It was a gruesome place to contemplate as a
permanent abode. But the young American knew that his stay here
would be short, whether the termination of it were liberty or the
gallows.
Reaching the end of a narrow, crooked corridor that sloped
downward, the turnkey unlocked a ponderous iron door with a huge
key, and one of the guards following at Bucky's heels, pushed him
forward. He fell down two or three steps and came to a sprawling
heap on the floor of the cell.
From the top of the steps came a derisive laugh as the door swung
to and left him in utter darkness.
Stiffly the ranger got to his knees and was about to rise when a
sound stopped him. Something was panting in deep breaths at the
other side of the cell. A shiver of terror went goose-quilling
down O'Connor's back. Had they locked him up with some wild
beast, to be torn to pieces? Or was this the ghost of some
previous occupant? In such blackness of gloom it was easy to
believe, or, at least, to imagine impossible conceptions that the
light of day would have scattered in an instant. He was
afraid--afraid to the marrow.
And then out of the darkness came a small, trembling voice: "Are
you a prisoner, too, sir?"
Bucky wanted to shout aloud his relief--and his delight.
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