“You mistake my looks,” said Bayle gently; “they did not express my feelings to you, for they were those of sorrow.”
“Sorrow?” said the man, who spoke as if he were making a great effort to keep down his feelings. “Ay, sir, you would say that if you knew all I had endured. It has been enough to make a man into a fiend, herding with the wretches sent out here, and at any moment, at the caprice of some brutal warder or other official ordered the lash.”
Bayle drew his breath between his teeth hard.
“There, I beg your pardon, sir; but the sight of a face from over the sea, and a gentle word, sets all the old pangs stinging again. I’m better treated now. This governor is a very different man to the last.”
“Perhaps you may get a full pardon yet,” said Bayle; “your conduct has evidently been good.”
“No. There will be no pardon for me, sir. I was too great a criminal.”
“What—But I have no right to ask you,” said Bayle.
“Yes, ask me, sir. My offence? Well, like a number of other hot-headed young men, I thought to make myself a patriot and free Ireland. That was my crime.”
“Tell me,” said Bayle, after a time, “did you ever encounter a prisoner named Hallam?”
“Robert Hallam—tall, dark, handsome man?”