The voices of his fellow-creatures
could not shape themselves, as every inarticulate sound did to his
straining ear, into groans and feeble cries for aid. Not twenty-four
hours had elapsed since his prisoner was placed in hold, so that such
sounds of weakness and agony must have been in every sense chimerical;
and yet he heard them. What, then, if these echoes from the tomb should
always be heard? A terrible idea indeed, but one which bred no
repentance. It was not likely that remorse should seize him in the very
place where his hated foe had clutched and consigned him to _his_ living
grave.
The hotel at which he now put up was the same at which he had then
lodged; this public room was the same in which he had smoked his last
cigar upon his fatal visit to the Miners' Bank. He had had only one
companion then, but now it was full of people. By their talk it was
evident that they were townsfolk, and all known to one another; in fact,
it was a tradesmen's club, which met at the _George and Vulture_ on
Sunday nights through the winter months. In spite of his willingness to
be won from his thoughts, he could not fix his attention on the small
local gossip that was going on about him. Men came in and out without
his observing them; and indeed it was not easy to take note of faces
through the cloud of smoke that filled the room; he was fast relapsing
into his own reflections, wondering what Solomon was doing in the dark,
and if he slept much, when an event occurred which roused him as
thoroughly as the prick of a lance or a sudden douche of cold water.
Pages:
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545