for their food, a condition which explained the presence of women with baskets who hovered about the jail, waiting to send in cooked delicacies to their enchained lords and masters.
Aaron was not there. The visitor was conducted through musty chambers and oozy passages very different from the breezy courtyard vaulted by the saphire sky. So far did they go that Ammon almost began to suspect foul play. The guard threw open a door.
"The missionaries are here."
Stumbling in the dark, he stepped in. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he distinguished the forms of men almost naked.
"Is my brother Aaron, son of King Mosiah here?" he enquired.
At the sound of his voice a wretch raised himself on a pallet of straw. He staggered toward him and peered in the new-comers face.
"Ammon!" he exclaimed.