Eudora sank into the only chair, and held up her hands while the gaoler relieved her of those galling fetters, which, long after they had been removed, left livid circles around those delicate wrists to show where they had pressed.
“And now I will go and send one of the female turnkeys to bring you what you need. And if there is anything that will—I cannot say add to your comfort, but—detract from your discomfort, send word by her to me, and, if possible, you shall be accommodated with what you want,” said Anderson, leaving the cell and locking the door.
Eudora took off her bonnet and shawl, cast herself upon the narrow bed, closed her eyes, threw her arms up over her head—it was almost with a sense of pleasure that she felt them free again—and abandoned herself to the natural attitude of the prostration of grief.
She had scarcely lain thus for five minutes when the door was again unlocked, and a woman, coarse in person, but civil in demeanor, entered the cell, bringing a basin, pitcher of water, and towel, all of which she placed upon the stand.
Hearing this woman moving about the cell, Eudora, without changing her attitude, listlessly opened her eyes.
The woman then pointed to the conveniences she had brought, and said:
“Mr. Anderson wishes to know if there is anything else you would like.”
Eudora shook her head in silence, and the woman retreated, and once more locked the prisoner in.
Two or three hours passed, in which Eudora, lying still upon her narrow prison bed in the dull anguish of despair, felt as if her heart was slowly and painfully dying, but without the hope of ultimate death.
Everyone who has suffered the extremity of suspense, grief, or despair, knows the dread sensation of this dying life or living death. It is that which even in youth, in health, and in a few hours, has power to wrinkle the brow, whiten the hair, and disorganize the heart.