The negro was seated on the ground, for, on account of his height, he could not stand upright. He was not alone, an enormous dog was crouched at his feet, which rose with a growl, and moved toward me.
“Rask,” cried the negro.
The dog ceased growling, and again laid down at his master’s feet, and began eating some coarse food.
I was in uniform, and the daylight that came through the loophole in the wall of the cell was so feeble that Pierrot could not recognize my features.
“I am ready,” said he, in a clear voice.
“I thought,” remarked I, surprised at the ease with which he moved, “that you were in irons.”
He kicked something that jingled.
“Irons; oh, I broke them.”
There was something in the tone in which he uttered these words, that seemed to say, “I was not born to wear fetters.”
I continued: “I did not know that they had permitted you to have a dog with you.”