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"All the village," pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in

a low voice, "withdraws; all the village whispers by the

fountain; all the village sleeps; all the village dreams of that

unhappy one, within the locks and bars of the prison on the crag,

and never to come out of it, except to perish. In the morning,

with my tools upon my shoulder, eating my morsel of black bread

as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on my way to my work.

There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty iron cage,

bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no hand

free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a

dead man."