"Spoken well!" he nodded. "You'll die smiling, yet. As for the Spaniards yonder, they'll sail off squalling. It's their nature; I know."
He rose and glanced curiously at Mount.
"You have not followed the sea?" he asked.
Mount shook his head absently.
"Highway?"
"At intervals."
"Well, do you know anything about this place called Death?" asked the Englishman, with a sneer.
"I expect to find a friend there," said Mount, looking up serenely.
At that moment a faint metallic sound broke on our ears. It seemed to come from the depths of the prison. We listened; the Spaniards also ceased their moaning and sat up, alert and quiet. The sound came again—silence—then the measured cadence of footfalls.
Mount had risen; I also stood up. The Spaniards burrowed into the straw, squealing like rats. Tramp, tramp, tramp, came the heavy footfalls along the corridor; the ruddy gleam of lanthorns played over the wicket.