Then, one day, a man came out from the shore, swimming through the blue water with great splashes.  He was a most charming man, who spluttered and dove and twisted and lay on his back and kicked his legs in an excess of content and delight.  It was a real pleasure to watch him; not for days had anything so amusing appeared on the other side of the prison-bars.  But as soon as the keeper saw that the man in the water was amusing his prisoner, he leaned over the ship’s side and shouted, “Sa-ay, you, don’t you know there’s skarks in there?”

And the swimming man said, “The h-ll there is!” and raced back to the shore like a porpoise with great lashing of the water, and ran up the beach half-way to the palms before he was satisfied to stop.  Then the prisoner wept again.  It was so disappointing.  Life was robbed of everything now.  He remembered that in a previous existence soldiers who cried were laughed at and mocked.  But that was so far away and it was such an absurd superstition that he had no patience with it.  For what could be more comforting to a man when he is treated cruelly than to cry.  It was so obvious an exercise, and when one is so feeble that one cannot vault a four-railed barrier it is something to feel that at least one is strong enough to cry.

He escaped occasionally, traversing space with marvellous rapidity and to great distances, but never to any successful purpose; and his flight inevitably ended in ignominious recapture and a sudden awakening in bed.  At these moments the familiar and hated palms, the peaks, and the block-house were more hideous in their reality than the most terrifying of his nightmares.

These excursions afield were always predatory; he went forth always to seek food.  With all the beautiful world from which to elect and choose, he sought out only those places where eating was studied and elevated to an art.  These visits were much more vivid in their detail than any he had ever before made to these same resorts.  They invariably began in a carriage, which carried him swiftly over smooth asphalt.  One route brought him across a great and beautiful square, radiating with rows and rows of flickering lights; two fountains splashed in the centre of the square, and six women of stone guarded its approaches.  One of the women was hung with wreaths of mourning.  Ahead of him the late twilight darkened behind a great arch, which seemed to rise on the horizon of the world, a great window into the heavens beyond.  At either side strings of white and colored globes hung among the trees, and the sound of music came joyfully from theatres in the open air.  He knew the restaurant under the trees to which he was now hastening, and the fountain beside it, and the very sparrows balancing on the fountain’s edge; he knew every waiter at each of the tables, he felt again the gravel crunching under his feet, he saw the maitre d’hotel coming forward smiling to receive his command, and the waiter in the green apron bowing at his elbow, deferential and important, presenting the list of wines.  But his adventure never passed that point, for he was captured again and once more bound to his cot with a close burning sheet.