Or else, he drove more sedately through the London streets in the late evening twilight, leaning expectantly across the doors of the hansom and pulling carefully at his white gloves.  Other hansoms flashed past him, the occupant of each with his mind fixed on one idea—­dinner.  He was one of a million of people who were about to dine, or who had dined, or who were deep in dining.  He was so famished, so weak for food of any quality, that the galloping horse in the hansom seemed to crawl.  The lights of the Embankment passed like the lamps of a railroad station as seen from the window of an express; and while his mind was still torn between the choice of a thin or thick soup or an immediate attack upon cold beef, he was at the door, and the chasseur touched his cap, and the little chasseur put the wicker guard over the hansom’s wheel.  As he jumped out he said, “Give him half-a-crown,” and the driver called after him, “Thank you, sir.”

It was a beautiful world, this world outside of the iron bars.  Every one in it contributed to his pleasure and to his comfort.  In this world he was not starved nor man-handled.  He thought of this joyfully as he leaped up the stairs, where young men with grave faces and with their hands held negligently behind their backs bowed to him in polite surprise at his speed.  But they had not been starved on condensed milk.  He threw his coat and hat at one of them, and came down the hall fearfully and quite weak with dread lest it should not be real.  His voice was shaking when he asked Ellis if he had reserved a table.  The place was all so real, it must be true this time.  The way Ellis turned and ran his finger down the list showed it was real, because Ellis always did that, even when he knew there would not be an empty table for an hour.  The room was crowded with beautiful women; under the light of the red shades they looked kind and approachable, and there was food on every table, and iced drinks in silver buckets.  It was with the joy of great relief that he heard Ellis say to his underling, “Numero cinq, sur la terrace, un couvert.”  It was real at last.  Outside, the Thames lay a great gray shadow.  The lights of the Embankment flashed and twinkled across it, the tower of the House of Commons rose against the sky, and here, inside, the waiter was hurrying toward him carrying a smoking plate of rich soup with a pungent, intoxicating odor.

And then the ragged palms, the glaring sun, the immovable peaks, and the white surf stood again before him.  The iron rails swept up and sank again, the fever sucked at his bones, and the pillow scorched his cheek.

One morning for a brief moment he came back to real life again and lay quite still, seeing everything about him with clear eyes and for the first time, as though he had but just that instant been lifted over the ship’s side.  His keeper, glancing up, found the prisoner’s eyes considering him curiously, and recognized the change.  The instinct of discipline brought him to his feet with his fingers at his sides.