But as yet, since he rose with his back to
the little light, I could not make out his features. I marked,
however, that he shook from head to foot.
My father bowed--a very reverent and stately bow it was too--regarded
him for a moment, and, taking a pace backward to the door, called
after the retreating turnkey, to whom he addressed some order in a
tone to me inaudible.
"You are welcome, Sir John," said the prisoner, as my father faced
him again; "though to my shame I cannot offer you hospitality."
He said it in English, with a thick and almost guttural foreign
accent, and his voice shook over the words.
"I have made bold, sire, to order the remedy."
"'Sire!'" the prisoner took him up with a flash of spirit.
"You have many rights over me, Sir John, but none to mock me, I
think."
"As you have no right to hold me capable of it, in such a place as
this," answered my father. "I addressed you in terms which my errand
proves to be sincere. This is my son Prosper, of whom I wrote."
"To be sure--to be sure." The prisoner turned to me and looked me
over--I am bound to say with no very great curiosity, and sideways,
in the half light, I had a better glimpse of his features, which were
bold and handsome, but dreadfully emaciated.
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