As for society, there was the chaplain.  This gentleman could make nothing of Richard, though he tried his best.  It was evident to him that the young man had something on his mind; if he would only confide in his spiritual adviser, he assured him comfort could be administered.  But no confidence ever took place.  It was a most distressing case; here was a youth of superior position, and well educated, as obstinate and stubborn as the most hardened criminal in the establishment.  His Bible was never opened.  One of his warders had expressed his opinion that No. 421 was vindictive, but he (the chaplain) was bound to say he had observed nothing of that.  The remarks in his note-book respecting 421 were these:  “Richard Yorke—­aged twenty, looks ten years older; reserved and cynical; a hopeless infidel, but respectful, uncomplaining, and well-mannered.”

Richard had been reported more than once for “inattention to orders,” and had lost some of his good marks accordingly.  The cause of this was one over which he could now be scarcely said to have control.  He had become so absent and distrait that he sometimes hardly knew what was going on about him.  The perpetual brooding in which he indulged had, in fact, already postponed the accomplishment of the very object which enthralled his thoughts.  The effect of this was serious; and he had good reason for the apprehension which seized him, that his wits might leave him before that day of liberty arrived, which was still so many years distant.  On account of his previous calling, which was described in the prison books as landscape-painter, he had been put to a handicraft trade; but he now applied for harrow-work, and the surgeon seconded his application.  This change of occupation, which was destined in some respects to be beneficial, proved at the outset most unfortunate.  The outdoor toil was mostly spade and barrow labor on the moor, on which the convicts worked in gangs—­each gang under supervision of two warders, armed with sword and musket.  The first face that Richard’s eyes lit on, when he found himself in the open, with the free air of heaven blowing on him, and already, as it seemed, bearing the seeds of health and hope, was that of Robert Balfour.  In his joyous excitement he sprang forward and held out his hand; the other hesitated—­for the old cracksman was prudence itself—­then, as if with an incontrollable impulse, grasped the offered fingers, with an “I am right glad to see you, lad.”  The next instant they were both in custody, and marched back to the prison, charged with the high crime and misdemeanor of conversation, which at Lingmoor was called “colloguing,” “conspiracy,” and other terrible terms.  Brought before the authorities upon this serious charge, Richard at once confessed himself alone to blame; the fresh air had, in a manner, intoxicated him, after his long confinement within stone walls; and the sight of his old acquaintance had caused him to forget the