He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. ” “Damn!” he remarked at the defaced letter; and, taking a fresh sheet, he recopied what he had written. Here, without a glimpse of daylight; visited by no one except Austin at stated intervals, who neither answered a question nor addressed a word to him; fed upon the worst diet, literally mouldy bread and ditch-water; surrounded by stone walls; with a flagged floor for his pillow, and without so much as a blanket to protect him from the death-like cold that pierced his frame,—Jack's stout heart was subdued, and he fell into the deepest dejection, ardently longing for the time when even a violent death should terminate his sufferings. "What is this!" cried Sir Rowland. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. .
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