A week of my imprisonment passed without event. Once a day, generally in the early morning, Boswell or the Moor appeared, placing food and water and fuel within my reach. When they had gone, I had the freedom of the corridor and the rooms or cells opening into it, and I shuffled about with a brand from the fire in my hand—the lamp had been carried off—rather despairingly seeking to discover some outlet, or what might be made into one; but there was not even a crack through which daylight might be perceived, and the floor everywhere was of solid stone. The door at the end of the corridor was thick and heavy, and strengthened with iron bands. I beat on it by the hour together, shouting and yelling as loud as I could, on the chance that some one might come within earshot. I searched every nook and corner for a file, or what might serve the purpose of a file, but in vain. I attempted to break my bonds by jerking and straining, but the only result was hurt to myself. When too much spent for such efforts, and weary of prowling and prying, I endeavoured to guess what were the intentions of my gaolers, and what my friends might be doing on my behalf, but got small light or comfort by this means. I thought it likely my father would give little heed to what Luke might say to him; he might even imagine I was hiding somewhere. If my man went to Dick Portington, there might be quest made for me, but it would naturally go after Vliet, and if he stuck to the tale which Boswell had put into his mouth, nothing would ensue of advantage to me. I grew frantic when I pictured to myself Anna's perplexity and distress; but in one short week I sank into a kind of lethargy, which was broken now and then by fits of rage—helpless, foolish rage. Used as I was to freedom, light, air, exercise, good food, the confinement in the dark told on my health and spirits greatly. If my gaoler had not given me fire, I think I should have lost my wits. It was, indeed, a friend to me.
On the eighth day, Boswell paid me a visit in the evening, and brought me much better fare than had been supplied during the week. He was attended by several men, who did not enter my dungeon, but made merry in the chamber adjoining mine. He spread the table with decent viands, and produced a bottle of wine, the black man coming and going all the time on one errand or another, both being weaponed. When supper was laid, Boswell removed my manacles and fetters, and invited me to eat and drink; and I drew up to table, thinking, as I took knife into my hand, now free, that the best use to which I could put it would be to cut the fellow's throat; but, as I should be all the better of meat and wine, I decided to wait until after supper. He smiled, as if he read my thoughts, and called out, "Hal, Pete, Robin, have you your tools handy?" But he did not quite understand my notion, which was that it might be a good thing to make an end of him, whatever might happen to me afterwards. When I had finished my meal, Boswell said—
"I have to make you an offer, which will not be made again, if you refuse it. If you will put yourself into my hands, I will have you conveyed out of this country, and set free with money enough in your purse to equip yourself like a gentleman."
"Is it part of your conditions that I see nobody—speak to nobody—and disappear without the knowledge of my friends?" I asked.
"Assuredly."
"Then I decline your offer."
"Consider well," he replied. "You will disappear, whether you accept or refuse. You have disappeared already. If you agree to my proposal, you will find yourself free, with a well-filled purse. You will be some thousands of miles away from England; but there will be nothing to hinder your return, if you desire to return."
"And what will happen to me if I refuse?"
"You will find yourself far away from home and friends, penniless, helpless, a hopeless slave."
"Why should you be at so much trouble in disposing of me? Why not kill me here?"