As they entered the jail with the rush of men, Perez had taken
Prudence's hand, and remembering the location of Reuben's cell,
stopped before it, lifted the bar, threw open the door and they went
in. George Fennell was lying on the straw upon the floor. He had
raised himself on one elbow, and was looking apprehensively to see
what the opening of the door would reveal as the cause of this
interruption to the usually sepulchral stillness of the jail. Reuben
was standing in the middle of the floor, eagerly gazing in the same
direction. Perez sprang to his brother's side, his face beautiful with
the joy of the deliverer. If he had been a Frenchman, or an Italian,
anything but an Anglo Saxon, he would have kissed him, with one of
those noblest kisses of all, wherewith once in a lifetime, or so, men
may greet each other. But he only supported him with one arm about the
waist, and stroked his wasted cheek with his hand, and said:

"I've come for you Reub, old boy, you're free."

Prudence had first peered anxiously into the face of Reuben, and next
glanced at the man lying on the straw. Then she plucked Perez by the
sleeve, and said in an anguished voice:

"Father ain't here. Where is he?" and turned to run out.

"That's your father," replied Perez, pointing to the sick man.

The girl sprang to his side, and kneeling down, searched with
straining eyes in the bleached and bony face, fringed with matted hair
and long unkempt gray beard, for some trace of the full and ruddy
countenance which she remembered. She would still have hesitated, but
her father said: