The old man with the beard and the canting hat looked into my eyes
keenly, but he did not speak. He had nothing to say, perhaps. Something
human had moved before him, that was all; something that could come and
go at its pleasure and break the monotony of endless hours.

"How long have you been here?" I asked, lowering my voice and stepping
closer to the bars.

Somehow I did not want the others to hear. It was almost as though I
were talking to Jonathan--my dear Jonathan--and he behind bars!

"Eleven months and three days. Reckon I be the oldest"--and he looked
about him as if for confirmation. "Yes, reckon I be."

"What for?"

"Sellin'."

The answer came without the slightest hesitation and without the
slightest trace in his voice of anything that betokened either sorrow
for his act or shame for the crime.

"Eleven months and three days of this!" I repeated to myself.
Instinctively my mind went back to all I had done, seen, and enjoyed in
these eleven months and three days. Certain individual incidents more
delightful than others stood out clear and distinct: that day under the
trees at Cookham, the Thames slipping past, the white-sailed clouds
above my tent of leaves; a morning at Dort, when Peter and I watched the
Dutch luggers anchor off the quay, and the big storm came up; a night