"Hold forth your hand," muttered the refugee, "and cast me the end of your neckcloth. You shall have files and aquafortis; and to-morrow night you shall be free. Cast out the neckcloth."
"I cannot," replied the prisoner, with a voice of despair; "I cannot reach the bars, even if I had files to cut them. What shall I do? Oh, brother, brother! why did you leave me? Speak, brother, for Heaven's sake, speak! Can you help me?"
The refugee remained silent, apparently struck dumb, either by the reproach of his brother, or by the discovery of his inability to help himself; and Hyland, imagining that his silence was owing to some sudden alarm, held his own peace, awaiting the event. In a short time, however, the refugee spoke again: the whisper was as low as before, but it was broken by some strong tumult of feeling.
"I can not help you, Hyland," he said,—"unless, unless——But hold; I will fling a file through the bars, and you can saw yourself free. Throw your bed on the floor under the window, that it may make no noise. Are you ready?"
"I am," said Hyland; and the next instant he heard the steel instrument strike upon the bars of the grating, whence it fell ringing among the stones in the yard. A second was cast with better effect, and entering the window, fell upon the couch. But as if fate now designed to tantalize the unhappy youth into distraction, he no sooner sought to obtain it by dragging the bed towards him, than he heard it fall off upon the floor, where it remained beyond his reach, and must remain until discovered by the jailer. This mishap being communicated to Oran, drew from him an exclamation, in which Hyland was made aware of his hopeless situation:
"God help you!" he cried, "I can do no more."
"Yes, Oran, yes!" exclaimed the prisoner, "you can help me yet. Throw me a knife"——
"Hah!" said Oran, "and you will use it on the jailer? ay! as he bears you to the court house, in the morning! Strike him in the throat—I will be by, and, perhaps—Well, well, you will at least die like a man, not like a dog. Will you kill him?"
"No!" said the youth; "God pardon me the blood I have shed already: I will never more harm a human being—no, not even to save my wretched body from shame. Yet throw it to me, throw it to me!"
"And for what?" muttered Oran, in tones scarce audible.