THE MARQUIS DE CASTELLUX

Much the same thing had Sabatier said to Richard Barrington only that morning.

“Deputy Latour will not believe in you,” he explained.  “He is a fool as I have told him each day, giving him your message, and I am tired of serving fools.  A day or two, monsieur, and you shall be free.  Sabatier promises that.  I am turning traitor.”

Barrington thanked him, he could do no less, yet he felt little trust in a man who could confess so glibly to treachery.  He would believe the promise when his prison door stood open, when he was free to walk out unhindered, not before.

That day was a long one; indeed, each day seemed longer than the one which preceded it.  Confinement was beginning to tell its tale on Barrington.  This underground dungeon, it was little better, was gradually taking the heart out of him.  At first he had been able to forget long hours in sleep, but latterly this had been denied him.  Sleepless nights succeeded restless days.

To-night he was restless.  The silence about him was like the silence of the grave, this place was almost as hopeless as the grave.  He wondered how thick these stone walls might be, whether there were other dungeons beyond where other prisoners wore out their hearts.  He stood beneath the barred grating for a little while, listening.  Even the world without seemed dead.  No sound ever came through that narrow opening.  What saint, or repentant sinner had dragged out his days here when this was a cell in a monastery?  Had he never regretted his vows and longed for the world of sunshine and rain, of blue sky and breezy plain, of star-lit nights and rough weather?  Surely he must have done?  The world of sinners was a fairer place than this stone dwelling though a saint lodged in it.  Truly it was a secure hiding place, or a prison where one might easily be forgotten.  The thought was a horrible one, and Barrington went to the door.  It was locked.  It was a stout door, too, of wood and iron.  If Latour and Sabatier were arrested, as might easily happen, that door would remain locked.  Probably no other person knew that he was there.  He was in the mood when such thoughts cannot be driven out of the brain.  There was half a bottle of thin wine remaining from his last meal, and he drank it greedily.  His throat was suddenly dry and his hand was unsteady as he raised the glass to his lips.  He was conscious of the fact, shook himself, stamped his foot sharply on the stone floor, and spoke to himself aloud.

“This is cowardice, Richard, and for cowardice there is no excuse.”

Something like that his mother had once said to him.  He had not remembered it until he had spoken the words, and then the recollection brought many scenes to his mind, dreams of youth, back, how far back? how long ago? memories of old times, a green hummock and the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay.  The world had changed since then.  Father, mother gone, voices silent forever, loved voices never to be forgotten; and yet, in those days there had been no Jeanne.