’I can’t bear myself here—me with everything in the world I want— and these with nothing!’
But the stout janitor was standing by her again, together with another man in blue, who said:
“Now, miss; this way, please!”
And down that corridor they went. Though she did not turn, she knew well that those eyes were following, still riving something from her; and she heaved a sigh of real relief when she was round a corner. Through barred windows that had no glass she could see another court, where men in the same drab-gray clothes printed with arrows were walking one behind the other, making a sort of moving human hieroglyphic in the centre of the concrete floor. Two warders with swords stood just outside its edge. Some of those walking had their heads up, their chests expanded, some slouched along with heads almost resting on their chests; but most had their eyes fixed on the back of the neck of the man in front; and there was no sound save the tramp of feet.
Nedda put her hand to her throat. The warder beside her said in a chatty voice:
“That’s where the ’ards takes their exercise, miss. You want to see a man called Tryst, waitin’ trial, I think. We’ve had a woman here to see him, and a lady in blue, once or twice.”
“My aunt.”
“Ah! just so. Laborer, I think—case of arson. Funny thing; never yet found a farm-laborer that took to prison well.”
Nedda shivered. The words sounded ominous. Then a little flame lit itself within her.
“Does anybody ever ‘take to’ prison?”
The warder uttered a sound between a grunt and chuckle.
“There’s some has a better time here than they have out, any day. No doubt about it—they’re well fed here.”