"Do you know what this reminds me of, Bob?" said he; "of a picture I saw once of Christ nailed to the Cross, and a little tiny bird that was sorry for Him, trying hard with its poor wee beak to pull the nails out of His hands, and set Him free. I used to think I should like to be that bird; and now I have been like it in a sort of a way, for I've set your hands free, haven't I?"
A long shiver ran through the soldier's hardy frame, and he was about to speak, when a measured tramp was heard outside, a short, sharp order was given, and then the door swung back, revealing the uniforms of a corporal's guard.
But when the soldiers saw Freddy (whose absence had already been noticed and wondered at) in the cell with the prisoner, they exchanged looks of blank amazement, not wholly untinged with superstitious awe.
Was he indeed, then, what they had often called him—an angel sent down to undo the evil wrought by the merciless harshness of his iron-hearted father? How else could he have come into this lockfast place, with a sentry at its door, and (as they thought) no other available access?
One of the men entered the cell to bring out the prisoner, and Burton recognised his chum Tom Tuffen.
"What'll they do with me, Tom?" asked he in a whisper; "dose o' lead pills, eh?"
"No such luck, Bob," replied the other gloomily, in the same low tone; "down to the depot at Kalipur!"
"Then I knows wot I've got to expect," said the doomed man with a sickly smile. "That's wot they calls 'commutin' the death-penalty,' I s'pose; if they'd commuted the penalty to death, there 'ud ha' been more sense in it!—Jist tie my 'ands agin, will yer, Tom? I don't want the little chap to git into trouble for undoin' 'em!"
"Jist tie my 'ands agin, will yer, Tom?"