Another ten minutes, and he
lay on his back on the ground in a corner of the dungeon to which
the water had floated him, having taken care towards the end to
sink his head so that his hair floated partly over it, and as the
water drained off remained so. He guessed it to be about midday,
and he expected to be left undisturbed until night.
After a time he slept, and when he awoke it was dark, and soon
after he heard steps coming down the stairs. Now was the moment of
trial. Presently the door opened and four of the gaolers came in.
They bore between them a stretcher.
"This is the fifth," one said, and he recognized the voice of his
own attendant. "It is a pity, he was a fine fellow. Well, there's
one more, and then the job's done."
He bent over Rupert, who ceased breathing.
"He's the only one with his eyes closed," he said. "I expect
there's someone would break her heart if she knew he was lying
here. Well, lift him up, mates."
The two months' imprisonment in the dungeon had done one good
service for Rupert. The absence of light had blanched his face, and
even had he been dead he could hardly have looked more white than
he did. The long hours in the water had made his hands deadly cold,
and the hair matted on his face added to the deathlike aspect.
"Put the stretcher on the ground, and roll him over on to it," one
of the men said. "I don't mind a dead man, but these are so clammy
and slimy that they are horrible to touch.
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