CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

NOT a pleasant thing, apart from the shame which every one feels, except the true philosopher, to be clapped into prison in any climate; but it must be most unpleasant of all under a tropical sun. The absence of fresh and free air, and the deprivation of those small comforts which alone make life in Palmiste tolerable, are of themselves enough to make a weak man commit suicide, and a strong man go mad. Poor Dick sat, the first night of his confinement, on the stone couch which did duty for a bed in his cell, mournfully thinking over his chances; and speculating-for the case was far too clear to admit of any hope of acquittal-how long a term of imprisonment he would be likely to have. Then, with the elasticity of youth, he went on to speculate, further, what he should do when he got out. And presently, wearied with so much thinking, he lay back upon his grass mat and went to sleep till the sun rose, and shining in at his barred window, awakened him. He started up, and instead of his little room at Hautbois, made neat and comfortable by the care of Mrs. Oswald, he found himself in a white-washed cell, with a stone floor, and iron bars instead of green jalousies. The window looked into the courtyard of the prison, where some miserable Indians, prisoners, were huddled together, waiting for the guards who were to take them to work. Presently his door opened, and a mulatto turnkey appeared-a fat, merry-looking rascal-who gave him the usual instructions as to the rules of the cell, and let him know that he was to be brought before the magistrate that morning.

Perhaps, in Dick Mortiboy's whole life-which was chequered enough, and had its banyan days-there was but one recollection to which he turned as seldom as he could, only one which caused him bitter shame and pain even to think of. It was the recollection of the dismal and degraded processionof which he formed one-that filed out from the prison doors,

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and was marched solemnly down the street, coram populo, to the magistrate's court. It was headed by a brace of weeping Indians, charged with burglary and attempt to murder-they shed tears as they went, and howled their innocence; then three or four men who had been drunk and disorderly-these were the most shamefaced of the lot; then a negro, who pretended to laugh at the absurdity of the charge against himhe had been stealing ducks; then Dick-the bright, handsome young Englishman-walking along, red with shame and misery, with this crew; then a Chinaman, against whom something unlawful connected with other people's pork was alleged-he wore a surprised countenance, as one who should say, "Dear me! this is very singular-very singular, indeed! What can be the motive of this ?" then half a dozen more Indians; and then the procession was closed by two policemen. A long string passed down the file, which every man had to hold with one hand. The Indian is quite contented so long as he keeps his fingers closed on the string, and considers himself laden with fetters. If he is driven along loose, he runs away multivious.

That dreary day! Many of his acquaintances--including the man for whom he had forged the cheque, who was the principal witness-were in the court; and not one-not one of all the men with whom he had lived and drunk and sungseemed to have a kind or pitying look. Dick tried to steel his heart, ineffectually, against the shame. It was bruised and seared by this day's, misery, and it was long before it became again as it had been once-soft, relenting, charitable. Have you not noticed that criminals appear to have no sense at all of moral culpability? It is because circumstances, as well as repetition, deaden the feeling of remorse. Thus, when Dick forged his father's name, in the first place, the consequences were sharp and decisive; secondly, they were not accompanied by any public shame; thirdly, he was in dire straits in the town, and only too glad to get out of Market Basing; and lastly, his father had always restricted his pleasures, and cut down his allowances to the merest pittance; so that he hated his home, and left it with delight. Now it was different: he had a chance in life, and he threw it away. He made friends, and he lost them. He got a certain sort of position, and he put himself out of it by his own act and deed. It is the public consequence of a crime that causes the remorse and agony of the sinner; not those hidden consequences which are unseen,

yet, perhaps, more retributive, because they sear the heart, and paralyse the will.

The day came to an end at last, and the procession was reformed to return-Dick being fully committed for trial at the next sessions, now some two months off. They pushed him into his cell, gave him his dinner, and left him to his meditations.

There are only occasionally in Palmiste prisoners of any social grade or rank above that of merchant-sailor, or Indian coolie; but at this moment there was another prisoner also awaiting his trial-a young Frenchman, some few years older than Dick. At stated hours the prisoners were allowed to walk in the courtyard, between which and the main entrance was a strongly locked gate, opening into a sort of barrackroom, where policemen and guards were always about. There was also another entrance, by an iron door, never opened, which led into the chief gaoler's private house, and was designed as a means of getting into the prison without going through the guard-room, in case of a disturbance; and at the back of the court lay a large bare room open to it, which had been built for the prisoners as a place where they might work out of the sun when in-door work had to be done.

