But no one came, or answered him. Fearful, even while he cried to them,
of attracting attention, he was silent. By and bye, he saw, as he looked
from his grated window, a strange glimmering on the stone walls and
pavement of the yard. It was feeble at first, and came and went, as
though some officers with torches were passing to and fro upon the roof
of the prison. Soon it reddened, and lighted brands came whirling down,
spattering the ground with fire, and burning sullenly in corners. One
rolled beneath a wooden bench, and set it in a blaze; another caught a
water-spout, and so went climbing up the wall, leaving a long straight
track of fire behind it. After a time, a slow thick shower of burning
fragments, from some upper portion of the prison which was blazing nigh,
began to fall before his door. Remembering that it opened outwards, he
knew that every spark which fell upon the heap, and in the act lost
its bright life, and died an ugly speck of dust and rubbish, helped
to entomb him in a living grave. Still, though the jail resounded with
shrieks and cries for help,--though the fire bounded up as if each
separate flame had had a tiger's life, and roared as though, in every
one, there were a hungry voice--though the heat began to grow intense,
and the air suffocating, and the clamour without increased, and the
danger of his situation even from one merciless element was every moment
more extreme,--still he was afraid to raise his voice again, lest
the crowd should break in, and should, of their own ears or from the
information given them by the other prisoners, get the clue to his place
of confinement.
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