Thereafter day succeeded day without any break in the monotony of
Ambrose's imprisonment. He occasionally made out the portly figure of
Watusk in his frock coat, but received no word from him.
It was now the 20th of September, and the poplar boughs were bare. Every morning now the grass was covered with rime, and to-day a flurry of snow fell. Winter would increase the difficulties of escape tenfold.
Ambrose speculated endlessly on what might be happening at Fort Enterprise. He thought, too, of Peter Minot who was relying on him to steer the hazarded fortunes of the firm into port—and groaned at his impotence.
As with all solitary prisoners, throughout the long hours Ambrose's mind preyed upon itself. True, he had Job, who was friend and consoler in his dumb way, but Job was only a dog.
To joke or to swear at his jailers was like trying to make a noise in a vacuum. Not to be able to make himself felt became a positive torture to Ambrose.
On the night of this day, lying in bed, he found himself wide awake without being able to say what had awakened him. He lay listening, and presently heard the sound again—the fall of a little object on the floor.
The chinks of the log walls were stopped with mud which had dried and loosened; nothing strange that bits of it should fall—still his heart beat fast.
He heard a cautious scratching and another piece dropped and broke on the floor. Now he knew a living agency was at work. Job growled. Ambrose clutched his muzzle.
Suddenly a whisper stole through the dark—in his amazement Ambrose could not have told from what quarter. "Angleysman! Angleysman!"
Awe of the supernatural shook Ambrose's breast. He had come straight from deep slumber. A fine perspiration broke out upon him. It was a woman's whisper, with a tender lift and fall in the sound.