“Mr. Montrose,” said Sir Ira Brunton, “the prisoner must be at once removed; we are waiting to examine other cases.”
“Good-bye until to-morrow, Eudora. Before you reach your prison walls, I shall be speeding towards London to bring down your counsel. Heaven be with you, most innocent and most injured girl.”
And pressing her hand fervently, he relinquished it, and hurried away, to throw himself into the next up-train.
Eudora was led out between the two officers, placed in a cab, and driven towards the gaol.
The prison—situated on the outskirts of the town—was a great, grim-looking, dark, gray stone building, pierced by narrow grated windows, and surrounded by high stone walls.
Poor Eudora’s stricken heart collapsed and sank within her as the cab drew up before this formidable-looking stronghold.
The policemen alighted, handed their prisoner out, and rang at the grated gate in the wall, which was immediately unlocked and opened by the turnkey on duty there.
The terrified, half-fainting girl was led into a close courtyard, where the very wind of heaven, that bloweth where it listeth, was scarcely free to move, and across it, towards the main entrance of the prison, a low, narrow, iron-bound oaken door, approached by six steep stone steps in the thickness of the wall.
Here again the policemen rang, and the door was opened by the keeper on duty, who admitted the whole party into a gloomy-looking stone hall, where a turnkey received and silently conducted them to a side-door on the right leading into the gaoler’s office.
Here the sinking girl was permitted to sit down while the gaoler received the warrant for her confinement, entered her name upon the prison books, gave a receipt for her person, and discharged the policemen, who immediately left.