"I don't know exactly," was the answer; "but I believe you was informed upon by some woman. Good night. Here's the candle."
The prisoner cast himself upon the bed, as the key grated again in the lock, and was fast asleep before the poor fellows down stairs had extinguished their miserable lights.
In the morning the friendly keeper brought him his breakfast, consisting of a cup of something very much like "sacred soil" after a heavy rain, two geological biscuits and a copy of the Richmond Whig.
"What do you call this stuff?" asked Mr. Peters, ruefully eyeing the contents of the cup.
"Coffee," replied the keeper, blandly, "real Mocha."
Mr. Peters was silent. To call such fluid Mocha was sheer mockery.
The biscuits dispatched and the coffee defied, the captive betook himself to deep and admiring contemplation of the newspaper; and was deriving much valuable instruction from an article written to prove how skilfully and ingeniously the Southern Confederacy had struck a telling blow at its ruthless invaders by strategetically surrendering Norfolk, when an early visitor was admitted. Said visitor was a young man contained in a picturesquely-tattered uniform, with a fatigue cap on his head and a rusty sword rattling at his heels.
"Bob, my boy," said he, "how the mischief did you get into this scrape?"
"This is some of your family's Chivalry," responded Mr. Peters, shortly.