It wanted yet an hour of noon, when, excepting the occasional clash of arms in the court-yard, where De Marsiac had quartered his men, all sounds in the mansion ceased. The room in which Harding found himself imprisoned, had but one small window, and this was protected by strong, vertical iron bars, in the fashion of the country. The only door opened upon a corridor, along the stone pavement of which the prisoner could distinctly hear the footsteps of a sentinel, approaching and receding, but never quite going beyond earshot. As if to secure him, beyond the possibility of escape, another armed man passed, from time to time, before the window, looking curiously in at each return, and never disappearing for more than five minutes. Harding, as the reader has perceived, was a decidedly brave man; but when he reflected upon the meaning of these precautions, and the character of the man into whose power he had fallen, he could not avoid some apprehension as to his fate. Fatigue, however, soon overcame his fears, and the drowsy monotony of noonday conquered his wakefulness. Seating himself in the deep window, he leaned his head against the bars and slept.
When he awoke, the sun was declining toward the horizon, and the shadows of the trees were lengthening along the hills. He aroused himself and looked about him. His window commanded a view of the garden, in which he had met Margarita, and a part of the river, along which he had entered. The waters had subsided since morning, and the arches under the wall were proportionably more open; but escape in this direction, even had he been able to break his prison, was cut off by two sentinels who stood upon the river-bank, and never, for a moment, turned their eyes from his window.
None but those who are deprived of it, can fully appreciate the blessing of freedom; but even their hopelessness may be deepened, by the view of waving fields and clear sunlight, when they feel that it is not for them that they wave and shine. Harding turned away from the window, sick at heart, and with rapid and impatient strides paced up and down the narrow floor. As he passed the door for the fourth or fifth time, he heard voices without, as if in altercation, and the next moment, a heavy step coming along the corridor.
“What do you want here?” roughly demanded a voice, which Harding at once recognized as that of the count.
“I was taking the Americano something to eat,” timidly answered the smaller of the voices, before in altercation.
“Let him pass,” the count ordered the sentinel; and then added, aloud, as if on purpose to be heard within, “and tell the Americano that he had better eat heartily, for it will be his last meal!”
“Si, señor,” said the boy, and at the same moment the door was cautiously opened, so as to preclude all chance of escape, and the peon entered, bearing a small waiter, on which were placed some articles of food.
Harding turned away, in no mood for eating—though he had tasted nothing since morning. He had heard De Marsiac’s threat, and the character of his enemy left him little reason to doubt that he would put it into execution. He had hoped that his messenger would return from Anelo in time to save him; but now all prospect of that seemed cut off; for he knew that the count was not a man to delay when he had once taken his resolution. As this thought flashed across his mind, he wheeled suddenly round, determined to rush forth and try the chances of a fight; but before he could do so, the door was drawn violently to, and hastily bolted.
“The señor will eat something?” said the boy, timidly.
“Set it down, then, and begone!” answered the prisoner, pointing to a wooden bench at the side of the room.