A
week of patient inquiry, then, leaving promises of reward for
information, he came away. He had yet another object of his
travels--the prison at Dannemora--and came there of a Sunday
morning late in February. Its towers were bathed in sunlight; its
shadows lay dark and far upon the snow. Peace and light and
silence had fallen out of the sky upon that little city of regret,
as if to hush and illumine its tumult of dark passions. He
shivered in the gloom of its shadow as he went up a driveway and
rang a bell. The warden received him kindly.
"I wish to see Roderick Darrel,---he is my friend,' said Trove, as
he gave the warden a letter.
"Come with me," said the official, presently. "He is talking to
the men."
They passed through gloomy corridors to the chapel door. Trove
halted to compose himself, for now he could hear the voice of
Darrel.
"Let me stand here a while--I cannot go in now," he whispered.
The words of the old man were vibrant with colour and dramatic
force.
"Night!" he was saying, "the guard passes; the lights are out; ye
lie thinking. Hark! a bell! 'Tis in the golden city o'
remembrance. Ye hear it calling. Haste away, men, haste away.
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