"Is he asleep? What is the matter?" asked one of the prisoners with a show of impatience.
"Hush!" hissed old Boitsoff.
Once more they listened more intently, for Shilo was wildly signalling, hurrying the words and not always ending them. In his torture by deadly fright he was begging aid of someone. Suddenly Mironoff broke in with his raps, striking the wall with something hard and firm.
"Peter, do you hear?" he queried.
"Listen! It is hard to die without fighting, I know. Why not cheat them and … do it yourself?"
The prisoners all held their breath. Shilo was silent for some moments and then asked:
"Tell me how?"
Again the whole prison listened. Through the medium of his same, sure, firm strokes Mironoff wired back just one word:
"Glass!"
In the hush that followed the prisoners strained their ears with ever-increasing tenseness, but at first they caught only the ordinary waves of the night lapping up their buttressed isle; but finally they distinguished clearly the unmistakable noise of breaking glass—then silence again.
This in turn was quickly broken by the changing of the guard with its accompanying calls of the soldiers and keepers, the rattle of grounding arms and the rhythm of marching feet. As soon as quiet once more reigned, the appeal of Mironoff was heard.
"Shilo!" No answer, and again the signals, frightened and quick:
"Shilo! Shilo!" But the condemned sent no reply.
"Everything is finished," moaned Boitsoff in a dismal voice. "God have mercy on his soul!"
