Fortunately, extreme measures of this nature were unnecessary, for after a few moments Surrennes calmed down, and seating himself beside me on the cot, drained his water-pitcher to the dregs, and began.
"Excuse me for not offering you a drink," he said, "but the wine they serve here while moist is hardly what a connoisseur would choose except for bathing purposes, and I compliment you by assuming that you do not wish to taste it."
"Thank you," I said. "I do not like to take water straight, exactly. I always dilute it, in fact, with a little of this."
Here I extracted a small flask from my pocket and handed it to him.
"Ah!" he said, smacking his lips as he took a long pull at its contents, "that puts spirit into a man."
"Yes, it does," I replied, ruefully, as I noted that he had left me very little but the flask; "but I don't think it was necessary for you to deprive me of all mine."
"No; that is, you can't appreciate the necessity unless you—er—you have suffered in your life as I am suffering. You were never sent up yourself?"
I gave him a glance which was all indignation. "I guess not," I said. "I have led a life that is above reproach."
"Good!" he replied. "And what a satisfaction that is, eh? I don't believe I'd be able to stand this jail life if it wasn't for my conscience, which is as clear and clean as it would be if I'd never used it."
"Would you mind telling me what your defence was?" I asked.