"It is a heavy stone, and I have been thinking how it can be moved," said "No. 5," and he smiled at the officer. He was not the Sydney of old, but a woe-begone creature, obviously sixty years of age, on whose thin frame the gray clothes hung in loose folds.
The officer thought "No. 5" was making fun of him, and he became angry.
"No use thinking," he shouted; "move the stone."
"No. 5" tried again, but his starveling strength could not shake a tenth of its weight.
"Here, you, 16," cried the officer to the old Duke; "bear a hand here. Your mate says he can't move that stone."
"No. 16" and "No. 5" applied their united force to the stone, but it remained as before. The two poor old fellows regarded it with perplexity while furtively watching the officer. It was pitiful to see the expression of simulated mortification on their faces, which was meant to placate the Warder.
"Let me assist them," said Geoffrey to the officer, and he got a good "purchase" on the block and easily heaved it from its bed.
"No. 16," the old Duke, bowed his thanks, and "No. 5" pressed Geoffrey's hand. The officer, more rough than cruel, turned away to hide a smile at the courtesies of his charge. Soon after, he gave them instructions about the work, and left them, going down to "The Farm" to superintend the making of a new drain.
"This is heavy work, Duke," said Geoffrey to the old man; "but we ought to be thankful for the sentiment which sends us to do it instead of the criminals."
"I suppose so," said the Duke, in a desponding tone; "but it is not pleasant to think that after a century and a half the tomb of political prisoners in Dartmoor should be repaired by the hands of political prisoners."