The very day he had been through--the Sunday on which he could neither
say nor even hear mass (for, because of the greatness of that which was
at stake, he had thought it wiser to bring with him nothing that could
arouse suspicion)--and the hearing of the bells from the church calling
to Protestant prayers, and the sight of the crowds going and
returning--this brought him lower than he had been since his first
coming to England. He lay then in the darkness, turning from side to
side, thinking of these things, listening to the breathing of the young
man who lay on blankets at the foot of his bed.
About midnight he could lie there no longer. He got out of bed
noiselessly, stepped across the other, went to the window-seat and sat
down there, staring out, with eyes well accustomed to the darkness,
towards the vast outline against the sky which he knew was the keep of
the castle. No light burned there to relieve its brutality. It remained
there, implacable as English justice, immovable as the heart of
Elizabeth and the composure of the gaoler who kept it.... Then he
drew out Mr. Maine's rosary and began to recite the "Sorrowful
Mysteries."...
He supposed afterwards that he had begun to doze; but he started,
wide-awake, at a sudden glare of light in his eyes, as if a beacon had
flared for an instant somewhere within the castle enclosure. It was gone
again, however; there remained the steady monstrous mass of building and
the heavy sky.
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