March came, and with it the gloomy mists that rose from all around settled down on the gloomy heaths, shrouding the prison buildings in impenetrable clouds. It was hard to keep either dry or warm. Those fortunates who owned little stoves would huddle around their handful of fire, but the prisons being unheated and unprovided with chimneys, the stoves were very small, their little pipes being led out of the windows. Lying in a hammock that had been swung low, so that its occupant almost lay upon the floor, was the young landsman. He stretched out his hand toward the roughly made brazier of sheet iron, and so thin were they that they looked more like claws than the fingers of a human being. "Lord help us and deliver us," he murmured. "Hallo, Harvey," cried a voice, breaking in upon his prayer. "I didn't expect to be so long. We've waited a long time, but here it is, my lad, and now let's begin. Shall I pitch in first? I ain't much of a reader." He held aloft in his hand a copy of a smudgy, dog-eared book, smirched and torn by constant handling. "We've been waiting our turn on this for three weeks, now. Sam Jordan, he promised to get it for me though, and so he did." "What's the name?" inquired the pinched-faced lad in the hammock. "It's R-a-s-s-e-l-a-s," was the response. "I dunno how to pronounce it, but they say as how it's good reading. Say the word, and I'll fire away." He flung himself down on the floor and opened the pages. It was storming hard outside, and the rain beat against the roof and poured from the gutters down on the stone courtyard. There was just enough light to see the print, if one was not afraid of ruining one's eyes, and Abbott began:-- "'Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy and pursue'----" He had read as far as the first half-page, when suddenly the sick man put out his hand and touched him on the shoulder. "Listen," he said hoarsely, "what's that going on below?" Some one on the floor beneath had given a loud staccato whoop. It was followed by another, and then by an increasing murmur of voices. The sailor had risen to his knees and dropped the book. "Some skylarking or tomfoolery," he said; "or perhaps it's the Rough Alleys," he added. The "Rough Alleys" was the name given to the gangs of hard customers and those of the lower order of prisoners who had been compelled by their more circumspecting and better behaved companions to mess by themselves, and to generally toe the mark, as much as possible. Occasionally, however, they would break out in some sort of raid or riot that would require suppressing, and it was to this habit of theirs that Abbott referred. But this time he was mistaken. "Listen to that!" he cried, all at once springing to an erect position. A roaring, rousing cheer came up from below, and then from the other buildings they heard it echoed. The invalid arose from his hammock. "Stay here," cried Abbott; "I'll fetch the news to you."