The gate opened. A howl of welcome came from those within, and the new batch, the vagrant among them, entered the yard. He passed, in his turn, to a tank of muddy water in this yard, washed away the soil and blood of the night, and so to the cell assigned him. He was lying face downward on its pavement, when a man with a cudgel ordered him to rise. The vagrant sprang to his feet and confronted the captain of the yard, a giant in breadth and stature, with no clothing but a ragged undershirt and pantaloons. "Get a bucket and rag and scrub out this cell!" He flourished his cudgel. The vagrant cast a quick glance at him, and answered quietly, but with burning face:-- "I'll die first." A blow with the cudgel, a cry of rage, a clash together, a push, a sledge-hammer fist in the side, another on the head, a fall out into the yard, and the vagrant lay senseless on the flags. When he opened his eyes again, and struggled to his feet, a gentle grasp was on his arm. Somebody was steadying him. He turned his eyes. Ah! who is this? A short, heavy, close-shaven man, with a woollen jacket thrown over one shoulder and its sleeves tied together in a knot under the other. He speaks in a low, kind tone:-- "Steady, Mr. Richling!" Richling supported himself by a hand on the man's arm, gazed in bewilderment at the gentle eyes that met his, and with a slow gesture of astonishment murmured, "Ristofalo!" and dropped his head. The Italian had just entered the prison from another station-house. With his hand still on Richling's shoulder, and Richling's on his, he caught the eye of the captain of the yard, who was striding quietly up and down near by, and gave him a nod to indicate that he would soon adjust everything to that autocrat's satisfaction. Richling, dazed and trembling, kept his eyes still on the ground, while Ristofalo moved with him slowly away from the squalid group that gazed after them. They went toward the Italian's cell. "Why are you in prison?" asked the vagrant, feebly. "Oh, nothin' much--witness in shootin' scrape--talk 'bout aft' while." "O Ristofalo," groaned Richling, as they entered, "my wife! my wife! Send some bread to my wife!" "Lie down," said the Italian, pressing softly on his shoulders; but Richling as quietly resisted. "She is near here, Ristofalo. You can send with the greatest ease! You can do anything, Ristofalo,--if you only choose!" "Lay down," said the Italian again, and pressed more heavily. The vagrant sank limply to the pavement, his companion quickly untying the jacket sleeves from under his own arms and wadding the garment under Richling's head. "Do you know what I'm in here for, Ristofalo?" moaned Richling. "Don't know, don't care. Yo' wife know you here?" Richling shook his head on the jacket. The Italian asked her address, and Richling gave it.