The tribune good-naturedly resumed his chair.
“I will hurry,” said the keeper, humbly, “only let me ask another question. Had I not a right to believe Gratus in what he further told me as to the prisoners in cell number V.?”
“Yes, it was thy duty to believe there were three prisoners in the cell—prisoners of state—blind and without tongues.”
“Well,” said the keeper, “that was not true either.”
“No!” said the tribune, with returning interest.
“Hear, and judge for yourself, O tribune. As required, I visited all the cells, beginning with those on the first floor, and ending with those on the lower. The order that the door of number V. should not be opened had been respected; through all the eight years food and drink for three men had been passed through a hole in the wall. I went to the door yesterday, curious to see the wretches who, against all expectation, had lived so long. The locks refused the key. We pulled a little, and the door fell down, rusted from its hinges. Going in, I found but one man, old, blind, tongueless, and naked. His hair dropped in stiffened mats below his waist. His skin was like the parchment there. He held his hands out, and the finger-nails curled and twisted like the claws of a bird. I asked him where his companions were. He shook his head in denial. Thinking to find the others, we searched the cell. The floor was dry; so were the walls. If three men had been shut in there, and two of them had died, at least their bones would have endured.”
“Wherefore thou thinkest—”
“I think, O tribune, there has been but one prisoner there in the eight years.”
The chief regarded the keeper sharply, and said, “Have a care; thou art more than saying Valerius lied.”
Gesius bowed, but said, “He might have been mistaken.”