With these words ringing in his ears, little Gillies was locked up for the night at six o’clock.  His companions darkness and unrest-for a prisoner’s bed is the most comfortable thing he has, and the change from it to a stone floor is as great to him as it would be to us—­darkness and unrest, and the cat waiting to spring on him at peep of day.  Quae cum ita erant, as the warder put the key into his cell the next morning he heard a strange gurgling; he opened the door quickly, and there was little Gillies hanging; a chair was near him on which he had got to suspend himself by his handkerchief from the window; he was black in the face, but struggling violently, and had one hand above his head convulsively clutching the handkerchief.  Fry lifted him up by the knees and with some difficulty loosed the handkerchief.

Little Gillies, as soon as his throat could vent a sound, roared with fright at the recent peril, and then cried a bit, finally expressed a hope his breakfast would not be taken from him for this act of insubordination.

This infraction of discipline was immediately reported to the governor.

“Little brute,” cried Hawes, viciously, “I’ll work him!”

“Oh! he knew I was at hand, sir,” said Fry, “or he would not have tried it.”

“Of course he would not; I remember last night he was grumbling at his bed being taken away.  I’ll serve him out!”

Soon after this the governor met the chaplain and told him the case.  “He shall make you an apology”—­imperative mood him.

“Me, an apology!”

“Of course—­you are the officer that has the care of his soul and he shall apologize to you for making away with it or trying it on.”

This resolution was conveyed to Gillies with fearful threats, so when the chaplain visited him he had got his lesson pat.

“I beg your reverence’s pardon for hanging myself,” began he at sight, rather loud and as bold as brass.

“Beg the Almighty’s pardon, not mine.”

“No! the governor said it was yours I was to beg,” demurred Gillies.

“Very well.  But you should beg God’s pardon more than mine.”

“For why, sir?”

“For attempting your life, which was His gift.”

“Oh!  I needn’t beg His pardon; He doesn’t care what becomes of me; if He did He wouldn’t let them bully me as they do day after day, drat ’em.”

“I am sorry to see one so young as you so hardened.  I dare say the discipline of the jail is bitter to you, it is to all idle boys; but you might be in a much worse place—­and will if you do not mend.”

“A worse place than this, your reverence!  Oh, my eye!”

“And you ought to be thankful to Heaven for sending the turnkey at that moment (here I’m sorry to say little Gillies grinned satirically), or you would be in a worse place.  Would you rather be here or in hell?” half asked, half explained the reverend gentleman in the superior tone of one closing a discussion forever.