In spite of the kindness I was receiving from the governor, I could not help recollecting that I might at any time be led out and shot, or be put to death in a more ignoble way. My wound, too, did not heal; and at last I tried to persuade the jailer to take a message to the governor, requesting that I might be attended by a surgeon. The man shrugged his shoulders,—observing that he believed no surgeons were to be found in the place, and, as far as he could judge, a father-confessor would be a more fitting visitor.
“You think, then, that I am about to die?” I asked.
“To tell you the truth, señor, I believe that if you don’t die of your wound, you will, very shortly, in some other way,” he replied, giving a sardonic grin. “General Morillo is expected here. He is sure to order a jail delivery, as we cannot take charge of more than a certain number of prisoners; and it is said that we shall soon have a fresh arrival of captured rebels.”
This information was not very consolatory; it made me doubly anxious to get well, that I might try to effect my escape, so I again pressed the jailer to obtain the favour I asked. He consented; and next day, when he visited my cell, he told me that the commandant had sent into the town to ascertain if a surgeon was to be found, and if so that he would be allowed to visit me. The jailer, however, again urged me to see a confessor, in case I should die. I did not say that I certainly should not confess to him if he came, but merely remarked that I would prefer having a surgeon; who might at all events let me know should he think my case hopeless—and if not, try to cure me.
Some days passed by; and my wound remained in the same state as before, causing me much suffering. At last, one forenoon the door opened, and instead of my jailer, whom I had expected, I saw a tall figure, with a cloak over his shoulders, and a slouched hat, standing in the doorway.
“Here is the surgeon come to do what he can for you,” said the jailer, who put his head in behind the stranger. “Take my advice, and as soon as he is gone let me bring the father-confessor to you.—He will be of most service in the end. Now, señor surgeon, you will not be long about it.”
“I may take half an hour, or possibly an hour,” answered the stranger, in execrably bad Spanish.
I knew the voice,—it was that of Doctor Stutterheim. I had difficulty in restraining myself from jumping up and shaking him by the hand; but I had sense enough to wait till the jailer had closed the door and retired.
“Why, Barry, my boy—Barry! it is you, then! I thought it must be, from the account I heard,” said the doctor in a low voice as he approached me.
“I am indeed Barry, my kind friend,” I exclaimed, stretching out my hand. “How did you manage to discover me?”