Within the cell, and immediately beneath the wicket of the entrance door, was seated an old, gray-headed soldier, whose rough, sunburnt features betokened his having felt the scorch of many climes, and borne his part in numerous campaigns. His duty was to keep constant watch over the condemned prisoners.
"How piercing cold it is here!" exclaimed Calabash; "yet my eyes burn in my head, and I have a burning, quenchless thirst!" Then addressing the bald-headed veteran, she said, "Water! Pray give me a drink of water!"
The old soldier filled a cup of water from a pitcher placed near him, and held it to her lips. Eagerly swallowing the draught, she bowed her head in token of thankfulness, and the soldier proceeded to offer the same beverage to the mother.
"Would you not like to moisten your lips?" asked he, kindly.
With a rough, repulsive gesture, she intimated her disinclination, and the old man sat down again.
"What's o'clock?" inquired Calabash.
"Nearly half past four," replied the soldier.
"Only three hours!" replied Calabash, with a sinister and gloomy smile. "Three hours more! And then—" She could proceed no further.
The widow shrugged up her shoulders. Her daughter divined her meaning, and said, "Ah, mother, you have so much more courage than I have,—you never give way, you don't."
"Never!"