“Which must mean ‘Upstairs.’ And like him, I shall drop dead at the top. Say! you, sir! I want to see Mr. Craven Cloud, who was taken prisoner from the blockade runner Argente. Here’s my permit,” said the old skipper, as soon as he could get his breath, handing his pass to one of the sentries.
“Room at the end—Number 53,” said the soldier, returning the paper.
“Thank Heaven, that is a change for the better!” exclaimed the old man, trotting up the whole length of the passage to a board partition that seemed to have been temporarily put up across the end.
A sentry stood before the door in this partition, and to him the skipper gave his pass.
The sentry unlocked the door and admitted the visitor into the small room that had been partitioned off from the front end of the passage.
The place was clean, fresh and light, but had no furniture except one narrow iron bedstead with a mattress, a pillow and a white spread as clean as the room.
Extended on the mattress lay the young and handsome form of Roland Bayard, clothed only in his white shirt and gray trousers. His hands were clasped above his head and his eyes were open and fixed on the ceiling.
He started up on hearing the visitor enter.
“Roland! Roland! My dear boy, Roland!” cried the old skipper, in a tremulous voice, while the tears started to his eyes.
If the two had been French or German, they would have fallen into each other’s arms. Being Americans of English descent, they only clasped hands a little more firmly than usual, gazed into each other’s eyes earnestly for a moment, and then sat down on the side of the bed together in silence.