Page 663 - for-the-term-of-his-natural-life

She would herself visit the gaol and judge how far the ru-
mours of her husband’s cruelty were worthy of credit.
One sultry afternoon, when the Commandant had gone
on a visit of inspection, Troke, lounging at the door of the
New Prison, beheld, with surprise, the figure of the Com-
mandant’s lady.
‘What is it, mam?’ he asked, scarcely able to believe his
eyes.
‘I want to see the prisoner Dawes.’
Troke’s jaw fell.
‘See Dawes?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. Where is he?’
Troke was preparing a lie. The imperious voice, and the
clear, steady gaze, confused him.
‘He’s here.’
‘Let me see him.’
‘He’s—he’s under punishment, mam.’
‘What do you mean? Are they flogging him?’
‘No; but he’s dangerous, mam. The Commandant—‘
‘Do you mean to open the door or not, Mr. Troke?’
Troke grew more confused. It was evident that he was
most unwilling to open the door. ‘The Commandant has
given strict orders—‘
‘Do you wish me to complain to the Commandant?’ cries
Sylvia, with a touch of her old spirit, and jumped hastily
at the conclusion that the gaolers were, perhaps, torturing
the convict for their own entertainment. ‘Open the door at
once!—at once!’
Thus commanded, Troke, with a hasty growl of its ‘being

For the Term of His Natural Life