The creature heard the splash, and I knew by its mutter what it wanted.  Groping darkly, to poise the jug for an unseen mouth, I realized that something helpless to the verge of extinction lay on the bed, and I would have to find the mouth myself or risk drowning it.  I held the water on the bed-rail with my right hand, groped with the other, and found a clammy, death-cold forehead, a nose and cavernous cheeks, an open and fever roughened mouth.  I poured water on my handkerchief and bathed the face.  That would have been my first desire in extreme moments.  The poor wretch gave a reviving moan, so I felt emboldened to steady the jug and let drop by drop gurgle down its throat.

Forgetting the horror of the bed I sat there, repeating at intervals this poor ministration until the porthole again dawned, and blackness became the twilight of day.

My cell-mate could not see me.  I doubt if he ever knew that a hand gave him water.  His eyes were meaningless, and he was so gaunt that his body scarcely made a ridge on the bed.

Some beans and mouldy bread were put in for my rations.  The turnkey asked me how I intended to wash myself without basin or ewer or towels, and inquired further if he could be of service in disposing of my shirt or breeches.

“What ails this man?”

He shrugged, and said the prisoner had been wasting with fever.

“You get fever in Ste. Pelagie,” he added, “especially when you eat the prison food.  This man ought to be sent to the infirmary, but the infirmary is overflowing now.”

“Who is he?”

“A journalist, or poet, or some miserable canaille of that sort.  He will soon be out of your way.”  Our guard craned over to look at him. “Oui—­da!  He is a dying man!  A priest must be sent to him soon.  I remember he demanded one several days ago.”

But that day and another dragged through before the priest appeared.  I sent out my waistcoat, and got a wretched meal, and a few spoonfuls of wine that I used to moisten the dying man’s lips.  His life may or may not have been prolonged; but out of collapse he opened his mouth repeatedly and took the drops.  He was more my blessing than I was his.

For I had an experience which has ever since given me to know the souls of prisoners.

The first day, in spite of the cell’s foulness, I laughed secretly at jailers and felt at peace, holding the world at bay.  I did not then know that Ste. Pelagie was the tomb of the accused, where more than one prisoner dragged out years without learning why he was put there.  I was not brought to any trial or examination.

But gradually an uneasiness which cannot be imagined by one who has not felt it, grew upon me.  I wanted light.  The absence of it was torture!  Light—­to vivify the stifling air, which died as this man was dying—­as I should die—­in blinding mirk!

Moisture broke out all over my body, and cold dew stood on my forehead.  How could human lungs breathe the midnight of blackening walls?  The place was hot with the hell of confinement.  I said over and over—­“O God, Thou art Light!—­in Thee is no darkness at all!”