“Am I not to be examined again?” he would ask.
“Your turn is coming,” the jailer invariably answered.
Time passed; and the wretched man, tortured by the sufferings of solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit, sank into the depths of despair.
“Am I to stay here forever?” he moaned.
No, he was not forgotten; for on Monday morning, at one o’clock, an hour when the jailer never came, he heard the heavy bolt of his cell pushed back.
He ran toward the door.
But the sight of a gray-headed man standing on the sill rooted him to the spot.
“Father,” he gasped, “father!”
“Your father, yes!”
Prosper’s astonishment at seeing his father was instantly succeeded by a feeling of great joy.