By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. He appeared to be a stranger to the prisoner, and the sole motive of his visit, curiosity. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. Marines. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the great shrouded shapes of the furniture. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome.
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