CHAPTER ELEVENTH

END OF THE GOINGS ON AT BARRINGTON


Then, presently, the jail was full of cries of horror and indignation.
For each cell door as it was unbarred and thrown open revealed the
same piteous scene, the deliverers starting back, or standing quite
transfixed before the ghastly and withered figures which rose up
before them from dank pallets of putrid straw. The faces of these
dismal apparitions expressed the terror and apprehension which the
tumult and uproar about the jail had created in minds no longer
capable of entertaining hope.

Ignorant who were the occupants of particular cells it was of course a
matter of chance whether those who opened any one of them, were the
friends of the unfortunates who were its inmates. But for a melancholy
reason this was a matter of indifference. So ghastly a travesty on
their former hale and robust selves, had sickness and sunless
confinement made almost all the prisoners, that not even brothers
recognized their brothers, and the corridor echoed with poignant
voices, calling to the poor creatures:

"What's your name?" "Is this Abijah Galpin?" "Are you my brother
Jake?" "Are you Sol Morris?" "Father, is it you?"