There was a brief excitement in which the Warder joined, while Featherstone played his part to the life. When it had passed the cart was raised, and Geoffrey had the letter in his stocking. Reynolds gave Geoffrey a look that was better than words, and then he thanked the Warder and went off with his donkey. "Bravo!" whispered Featherstone as Geoffrey joined him; "that was done in a way to make the professionals envious." For the rest of the day Geoffrey felt like a man made of India rubber. He leaped up and down the cairn like a boy, and he whispered all kinds of encouraging words to the old men at the wheel. He felt the letter in his stocking all the time, and wondered why he could not read it by very insight. He turned a hundred times in alarm to see if the Warder's eyes were on its hiding-place. Who had written it? Was it a plan of escape? Perhaps it was only a word of empty sympathy; but no, Reynolds was a practical man. Oh, how long the hours were, till at last the prison-bell rang at six o'clock, and the gangs all over the farm formed into little squads and marched toward the prison, the warders drawing after them the light iron bridges of the canals, which were locked on one side every night. By this means "The Farm," which was intersected by a score of these wide and deep trenches, was impassable; and as it hemmed in one side of the hill on which the prison stood, with a guard tower on either end, it was a greater safeguard even than the wall of the prison. The four political prisoners marched into the yard. The Warder, before locking them up, made each one raise his arms and stand to be searched. He then ran his hands lengthwise over the whole man, mainly to see that no weapons or tools were concealed. As his hand passed over the letter in the stocking Geoffrey closed his eyes in the tense pain of anxiety. He did not breathe till he stood in his narrow cell and had closed the self-locking door with a bang. Then he sat down on his hammock and hugged himself with joy. When all was quiet on the long corridor and the prisoners were eating their meagre supper Geoffrey drew out his letter and broke the outer cover. It was addressed in a hand he had never seen before--a plain, business-like hand: "To Mr. Geoffrey Ripon, or any of the Royalist prisoners." "No more titles," mused Geoffrey with a smile; "there is something American in the 'Mr.'" This thought naturally led him to think of one in America whose handwriting he had blindly and unreasonably hoped to see in this letter. Now, with a sigh, he saw that it was not for him alone, but for "any of the Royalist prisoners" as well.