“Oh, Colin!” she cried.
His eyes opened, peeringly; he struggled into a sitting posture, and pressed a hand to his brow,
“Why, it’s Kitty!” he said, with a laugh that died abruptly. “I’d forgotten,” he muttered.
A short pause, then—“So we’re both prisoners. But he won’t starve you, Kitty. Well, I hope our jailer is enjoying himself while it lasts. Oh, you’re there, Symington! Kitty, has he told you about the thrashing I gave him the other night?”
Symington turned away with a badly suppressed snarl.
“Oh, did you, Colin? Thank you, thank you! But, Colin, what am I to do? He’s starving you, and says he’ll give you nothing till I promise to marry him.”
“Really! What a gentleman he is! Of course you’ll marry him!”
“Come!” said Symington roughly.
Kitty held on to the bars. “Colin, I’m starving myself—”
“No, no! For God’s sake, Kitty—” Colin rose, but staggered. “I’ll pull through. And don’t you be afraid. It’s only for a little longer,” he said, and got to the door. “Let me touch your hand, Kitty, and I’ll pull through.”