Richard Yorke is still at Lingmoor; and though but a twelvemonth intervenes between him and freedom—­or perhaps partly because of it—­prison life is growing insupportable.  It is the last year of “a long term,” as all “old hands” will tell you, which is the most trying.  Impatience becomes more incontrollable as the limit of suffering is neared; and just as, after a tedious and dangerous illness, the convalescent will rise too soon, and risk a relapse in his feverish desire to be well, so a prisoner will often make some wild endeavors to escape, when, if he did but wait a little—­a span of time compared with that in which he has lain captive—­his jealous doors would open of themselves to let him pass in safety.  But there are other reasons which are pressing Richard toward flight, and goading him (as he feels) to madness if he remain quiescent.  He has quarreled with all about him, and has suffered for it; and he is now menaced with worse things.  His sullenness, his brooding ire, have long transformed his nature; civility, and even obedience, have become impossible for him.  He kicks, as it were, against a chevaux-de-frise of steel.  He has been starved on bread and water, and grown thin and fierce.  He has been put, and not for nothing, into the dark cell for hours, to brood, as usual, and has come forth a more reckless devil than he went in.

His warder and he are open foes.  That cross-grained official has taken a strong antipathy to him, which is more than reciprocated; and every, time he enters his cell sets foot, though unconscious of the fact, on the very threshold of the grave.  He is the keeper of one who is almost a madman; but the latter is sane on one point yet—­he knows to whom his vengeance is mainly due; and while that knowledge lasts his lesser foe is safe from him—­safe, that is, at present; but a provocation may be given which would compel this long-suffering victim—­in years scarce a middle-aged man, in appearance gray and withered as the oldest within those prison walls—­to give his passion way, and slay him.  If something should take place, which this warder himself has prophesied would happen, it will be so; and all Richard’s hoarded hate would then be useless, since it would have no heir.  There has been flogging in the prison—­an unusual punishment, and only inflicted for great offenses, or for continued contumacy and bad conduct.  A conspiracy was discovered, and seven of the ringleaders received three dozen lashes each, in presence of all the inmates of the jail.  It was a punishment perhaps deserved and necessary, but sickening enough to witness.  Richard’s warder stood beside him, and while the cat was descending on one wretch’s naked back, observed in a grim whisper:  “Do you take warning, my man; for if you are reported again, the governor says you are to have a dose of the same medicine.”