He had been trying to collect his thoughts. Would they hang him? No, they must try him first, legally, and he could prove—he could prove—But what could he prove? For whenever he attempted to consider the uncertain chances of his escape, he found his thoughts straying wide of the question. It was of no use for him to clasp his fingers or knit his brows. Why did the recollection of a school-fellow, long since forgotten, blot out all the fierce and feverish memories of the night and the terrible certainty of the future? Why did the strips of paper hanging from the wall recall to him the pattern of a kite he had flown forty years ago. In a moment like this, when all his energies were required and all his cunning and tact would be called into service, could he think of nothing better than trying to match the torn paper on the wall, or to count the cracks in the floor? And an oath rose to his lips, but from very feebleness died away without expression. Why had he ever come to Smith’s Pocket? If he had not been guided by that hell-cat, this would not have happened. What if he were to tell _all_ he knew? What if he should accuse _her_? But would they be willing to give up the bird they had already caught? Yet he again found himself cursing his own treachery and cowardice, and this time an exclamation burst from his lips and attracted the attention of the guard. “Hello, there! easy, old fellow; thar ain’t any good in that,” said the sentinel, looking up. “It’s a bad fix you’re in, _sure_, but rarin’ and pitchin’ won’t help things. ’T ain’t no use cussin’—leastways, ’t ain’t that kind o’ swearing that gets a chap out o’ here”, he added, with a conscientious reservation. “Now, ef I was in your place, I’d kinder reflect on my sins, and make my peace with God Almighty, for I tell you the looks o’ them people outside ain’t pleasant. You’re in the hands of the law, and the law will protect you as far as it can,—as far as two men can stand agin a hundred; sabe? That’s what’s the matter; and it’s as well that you knowed that now as any time.” But the prisoner had relapsed into his old attitude, and was surveying the jailor with the same abstracted air as before. That individual resumed his seat on the mattress, and now lent his ear to a colloquy which seemed to be progressing at the foot of the stairs. Presently he was bailed by his brother turnkey from below. “Oh, Bill,” said fidus Achates from the passage, with the usual Californian prefatory ejaculation. “Well?” “Here’s M’liss! Says she wants to come up. Shall I let her in?” The subject of inquiry, however, settled the question of admission by darting past the guard below in this moment of preoccupation, and bounded up the stairs like a young fawn. The guards laughed. “Now, then, my infant phenomenon,” said the one called Bill, as M’liss stood panting before him, “wot ’s up? and nextly, wot’s in that bottle?”