“Niver a taste,” said the Irishman before mentioned, “’tis bein’ led, they are, to exekooshion—”
The remainder of this consolatory suggestion was cut off by the shutting of the door.
After traversing several passages, the turnkey stopped before a small door studded with iron nails, and, selecting one of his huge keys, opened it, while the soldiers ranged up on either side.
The turnkey, who was a tall, powerful man, stepped back, and, looking at Bill, pointed to the cell with his finger, as much as to say, “Go in.”
Bill looked at him and at the soldiers for a moment, clenched his fists, and drew his breath short, but as one of the guard quietly brought his musket to the charge, he heaved a sigh, bent his head, and, passing under the low doorway, entered the cell.
“Are we to stop long here, Mister Turnkey?” asked Ben, as he was about to follow.
The man vouchsafed no reply, but again pointed to the cell.
“I’ve always heered ye wos a purlite nation,” said Ben, as he followed his messmate; “but there’s room for improvement.”
The door was shut, and the two friends stood for a few minutes in the centre of their cell, gazing in silence around the blank walls.
The appearance of their prison was undoubtedly depressing, for there was nothing whatever in it to arrest the eye, except a wooden bench in one corner, and the small grated window which was situated near the top of one of the walls.