As day deepened into evening, and darkness crept into the nooks and
corners of the town as if it were mustering in secret and gathering
strength to venture into the open ways, Barnaby sat in his dungeon,
wondering at the silence, and listening in vain for the noise and outcry
which had ushered in the night of late. Beside him, with his hand in
hers, sat one in whose companionship he felt at peace. She was worn, and
altered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted; but the same to him.
'Mother,' he said, after a long silence: 'how long,--how many days and
nights,--shall I be kept here?'
'Not many, dear. I hope not many.'
'You hope! Ay, but your hoping will not undo these chains. I hope, but
they don't mind that. Grip hopes, but who cares for Grip?'
The raven gave a short, dull, melancholy croak. It said 'Nobody,' as
plainly as a croak could speak.
'Who cares for Grip, except you and me?' said Barnaby, smoothing the
bird's rumpled feathers with his hand. 'He never speaks in this place;
he never says a word in jail; he sits and mopes all day in his dark
corner, dozing sometimes, and sometimes looking at the light that creeps
in through the bars, and shines in his bright eye as if a spark from
those great fires had fallen into the room and was burning yet.
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