You answer "Yes "--what can you tell him? He disappears and bangs the door. At half-past seven there is a sound of the unlocking of locks and of footsteps. The warder, reappearing, hands you a tin and a loaf, own brother to those which you received last night.
"Can't I wash?"
"Haven't you any water?" He looks round your cell. "You haven't a water can. I'll bring you one."
He presently does--a round, open tin, painted a vivid blue, containing perhaps three quarts of water. You fill your basin and wash--the first pleasant thing you have done since you saw the gaol. Then you consider your breakfast. You are hungry, hungrier than you would have been at home--but you cannot manage the gruel, and the bread still less. Apart from the flavour, the gruel is in such a dirty tin that you cannot but suspect its contents of being dirty too. The bread is hard, dry and sour, bearing not the faintest resemblance to any of the numerous varieties of bread which you have tasted. Hungry as you are, you give up the attempt at eating. Sitting on the bed, you take up Quentin Durward, which these many years you have almost known by heart. About half-past ten your door is thrown wide open.
"Stand up for the governor!" cries a warder.
You stand up. A short man is in front of you without a hat on, attired in civilian costume. Between fifty and sixty, with grey hair and beard, carrying a pair of glasses in his hand, quiet and unassuming--a gentleman, every inch of him. He puts to you the same sort of questions which have already been put to you by the officers at the gate.
"What are you here for? Where do you come from? Have you"--here was a variation--"anything to ask me?"
"Can I not work while I am here?"
"What are you?"
"An author. I have a commission for some work. If I cannot do it while I am here, I shall not be able to get it in in time."