Great Britain -- Social conditions -- 19th century -- Fiction
They tore him away by force, still threatening his persecutor with
outstretched hand and raging voice and blazing eyes, and flung him into
the dark dungeon.
“Cool yourself there, ye varmint,” said Fry spitefully. Even his flesh
crept at the man's blasphemies.
Meantime, the chaplain had buried his face in his hands, and trembled
like a woman at the frightful blasphemies and passions of these two
sinners.
“I'll make this place hell to him. He shan't need to go elsewhere,”
muttered Hawes aloud between his clinched teeth.
The chaplain groaned.
The governor heard him and turned on him: “Well, parson, you see he
doesn't thank you for interfering between him and me. He would rather
have had an hour or two of the jacket and have done with it.”
The chaplain sighed. He felt weighed down in spirit by the wickedness
both of Hawes and of Robinson. He saw it was in vain at that moment to
try to soften the former in favor of the latter. He moved slowly away.
Hawes eyed him sneeringly.
“He is down upon his luck,” thought Hawes; “his own fault for
interfering with me. I liked the man well enough, and showed it, if he
hadn't been a fool and put his nose into my business.”
Half an hour had scarce elapsed when the chaplain came back.
“Mr. Hawes, I come to you as a petitioner.”
“Indeed!” said Hawes, with a supercilious sneer very hard to bear.
The other would not notice it. “Pray, do not think I side with a
refractory prisoner if I beg you, not to countermand, but to modify
Robinson's punishment.”
“What for?”
“Because he cannot bear so many hours of the dark cell.”
“Nonsense, sir.”
“Is it too much to ask that you will give him six hours a day for four
days instead of twenty-four at a stretch?”
“I don't know whether it is too much for you to ask. I should say by
what I see of you that nothing is; but it is too much for me to grant.
The man has earned punishment; he has got it, and you have nothing to do
with it at all.”
“Yes, I have the care of his soul, and how can I do his soul good if he
loses his reason?”
“Stuff! his reason's safe enough, what little he has.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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