They were now on town property, and almost opposite them was the prison. The river here took a sudden bend, and the old red building crowned, or rather disfigured, a slight eminence on a spur of land running out in the water.
Its ugly old face did indeed, as Captain White said, scowl at the surrounding landscape, and its most malevolent glances were bestowed on the magnificent property of French Cross that followed so smoothly the curve and graceful lines of the wandering Rossignol. The sullen, low-browed structure was fortunately going to ruin. Many years had elapsed since the prisoners had been removed from it to a smart new building of gray Albert freestone, erected in the centre of the town.
The windows were broken in, there were great holes in the overhanging roof that was placed like an extinguisher atop of the red walls, yet the prison was in its decay a more favourite haunt of the towns people than it had been in its prime.
Owing to its situation, the view from its ruinous tower was far-reaching and unique. It was the vantage-ground from which to survey the towers and steeples of Rossignol, the opening of the verdant Bay, French Cross and the wooded country beyond, and more extensive still, the low green fields across the river, swelling up to the fertile farms and beautiful rolling country stretching far away to the horizon.
Derrice and Captain White entered the prison yard, once high-walled and guarded by a ponderous gate, but now broken down as to its walls, and unprotected as to its gate, that lay ignominiously on its side, spurned by the foot of every passer-by.
They went lightly over the gate and across the wide yard, then, entering the tumble-down door, looked into a small room on the right, formerly the office for receiving and discharging prisoners.
"No prison smell now," said Captain White, sniffing the air. "The wind of heaven blows through empty sashes. See that three-legged table hipping into the corner. You've had to come down in the world, old fellow. Many a time I've seen unlucky fellows propping themselves against you. Now you'd be glad of a leg yourself."
"Dear Captain White," cried Derrice, "don't, don't speak of those days. I love to think of this place as deserted, the prisoners dead or happy. Don't tell me stories about them."
"All right," he returned, gallantly. "We'll say angels dwelt here. Poor, misguided angels with a dash of saints among 'em— Just wait a bit before you go up aloft. I've not been here for some time. I want to have a look at the old feeding-place,—beg pardon, their dining-saloon,"—and advancing along the corridor he struck his fist against a door, massive in appearance, but in reality rusting on its hinges, and yielding readily to his assault.
"This is where they used to be sprawling, or rather reclining, when you came in," he said, indicating a small space dominated by open galleries. "Black, white, and gray, in their dirty prison dress, or rather their beautiful white gowns, with their pretty wings folded so tight you couldn't see 'em. They manage these houses of detention for martyrs differently now, thank Heaven. Come on here, little girl."