"I am sick, sick unto death," continued the colonel.
"Then I will report you to the head keeper," said the man quickly, "and he will report you to the governor, and he will--I don't know what he'll think proper to do."
"In the meantime must I go back to that hell?" said the colonel. "Give me a knife and let me cut my throat!"
"We don't have that sort of thing done here," answered the jailer; "we keep no knives and no ropes inside the jail."
"Listen!" said Reginald. "Surely there must be some place, some cell in which there are three or four privileged prisoners, where you could manage to put my father until I take measures for his removal. Go at once and speak to the head jailer."
Saying this, Reginald put money into the man's hand. "Not a groat more do you get," he said, "if you do not succeed, but I will double it if you do."
He turned away, and, taking his father by the arm, succeeded in finding a seat in a far corner of the room.
"See, Father, I have brought you food!" he said. He cut the strings of a basket which he had been carrying and drew forth a pasty, some white bread, and a flask of brandy.
The prisoner flew at the brandy. Reginald was forced to stop him.
"Gently, Father, gently," he said, "you will make yourself ill; there is no hurry." And he handed him bread and meat, which he ate ravenously.