Between this and the next assault there was a long interval. But after a little more than twelve months had elapsed, the ferocity of these candidates for reformation again made itself apparent. This time it was a concerted affair between two prisoners who fancied themselves aggrieved by the stern severity of their officer, Mr. Young. These men, Morris and King, had been reported for talking to each other from cell to cell. Next day both were let out to throw away the water in which they had washed. They met at the trough, and recommenced conversation which had been interrupted the day before. “At your old tricks, eh?” cried Mr. Young. “I shall have to report you again.” “You lie, you rascal,” shouted Morris, suddenly drawing a sleeveboard which he had concealed behind his back. Holding this by the small end with both hands, he aimed several tremendous blows at Mr. Young’s head, which the latter managed to ward off partly, with his arms. But now King, armed with a pewter basin in one hand and a tailor’s iron in the other, attacked him from behind. Soon Mr. Young’s keys were knocked away from him, and he himself brought to the ground. However, he managed to regain his legs, and then made off, closely pursued by his assailants, who, flourishing their weapons and smashing everything fragile in their progress, drove him at length into a corner, got him down, beat him unmercifully, and left him for dead, King throwing the basin behind him as a parting shot. Mr. Young’s cries of “Murder!” had been continuous. They were re-echoed by the shouts of the many prisoners who, standing at their open cell doors, were spectators of the scene. One man, Nolan, climbing up to his window, gave the alarm to the tower below. Assistance soon arrived—the taskmaster followed by two others, who met first Morris and King as they were returning to their cells. “What has happened?” they asked. “I haven’t an idea,” Morris replied coolly. King, too, is equally in the dark. The officers pass on and come to other cells, in which the prisoners are seen grinning as if in high glee, and when questioned they only laugh the more. But at length Nolan is reached. “Oh, sir,” says Nolan at once, through the bars of his gate, “they’ve murdered the officer, Mr. Young, sir. There lie his keys, and his body is a little further on.” At this moment, however, Mr. Young is seen dragging himself slowly towards them, evidently seriously injured and hardly able to walk. He just manages to explain what has happened, and as the governor has by this time also arrived, the offenders are secured and carried off to the refractory cells.