“I went on,” said Delaney, “to say that it was an outrage to confine officers and men together, and that Mr. Wynne and myself should be put on parole. The inspector seemed startled at this, and said, ‘Who?’ I had no mind to let a lie stand in your way, and I repeated, ‘Captain Wynne,’ pointing to you, who were raving and wild enough. He came over and stood just here, looking down on you for so long that I thought he must be sorry for us. Then he said, in a queer way, and very deliberately, ‘Will he get well? He ought to be better looked after.’ Cunningham said it was useless, because the surgeon had said you would be over yonder (pointing to the potter’s field) in a day or two.” Which, in fact, was his cheerful prediction. It was safe to say it of any who fell ill in the jail. “This officer appeared puzzled or undecided. He went out and came back alone, and leaned over you, asking me to pull the blanket from your face. I did so, as he seemed afraid to touch it. You, my dear Wynne, were saying ‘Dorothea’ over and over; but who is Dorothea the Lord knows, or you. The officer, after standing a while, said, ‘it was a pity, but it was of no use; you would die.’ As for me, I told him that we were officers starving, and were entitled to better treatment. He said he would see to it; and that is all. He went away, and we are still here; but if ever--” I broke in on Delaney’s threat with, “Who was the man?” “Cunningham consigned me to a more comfortable climate than this when I asked him, and the turnkey did not know.” “What did he look like?” said I. “He was tall, very dark, and had a scar over the left eye.” “Indeed? Did he have a way of standing with half-shut eyes, and his mouth a little open?” “Certainly. Why, Wynne, you must know the man.” “I do--I do. He is my cousin.” “I congratulate you.” And so saying, he went away to the door to receive our rations, of which now every one except ourselves stole whatever he could lay hands on. It did seem to me, as I lay still, in much distress of body, and thought over that which I now heard for the first time, that no man could be so cruel as Arthur had shown himself. Time had gone by, and he had done nothing. If, as appeared likely, he was sure I was almost in the act of death, it seemed yet worse; for how could I, a dying man, hurt any one? If for any cause he feared me, here was an end of it. It seemed to me both stupid and villainous. He had warned me that I had everything to dread from his enmity if I persisted in writing to Darthea. Assuredly he had been as good as his word. He was unwilling to risk any worldly advantages by giving me a gentleman’s satisfaction, and could coldly let me die far from the love of those dear to me, in not much better state than a pig perishing in a sty. Nay; the pig were better off, having known no better things.