I felt spiteful—vengeful. I was stung to a desire for retaliation, and along with this came an eagerness to live for the opportunity of indulging in this passion.
I began to look around our prison, and see what chances it afforded for escape.
“Good heavens! if our being transferred to the cell should destroy the plans of Narcisso! How is he to reach us? The door is double-locked, and a sentry is pacing without.”
After several painful efforts I raised myself upon my feet, propping my body against the side of the prison. There was an aperture—a window about as large as a loophole for musketry. I spun myself along the wall until I stood directly under it. It was just the height of my chin. Cautioning my companions to silence, I placed my ear to the aperture and listened. A low sound came wailing from the fields without. I did not heed this. I knew it was the wolf. It rose again, louder than before. A peculiarity in the howl struck me, and I turned, calling to Raoul.
“What is it, Captain?” inquired he.
“Do you know if the prairie wolf is found here?”
“I do not know if it be the true prairie wolf, Captain. There is one something like the coyote.”
I returned to the aperture and listened.
“Again the howl of the prairie wolf—the bark! By heavens! it is Lincoln!”
Now it ceased for several minutes, and then came again, but from another direction.