‘Heavens!’ exclaimed young Hayward suddenly; ‘Come here, Philip! quick!’
Dalton darted across the apartment, and Charles pointed to a small writing scratched in the plaster with a pin or nail; it was plain even to his swimming eyes and sickened heart.
‘Herbert Compton.
‘May 24, 17—. Many have been thrown from this abode of death; I have waited my turn; it will come to-morrow; it will deliver me from a life of misery and—’
There was no more—a stone flung against the wall had hit the rest and obliterated it.
Philip sank down and groaned aloud. That there should be such an end to his hopes, which this proved to have had foundation, was hard indeed to bear. Awhile Charles strove to comfort him, but both their hearts were sick, and they were poor comforters one to another.
‘There may be further trace of him,’ said Philip; ‘let us look around.’
They did so. For a while they found nothing, but at length a joyful cry again broke forth from Charles. ‘God be praised!’ he said, ‘come here and read, Philip.’
The writing on the wall was rough and misshapen, but they were characters of blessed hope to both; the words were these:—
‘Captin Comtin was taking awey from this horible pleace verry ill, on the day of—