“Have they all deserted me?” he said to himself, clasping his hands. “Mr Kyffin would not, I am sure, and Mabel—she knows nothing of my desperate state. Would that I had written to her. Some effort might have been made to save me; but I could not bear the thought of writing to her as a felon, to let her hand touch the paper smelling of this foul prison. Better far that I should die unknown. When the wretched Andrew Brown is run up to the yard-arm there will be no one to mourn him, and Harry Tryon may disappear without a stain of disgrace upon the name.”
He attempted to rise—he could do so with difficulty—to take a few turns up and down the narrow cell. Scarcely ever was he left in silence. There was the ripple of the water against the ship’s side; above him the steps of other prisoners as they, like him, paced to and fro. Now and then there were shouts and cries of men driven to despair by their approaching fate, others singing and shouting with careless indifference. It was weary work, that prison walk, for the chains were heavy. The gyves hurt his legs. Again he sat himself down, and clasped his hands upon his knees.
“Death! death will be welcome!” he exclaimed, “the only termination to my misery and shame.”
As he thus sat his ears caught the sound of footsteps moving along the passage outside. The lock in the heavy door moved, it opened, and a bright light which dazzled his eyes burst in.
“They are come,” he thought, “to carry me off.”
“I am ready,” he said, starting up, expecting to see the gaoler and the guard of soldiers. Instead, as his eyes recovered their vision, he saw standing before him his ever faithful guardian Roger Kyffin. He sprang forward, then stopped for a moment and hung down his head.
“You cannot come to own a wretched convict like me,” he exclaimed, in a tone of sadness.
“Do not say that, Harry,” answered Mr Kyffin, stepping forward and taking his hands. “Not a moment’s rest or happiness have I enjoyed since I learned the dangerous position in which you were placed. Do not doubt the regard I must ever have for you. I have discovered how you have been deceived, and how you were induced to desert your truest friend; I have therefore every excuse for you. I have learned that even in this instance you are guiltless of disloyalty, and, believe me, Harry, however guilty you have been, I should still have looked upon you as a son.”
“You make me desire once more to live,” exclaimed Harry, for the first time perhaps in his life bursting into tears. “I thought no one cared for me. I was prepared to die unknown and unlamented; and oh! tell me, Mr Kyffin, does Mabel know of my condition?—has she discarded me?”
His voice trembled. He looked eagerly in his guardian’s face for a reply.