Don Felipe had come with the key to open this prison at his young master's command, and there they had left Henderson, hands bound as they had taken him from the horse. Felipe had the consideration to command Simon, whose reach was long, to unlock the slab that closed the slit of window and admit a breath of new air. In the little light left of that sad day, Henderson was able presently to see the space that contained him.
The cell was about eight feet long and half as wide, the ceiling at least twice the height of Henderson's body above his head. The floor was earth; there was not even a straw in the place to contribute to the comfort of one whose misfortunes brought him within the embrace of its high, blank walls.
Henderson's arms pained him cruelly, for Roberto had ordered his ropes drawn hard that morning after they had freed his hands for a little while to let him eat and drink. Since then he had not been refreshed. He was suffering from thirst, which asserted itself above the turmoil of his thoughts, although hunger had no place in the anxiety of his situation. John Toberman's fate stood before him as a forecast of his own.
Long after nightfall Simon came, bringing a candle and food. He released Henderson's hands, laughing over his numbed efforts to lift the pitcher of water to his lips, offering no assistance. Compassion was not in him, nor his kind. Simon stood with his back to the door while Henderson chafed
