“Johnson,” I said, “is that cell—­”

“Empty, sir,” answered the man sharply and at once.

Before I could respond, F——­ came suddenly to the door, which I still held open.

“You lying cur!” he shouted.  “You damned lying cur!”

The warder thrust the man back with violence.

“Now you, 49,” he said, “dry up, and none of your sauce!” and he banged to the door with a sounding slap, and turned to me with a lowering face.  The prisoner inside yelped and stormed at the studded panels.

“That cell’s empty, sir,” repeated Johnson.

“Will you, as a matter of conscience, let me convince myself?  I promised the man.”

“No, I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“No, sir.”

“This is a piece of stupid discourtesy.  You can have no reason, of course?”

“I can’t open it—­that’s all.”

“Oh, Johnson!  Then I must go to the fountain-head.”

“Very well, sir.”

Quite baffled by the man’s obstinacy, I said no more, but walked off.  If my anger was roused, my curiosity was piqued in proportion.

* * * * *

I had no opportunity of interviewing the Governor all day, but at night I visited him by invitation to play a game of piquet.

He was a man without “incumbrances”—­as a severe conservatism designates the lares of the cottage—­and, at home, lived at his ease and indulged his amusements without comment.

I found him “tasting” his books, with which the room was well lined, and drawing with relish at an excellent cigar in the intervals of the courses.

He nodded to me, and held out an open volume in his left hand.

“Listen to this fellow,” he said, tapping the page with his fingers:—­

“’The most tolerable sort of Revenge, is for those wrongs which there is no Law to remedy:  But then, let a man take heed, the Revenge be such, as there is no law to punish:  Else, a man’s Enemy, is still before hand, and it is two for one.  Some, when they take Revenge, are Desirous the party should know, whence it cometh.  This is the more Generous.  For the Delight seemeth to be, not so much in doing the Hurt, as in making the Party repent:  But Base and Crafty Cowards are like the Arrow that flyeth in the Dark.  Cosmus, Duke of Florence, had a Desperate Saying against Perfidious or Neglecting Friends, as if these wrongs were unpardonable.  You shall reade (saith he) that we are commanded to forgive our Enemies:  But you never read, that we are commanded, to forgive our Friends.’

“Is he not a rare fellow?”

“Who?” said I.

“Francis Bacon, who screwed his wit to his philosophy, like a hammer-head to its handle, and knocked a nail in at every blow.  How many of our friends round about here would be picking oakum now if they had made a gospel of that quotation?”

“You mean they take no heed that the Law may punish for that for which it gives no remedy?”