"But here is a letter in your handwriting, addressed to him.
Look!"
Arthur glanced carelessly at the letter and laid it aside.
"Do you recognize that letter?"
"No."
"You deny that it is in your writing?"
"I deny nothing.
I have no recollection of it."
"Perhaps you remember this one?"
A second letter was handed to him, and he saw that it was one which he had written in the autumn to a fellow-student.
"No."
"Nor the person to whom it is addressed?"
"Nor the person."
"Your memory is singularly short."
"It is a defect from which I have always suffered."
"Indeed!
And I heard the other day from a university professor that you are considered by no means deficient; rather clever in fact."
"You probably judge of cleverness by the police-spy standard; university professors use words in a different sense."
The note of rising irritation was plainly audible in Arthur's voice.
He was physically exhausted with hunger, foul air, and want of sleep; every bone in his body seemed to ache separately; and the colonel's voice grated on his exasperated nerves, setting his teeth on edge like the squeak of a slate pencil.
"Mr. Burton," said the colonel, leaning back in his chair and speaking gravely, "you are again forgetting yourself; and I warn you once more that this kind of talk will do you no good.
Surely you have had enough of the dark cell not to want any more just for the present.
I tell you plainly that I shall use strong measures with you if you persist in repulsing gentle ones.
Mind, I have proof--positive proof--that some of these young men have been engaged in smuggling prohibited literature into this port; and that you have been in communication with them.
Now, are you going to tell me, without compulsion, what you know about this affair?"
Arthur bent his head lower.
A blind, senseless, wild-beast fury was beginning to stir within him like a live thing.
The possibility of losing command over himself was more appalling to him than any threats.
For the first time he began to realize what latent potentialities may lie hidden beneath the culture of any gentleman and the piety of any Christian; and the terror of himself was strong upon him.
"I am waiting for your answer," said the colonel.
"I have no answer to give."
"You positively refuse to answer?"
"I will tell you nothing at all."
"Then I must simply order you back into the punishment cell, and keep you there till you change your mind.
If there is much more trouble with you, I shall put you in irons."
Arthur looked up, trembling from head to foot.
"You will do as you please," he said slowly; "and whether the English Ambassador will stand your playing tricks of that kind with a British subject who has not been convicted of any crime is for him to decide."
At last Arthur was conducted back to his own cell, where he flung himself down upon the bed and slept till the next morning.
He was not put in irons, and saw no more of the dreaded dark cell; but the feud between him and the colonel grew more inveterate with every interrogation.
It was quite useless for Arthur to pray in his cell for grace to conquer his evil passions, or to meditate half the night long upon the patience and meekness of Christ.
No sooner was he brought again into the long, bare room with its baize-covered table, and confronted with the colonel's waxed moustache, than the unchristian spirit would take possession of him once more, suggesting bitter repartees and contemptuous answers.
Before he had been a month in the prison the mutual irritation had reached such a height that he and the colonel could not see each other's faces without losing their temper.
The continual strain of this petty warfare was beginning to tell heavily upon his nerves.
Knowing how closely he was watched, and remembering certain dreadful rumours which he had heard of prisoners secretly drugged with belladonna that notes might be taken of their ravings, he gradually became afraid to sleep or eat; and if a mouse ran past him in the night, would start up drenched with cold sweat and quivering with terror, fancying that someone was hiding in the room to listen if he talked in his sleep.
The gendarmes were evidently trying to entrap him into making some admission which might compromise Bolla; and so great was his fear of slipping, by any inadvertency, into a pitfall, that he was really in danger of doing so through sheer nervousness.
Bolla's name rang in his ears night and day, interfering even with his devotions, and forcing its way in among the beads of the rosary instead of the name of Mary.
But the worst thing of all was that his religion, like the outer world, seemed to be slipping away from him as the days went by.
To this last foothold he clung with feverish tenacity, spending several hours of each day in prayer and meditation; but his thoughts wandered more and more often to Bolla, and the prayers were growing terribly mechanical.
His greatest comfort was the head warder of the prison.
This was a little old man, fat and bald, who at first had tried his hardest to wear a severe expression.