In this room, on the second day of his confinement, Dick, being released for his walk, saw a man sitting on the stone bench which ran round the four walls, and formed the only furniture. He started, for a moment changed colour, and half turned to escape; only there was nowhere to go to, and he stopped. For the man he saw there was one of his old friends a man who used to dine at the same table d'hôte with him in Port Dauphin. He was a young Frenchman of the colony-like himself, a merchant's clerk, and, like himself, a gambler; but Lafleur had already a reputation beyond his years. He was slightly built, and pale, with close black hair and a thick massive beard, like the Frenchmen of the South. Dick knew him chiefly as connected with a card story in which he figured as the principal actor. The quarrel had been made up by a duel, in which Lafleur's opponent gave information to the police, and the combat was stopped on the ground. But men looked shy on him after this affair, and even in Port Dauphin, where public morality runs low, were chary of being seen much in his company.

The man started at the sound of Dick's step, and turned a haggard and careworn face to see who was coming. He rose,

with a strange, constrained air, quite unusual to him, and half held out his hand.

you."

I am".

"You are come to see me, Mellon? This is kind of "I? No, by gad! You have come to see me. Dick turned red for a moment-"I am a prisoner.' "So am I," returned the other.

"You, too? What have you been doing?"

"They pretend that I murdered young Deschamps." Dick involuntarily recoiled. Then he laughed defiantly.

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They pretend I forged a cheque. Damn it!—they will pretend anything. Only, I say, Lafleur, you're in a worse scrape than I am."

"Bah!" said the Frenchman ;

it is nothing. In the first

place, it was a duel. I am innocent. And in the second-" "What a fool you must have

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Nonsense," said Dick.

been."

Dick shrugged his shoulders, and sat down-glad enough to have a talk even with a murderer. It will be understood that prison discipline in Port Dauphin is lax.

The days passed on. Lafleur grew more anxious. Only his lawyer came to see him; none of his own relations entering the prison. Mr. Oswald got a lawyer, too, who came to see Dick from time to time. But his visits did not tend to make the young man more cheerful: his spirits sank every hour. One day Lafleur looked, for the first time, bright and even hopeful.

"What is it?" asked Dick. He felt particularly low that morning. Hang it, man, if you were acquitted you couldn't

look jollier.

"I see hope, my friend. I have a plan. We may escape yet."

"Don't see how."

"Listen."

He took Dick's arm, curiously, before he began to speak, and felt the biceps. Now Dick was strong-limbed and muscular, besides being tall.

"My faith, my friend, if I had your strength-"

"Go on, man-go on."

Lafleur looked round. No one was in the court-yard except

a couple of policemen, whose backs were turned.

He drew a

key from his pocket, and furtively showed it to Dick.

"It is the governor's own key-the key of the iron door."

Dick nodded, and said nothing.

"The mulatto gaoler got it for me. He is

"Your brother?"

"Pardon me-I said my father's son.

depends on you. At six, we have to go up to our cells. Who always conducts us ?"

Pierre, your-your friend, and Smith.”

'Just so.

You will have to floor Smith. Pierre will be managed by me without any trouble. It is all squared with him."

Dick looked thoughtful.

"Smith's a big man; but I think I can tackle him. Are we to wait till six ? O Lafleur! why did you tell me SO

soon ?"

The day was interminable.

Slowly the leaden-footed hours crept away.

From two to five they were locked up.

At five they were let out for another breath of fresh air; and Dick's heart beat fast as the hour approached.

The clock struck a quarter to six. The sun was already setting behind the mountains, and in a few minutes it would be dark.

Presently, making a great jingle with his keys, Smith, a ponderous Englishman of sixteen stone, followed by Pierre, came through the large gate. According to custom, he stopped to lock the door behind him, and leisurely crossed the yard to the work-room. Dick held himself at the inside of the door.

"Come," said Smith, standing at the door, "time's up. Where's Mr. Mellon?"

He was looking straight into the room, where Lafleur was standing, motionless and trembling.

"Here," cried Dick, striking him full in the temple with his fist. Smith reeled, and would have cried for help; but another blow, from the left, knocked him with his head against the corner of the stone bench, and he fell, senseless and bleeding.

He was stunned.

Lafleur rushed out, followed by Dick. They had forgotten to knock down poor Pierre, who waited stupidly: standing still, to be despatched with such a blow as had felled the gigantic Smith. To his astonishment, they had opened the little door, and were gone without giving him so much as a