His heart scarce beats at all! Ah, well, it is time he should be gone! But to die alone! Were daylight but here, he might summon help—might get from the dispensary some relieving draught, or soothing powder, wherewith to blunt the dreaded sting of Death.
A sudden thought flashes through his troubled brain. There, just beside the dead man's bed, stands his medicine! A small phial half-filled with dark-brown liquid; he read its label, idly, as he sat beside the sufferer—"Cough Drops." Summoning such strength as he can command, he staggers across the room, and, eagerly seizing the phial, drains it to the dregs. This composite remedy is well-freighted with morphine, and, though perfectly safe in moderate doses, is by no means to be administered ad libitum. Opium, as we know, is dual in effect, inducing irregular and excited brain action, as well as coma. This over-liberal potion of "Cough Drops" works swift wonders in Henderson's sensitive, excitable organism. He is soon upon his feet again, and, as he says gaily to himself, "As bright as ever, and well-nigh as strong." A sensuous delight in existence again thrills his torpid being; a wild eager craving to taste once more its long withheld joy! "Die to-night? Ah, no! How could he have imagined a thing so unlikely? He is but a young man yet, and life lies long and pleasant before him. Stimulated by his energizing draught, he presses eagerly to the window, and, grasping its hindering bars,—in a spurt of the old-time Herculean strength,—wrenches at them mightily. They are fast and strong. In the scuttle they are wider apart, and, apparently, more slender. The summer wind steals deliciously in. Ah! these are but mere thimblefuls. Outside, now, a man might take his fill. The old sea longing is again hot within him. Outside these cruel bars it lies, broad and fair, as of old. The whole wide world is there! Liberty, happiness, and maybe health. At least, leave to die outside of prison walls.
"Why! Men smothering in subterranean dungeons have, like burrowing moles, groped their slow way to freedom; while he"—a swift thought illumines his seething brain, sending the life-tide swifter through his pulses, and electrifying his entire being! The saw! the dead man's saw! There it is, safe in the shoe, and not in vain has Heaven graciously discovered it to him! Still reverent of the belongings of the dead, he takes in his hand the precious shoe, removes from it the secreted implement, and, in a moment more, is eagerly at work. Noiselessly placing a small table beneath the scuttle, he finds it still beyond his reach. Placing a stool upon the table, he mounts it, and is soon sawing away at the bars above him. In this aperture, designed rather for sanitary than illuminating purposes, the bars are comparatively wide apart, and far more slender than the window gratings. The removal of a single bar will give egress to his emaciated form. The saw works well. His task is soon accomplished,—the dead man all the while (as he excitedly fancies) angrily staring from the bed. Faugh! How close the air is in this infernal place! A moment ago he was fast here, locked in with a horrible thing that grins and glares at a man, and is already decomposing! It is over now. In a moment more, he will have left it all; will be free. The coarse covering of an empty cot is soon torn into strong strips. Deftly knotting these together, sailor-wise, he tucks the improvised rope under his arm, and, holding it fast, climbs out upon the roof, and, creeping cautiously on all fours to its extremity, has secured it firmly to the spout.
Clinging desperately to his flimsy tackle, he lowers himself, hand over hand, to its end. He is still at a remove of twenty feet from the ground.
Under normal mental conditions, Henderson might have demurred at so bold a fall; now, no whit appalled, he loosens his hold, and drops, scarcely bruised, to the earth. Kissing in ecstacy the clammy ground, he looks mutely up to heaven. It is a prayer! And, rising to his feet, he hastily puts off his heavy shoes (which in the hurry and excitement of departure he has forgotten to remove), and, listening intently for the night watchman's patrolling step, assures himself that he is at this moment reconnoitering some distant stretch of his beat. Now is the time! Stealthily gaining the wall, he looks cautiously about him; selecting a spot comfortably distant from a sentry-box, with a pile of refuse lumber and some empty lime barrels, providentially at hand, he improvises a rude scaffolding, and, eagerly mounting it, clambers in safety to the top.
A neighbouring clock is striking two. The night is cloudy. There will be no moon, and not a star to be seen. It is an easy thing to manage the rest; and, well beyond the prison walls, it cannot be far to that goal of his longing—the sea.
Safe, though somewhat shaken by his bold fall, he finds his legs and pushes resolutely on. He moves but slowly. Through long disuse, his locomotion has become rusty; yet, keeping steadily to his snail-like pace, he threads the deserted streets, and presently finds himself upon the broad highway. He has grasped his clew; and, following it, presses bravely on. The shoeless feet, already hurt and bleeding, get wearily over the rough, hard ground. The clouds are breaking; and, here and there, a kindly star twinkles upon his pathway.
His spurious strength—opium-engendered and ephemerally sustained by this new wine of liberty—is waning.
The road lies long before him. He drags wearily on. He stumbles often, and once has even fallen from sheer exhaustion. At last he diverges, instinctively, from the travelled highway. Another weary pull. Now on a scarce-rutted wagon track, across open grassy flats, and then a sudden pause—a thrill of ecstatic joy! The salt sea-breeze is in his eager nostrils! "O God! O blessed God! it is the sea!" and for eighteen weary years he has not once "snuffed brine!" He hears it, singing in the dear old monotone; and, in a moment more, here it is, spread out before him, grand as ever, and wide! Oh, how wide!
Tottering feebly across the sands down to its very foam-fringed edge, he sinks tremblingly upon his knees, and in ecstacy hugs the wet shore. His strained muscles relax, and, too spent to rise, he stretches himself upon the strand. His brain is hazy with morphine. A drowsy bliss balms his tired senses. He looks dreamily at the broad heaven (already flushed with coming day), and, fondly searching its half-forgotten face, mutters drowsily to himself: "What! all that sky? How wide the world is!" He closes his eyes for the moment, oppressed with the weight of immensity! His mood changes suddenly to one of eager, childish delight. Far out at sea, through the soft bloom of dawn's red rose, the sun is emerging from his bath of flame, a huge disk of fire. Raising himself wearily upon his elbow, he watches its unaccustomed face with curious half-recognition. "The sun? yes, this must be the sun! Ages ago he saw it rise out of the sea. Somebody was with him then. Who was it? His name was—what was his name? and where is he now?