Not a tree was to be seen
save Bergen Wood, which Richard's companion indicated to him, as they
neared it, by a movement of the eyelid. It had been the tomb of many a
convict, who had striven for freedom, and found death. As they emerged
from it, Lingmoor prison presented itself, solid, immense, and gloomy,
as though it were built of steel--"Castle of Giant Despair." Its guarded
gate was swung back, and all were marched into a paved courtyard, where
their names were called over, and their irons removed. Then each was
stripped and searched, and another uniform substituted for that they had
worn at Cross Key. The old hands seemed to take a pride in knowing what
was about to be done beforehand; in being recognized by the warders,
though their greeting was but a contemptuous shrug; and in threading the
windings of the stone labyrinths with an accustomed step. Richard was
ushered into a cell the exact counterpart of that he had lately
inhabited; and yet he regarded it with the interest which one can not
fail to feel in what is to be one's home for years.
Home! Frightful misnomer for that place, warm and well-ventilated as it
was, and supplied with the latest products of civilization. The gas was
burning brightly; fresh cool water flowed at his will; at his touch a
bell rang, and instantly, outside his door, an iron plate sprang out,
and indicated to the warder in what cell his presence was required.
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