The Prisoner
TEPHEN'S cell was a narrow place, and there was no window but a slit wherefrom arrows only might take flight. Looking forth with face pressed close to the stone, Stephen saw the gray wall of the inner ward, and no other thing. Nevertheless, by means of this crack he knew light from darkness, and when three days were past he said to the gaoler:—
“How long do I bide in this place?”
“The last man bode here till he died, master,—two-score and five year. My father was turnkey.”
Stephen turned his face to the arrow-slit, and the man went out and barred the door.
“Now will I set my life in order against the day I come forth,” said Stephen; “and whether Death unlock the door, or Life, I shall be ready.”
So he sat close by the crack, with his fingers thrust through, beckoning freedom. And here the gaoler found him night and morn, silent, as he were wrapt in a deep contemplation, a little sad, but hopeful withal, and uncomplaining. The gaoler eyed him in amaze, and searched the cell for rope or knife or crowbar, for written word or phial of poison, whereby this strange calm might be accounted for. But he found none of these things. And in this way there dragged on a fortnight. Then might the gaoler hold his peace no longer.
“Hard fare,” quoth he, setting the black bread and the water jug ready to Stephen's hand.
“Ay,” the prisoner made answer, “but a-many people in England have no better, and a-many go hungry. Wherefore shall I feed fat the while my brothers fast?”