Ursus recognized the esclavine, the jacket, the hat, and the cloak of
Gwynplaine.

CHAPTER IV.

MOENIBUS SURDIS CAMPANA MUTA.

Ursus smoothed the felt of the hat, touched the cloth of the cloak, the serge of the coat, the leather of the esclavine, and no longer able to doubt whose garments they were, with a gesture at once brief and imperative, and without saying a word, pointed to the door of the inn.

Master Nicless opened it.

Ursus rushed out of the tavern.

Master Nicless looked after him, and saw Ursus run, as fast as his old legs would allow, in the direction taken that morning by the wapentake who carried off Gwynplaine.

A quarter of an hour afterwards, Ursus, out of breath, reached the little street in which stood the back wicket of the Southwark jail, which he had already watched so many hours.  This alley was lonely enough at all hours; but if dreary during the day, it was portentous in the night.  No one ventured through it after a certain hour.  It seemed as though people feared that the walls should close in, and that if the prison or the cemetery took a fancy to embrace, they should be crushed in their clasp.  Such are the effects of darkness.  The pollard willows of the Ruelle Vauvert in Paris were thus ill-famed.  It was said that during the night the stumps of those trees changed into great hands, and caught hold of the passers-by.

By instinct the Southwark folks shunned, as we have already mentioned, this alley between a prison and a churchyard.  Formerly it had been barricaded during the night by an iron chain.  Very uselessly; because the strongest chain which guarded the street was the terror it inspired.

Ursus entered it resolutely.

What intention possessed him?  None.

He came into the alley to seek intelligence.

Was he going to knock at the gate of the jail?  Certainly not.  Such an expedient, at once fearful and vain, had no place in his brain.  To attempt to introduce himself to demand an explanation.  What folly!  Prisons do not open to those who wish to enter, any more than to those who desire to get out.  Their hinges never turn except by law.  Ursus knew this.  Why, then, had he come there?  To see.  To see what?  Nothing.  Who can tell?  Even to be opposite the gate through which Gwynplaine had disappeared was something.

Sometimes the blackest and most rugged of walls whispers, and some light escapes through a cranny.  A vague glimmering is now and then to be perceived through solid and sombre piles of building.  Even to examine the envelope of a fact may be to some purpose.  The instinct of us all is to leave between the fact which interests us and ourselves but the thinnest possible cover.  Therefore it was that Ursus returned to the alley in which the lower entrance to the prison was situated.

Just as he entered it he heard one stroke of the clock, then a second.