rules.  On the offense-list being examined, it was found, however, that No. 421 was a good deal in the habit of forgetting.  His cell-warder gave him but an indifferent character; and Richard, in a fury, committed the fatal indiscretion of rebutting this latter accusation by a countercharge of tyranny and ill-usage.  The next instant he could have bitten his tongue out—­but it was too late; he felt that he had made an enemy of this body-servant, who was also his master, for the remainder of his term.  An “old hand,” unless he is a professional garroter (in which case he is generally too much respected to be ill-used), is always careful to keep on good terms with his attendant; otherwise—­since a warder’s word, if it be not law, is at all events worth that of ten prisoners—­there may be no end to your troubles.  This is not because warders are not as a class a most respectable body of men, but simply because you can’t get all the virtues for a guinea a week.  A strict and impartial sense of justice is especially a rare and dear article—­even governors have sometimes been deficient in it.  Most men have their prejudices, as women have their spites; and a prejudice against a fellow-creature is a thing that grows.  Richard’s warder was no tyrant—­only a sullen, ignorant fellow, in a false position; he had an almost absolute power over his fellow-creatures, and like many—­perhaps like most who have ever possessed such a thing—­it was too much for him.

“I am a tyrant, am I?” said he, significantly, as he marched Richard back to his cell after sentence was decreed.  “Very well; we’ll see.”

Richard got bread and water for three days certain, and, what was far worse, another “monstrous cantle” might be cut out of that period of remission which began to be all the dearer in his eyes the more problematical it grew.  Garroters, as we have said, were respected at Lingmoor; they are so ready with their great ape-like hands, and so dull-brained with respect to consequences; yet Richard’s warder, when he brought his bread and water, with a grin, that night, was probably as near to death by strangling as he had ever been during his professional experience.  It was not that he was on his own account the object of his prisoner’s wrath, but that by his conduct he had, as it were, supplemented the inexpiable wrong originally committed, and earned for himself a portion of the undying hate which was due elsewhere.  “I may kill this brute some day,” thought Richard, ruefully, “in spite of myself.”  And he resolved on the first opportunity to communicate a certain secret which was on his mind to a friendly ear; so that that at least should be utilized to the disadvantage of his foes, in case incontrollable passion should one day compel him to sacrifice a lesser victim, and make his great revenge to fail.  It had not once entered into his mind that he could forego his purpose, but only that circumstances might render it impossible.