Chapter Seventeen.
In the Torture-Chamber of Vera Cruz.
Both lads felt their hearts stop beating, and a cold chill seized their bodies as they heard the footsteps pass other cell doors without pausing, and continue down the passage towards their own.
Those dreadful cries still rang in their ears, and they felt that if the approaching person was coming to conduct them also to the torture, they could not bear it. They were still, it must be remembered, only lads, and the sound of those cries of agony had racked their nerves—as they might those of much older men—more than they themselves knew.
They felt their very hair rising on their scalps, and a sensation of deadly sickness and faintness swept over them.
Harry was the first to recover his presence of mind, and he spoke to Roger.
“Come, come, Roger, lad,” said he; “pull yourself together, my friend. If they are indeed coming for us, we must make up our minds to endure it as best we can, even as we have done before. And perchance we are mistaken, and they do not intend to torture us at all.”
Roger came out of his dismal reverie of foreboding, and his face became once more immobile. A few heartbeats and he was as well prepared as Harry for what might happen.