“Very sorry, your reverence; but your reverence knows that I daren't do such a thing.” “Mr. North!” screamed Kirkland. “Would you see me perish, body and soul, in this place? Mr. North! Oh, you ministers of Christ—wolves in sheep's clothing—you shall be judged for this!”
“Let him out!” cried North again, stamping his foot.
“It's no good,” returned the gaoler. “I can't. If he was dying, I can't.”
North rushed away to the Commandant, and the instant his back was turned, Hailes, the watchman, flung open the door, and darted into the dormitory.
“Take that!” he cried, dealing Kirkland a blow on the head with his keys, that stretched him senseless. “There's more trouble with you bloody aristocrats than enough. Lie quiet!”
The Commandant, roused from slumber, told Mr. North that Kirkland might stop where he was, and that he'd thank the chaplain not to wake him up in the middle of the night because a blank prisoner set up a blank howling.
“But, my good sir,” protested North, restraining his impulse to overstep the bounds of modesty in his language to his superior officer, “you know the character of the men in that ward. You can guess what that unhappy boy has suffered.”
“Impertinent young beggar!” said Burgess. “Do him good, curse him! Mr. North, I'm sorry you should have had the trouble to come here, but will you let me go to sleep?”
North returned to the prison disconsolately, found the dutiful Hailes at his post, and all quiet.
“What's become of Kirkland?” he asked.