"It strikes me forcibly that he will be found dead in his bed some
morning, and I should not in the least wonder if that were to-morrow
morning: what's your opinion, Watson?" "Oh, damn it, what's the use of all this round-about nonsense between
us? the boy is to die, and there's an end of it, and die he shall during
the night--I owe him a personal grudge, of course, now." "Of course you do--he has disfigured you." "Has he? Well, I can return the compliment; and I say, Mr. Fogg, my
opinion is, that it's very dangerous having these medical inspections
you have such a fancy for." "My dear fellow, it is dangerous, that I know as well as you can tell
me, but it is from that danger we gather safety. If anything in the
shape of a disturbance should arise about any patient, you don't know of
what vast importance a report from such a man as old Dr. Popplejoy might
be." "Well, well, have it your own way. I shall not go near Master Tobias for
the whole day, and shall see what starvation and solitude does towards
taming him down a bit." "As you please; but it is time you went your regular rounds." "Yes, of course." Tobias heard Watson rise. The crisis was a serious one. His eye fell
upon a bolt that was outside the door, and, with the quickness of
thought, he shot it into its socket, and then made his way down the
passage towards his cell, the door of which he shut close. His next
movement was to run to the end of the passage and descend some stairs. A
door opposed him, but a push opened it, and he found himself in a small,
dimly-lighted room, in one corner of which, upon a heap of straw, lay a
woman, apparently sleeping. The noise which Tobias made in entering the
cell, for such it was, roused her up, and she said--

"Oh! no, no; not the lash! not the lash! I am quiet. God, how quiet I
am, although the heart within is breaking. Have mercy upon me!" "Have mercy upon me," said Tobias, "and hide me if you can." "Hide you! hide you! God of Heaven, who are you?" "A poor victim, who has escaped from one of the cells, and I--"

"Hush!" said the woman; and she made Tobias shrink down in the corner of
the cell, cleverly covering him up with the straw, and then lying down
herself in such a position that he was completely screened. The
precaution was not taken a moment too soon, for, by the time it was
completed, Watson had burst open the door of the room which Tobias had
bolted, and stood in the narrow passage. "How the devil," he said, "came that door shut, I wonder?" "Oh! save me," whispered Tobias. "Hush! hush! He will only look in," was the answer. "You are safe. I
have been only waiting for some one who could assist me, in order to
attempt an escape. You must remain here until night, and then I will
show you how it may be done. Hush!--he comes." Watson did come, and
looked into the cell, muttering an oath, as he said--

"Oh, you have enough bread and water till to-morrow morning, I should
say; so you need not expect to see me again till then." "Oh! we are saved! we shall escape," said the poor creature, after
Watson had been gone some minutes. "Do you think so?" "Yes, yes! Oh, boy, I do not know what brought you here, but if you have
suffered one-tenth part of the cruelty and oppression that I have
suffered, you are indeed to be pitied." "If we are to stay here," said Tobias, "till night, before making any
attempt to escape, it will, perhaps, ease your mind, and beguile the
time, if you were to tell me how you came here." "God knows! it might--it might." Tobias was very urgent upon the poor creature to tell her story, to
beguile the tedium of the time of waiting, and after some amount of
persuasion she consented to do so. "You shall now hear," she said to Tobias, "if you will listen, such a
catalogue of wrongs, unredressed and still enduring, that would indeed
drive any human being mad; but I have been able to preserve so much of
my mental faculties as will enable me to recollect and understand the
many acts of cruelty and injustice that I have endured here for many a
long and weary day. My persecutions began when I was very young--so
young that I could not comprehend their cause, and used to wonder why I
should be treated with greater rigour or with greater cruelty than
people used to treat those who were really disobedient and wayward
children. I was scarcely seven years old when a maiden aunt died; she
was the old person whom I remember as having been uniformly kind to me;
though I can only remember her indistinctly, yet I know she was kind to
me; I know also I used to visit her, and she used to look upon me as her
favourite, for I used to sit at her feet upon a stool, watching her as
she sat amusing herself by embroidering, silent and motionless
sometimes, and then I asked her some questions which she answered. This
is the chief feature of my recollection of my aunt: she soon after died,
but while she lived, I had no unkindness from anybody; it was only after
that that I felt the cruelty and coolness of my family. It appeared that
I was a favourite with my aunt above all others, either in our family or
any other; she loved me, and promised that when she died, she would
leave me provided for, and that I should not be dependent upon any one. Well, I was, from the day after the funeral, an altered being. I was
neglected, and no one paid any attention to me whatsoever; I was thrust
about, and nobody appeared to care even if I had the necessaries of
life. Such a change I could not understand. I could not believe the
evidence of my own senses; I thought it must be something that I did not
understand; perhaps my poor aunt's death had caused this distress and
alteration in people's demeanour to me. However, I was a child, and
though I was quick enough at noting all this, yet I was too young to
feel acutely the conduct of my friends. My father and mother were
careless of me, and let me run where I would; they cared not when I was
hurt, they cared not when I was in danger. Come what would, I was left
to take my chance. I recollect one day when I had fallen from the top to
the bottom of some stairs and hurt myself very much; but no one
comforted me; I was thrust out of the drawing-room, because I cried. I
then went to the top of the stairs, where I sat weeping bitterly for
some time. At length, an old servant came out of one of the attics, and
said--

"'Oh! Miss Mary, what has happened to you, that you sit crying so
bitterly on the stair head? Come in here!' "I arose and went into the attic with her, when she set me on a chair,
and busied herself with my bruises, and said to me--

"'Now, tell me what are you crying about, and why did they turn you out
of the drawing-room--tell me now?' "'Ay,' said I, 'they turned me out because I cried when I was hurt. I
fell all the way down stairs, but they don't mind.' "'No, they do not, and yet in many families they would have taken more
care of you than they do here!' "'And why do you think they would have done so?' I inquired.