“In truth I did not, and told His Majesty as much with a bluntness he did not altogether like,” said Falkland. “Yet I can see that this prison life proves a hard trial to one of your temperament.” “’Tis hard for all of them,” said Gabriel. “Some of the poor fellows have already been cooped up in the room for seven months, having been taken at the siege of Marlborough, and they say the winter proved fatal to many, for they were allowed neither light nor firing. Just now the suffocating heat is the worst part of it, for the overcrowding is terrible.” He pulled himself up abruptly, not wishing to trouble his kindly visitor with complaints, but Falkland could well imagine what a purgatory the prison would prove to a man of refined tastes and of great natural reserve. “Have you written any letters?” he asked. “If so, I will gladly have them sent for you. We must try to get you an exchange.” “Paper and ink and books are all forbidden,” said Gabriel. “There is literally nothing to do the livelong day, except, indeed, to try to slaughter the vermin. One of our officers managed to smuggle in his copy of Cromwell’s ‘Soldier’s Pocket Bible, but it is doubtful if he will be able to keep it, for the gaoler is a very dragon.” “I brought you a couple of books,” said Falkland. “You will find them in the pockets of this coat, which you had best don here before the gaoler sees you again. Whether you elected to stay in prison or to fight under Prince Rupert I knew you would stand in need of a garment to replace the one they robbed you of.” “My lord----” faltered Gabriel, touched inexpressibly by the thoughtful kindness which contrasted so sharply with the harshness he had lately encountered, “I wish I could thank you as I would---- He broke off, unable to find the words he wanted, and Falkland, with the smile that since the opening of the war had scarcely been seen, took advantage of the silence. “Nay, no thanks,” he said. “But you shall do this for me, Mr. Harford; you shall tell me something I am eager to know. With your General hopelessly beaten and yourself a prisoner, made to suffer moral and physical torture, how was it that we found you tied up to the pillar in that church bearing the look of a conqueror? Of what were you thinking?” “One does not think much in pain,” said Gabriel. “I believe I thought most of Burton when he had his ears cut off.” “Of Burton!” exclaimed Falkland, in astonishment; for, though he disliked Archbishop Laud’s fussiness and disapproved of his system, he held men like Burton, Bastwick and Prynne in yet greater abhorrence. Himself liberal-minded and moderate, both extremes offended his taste. It startled him to find that the prisoner, who was clearly not the type of man to interest himself in dogmatic theology, should speak of the ardent Puritan controversialist in such a way. “What can have attracted you at such a time to Burton?” he asked.