orced his
command, the lashes fell upon all within reach, and a little space was
cleared within the door. Into that space a man was flung and the door
closed again.

Trench was standing close to the door; in the dim twilight which came
through the doorway he had caught a glimpse of the new prisoner, a man
heavily ironed, slight of figure, and bent with suffering.

"He will fall," he said, "he will fall to-night. God! if I were to!" and
suddenly the crowd swayed against him, and the curses rose louder and
shriller than before.

The new prisoner was the cause. He clung to the door with his face
against the panels, through the chinks of which actual air might come.
Those behind plucked him from his vantage, jostled him, pressed him
backwards that they might take his place. He was driven as a wedge is
driven by a hammer, between this prisoner and that, until at last he was
flung against Colonel Trench.

The ordinary instincts of kindness could not live in the nightmare of
that prison house. In the daytime, outside, the prisoners were often
drawn together by their bond of a common misery; the faithful as often
as not helped the infidel. But to fight for life during the hours of
darkness without pity or cessation was the one creed and practice of the
House of Stone. Colonel Trench was like the rest. The need to live, if
only long enough to drink one drop of water in the morning and draw one
clean mouthful of fresh air, was more than uppermost in his mind. It was
the only thought he had.

"Back!" he cried violently, "back, or I strike!"--and, as he wrestled to
lift his arm above his head that he might strike the better, he heard
the man who had been flung against him incoherently babbling English.

"Don't fall," cried Trench, and he caught his fellow-captive by the arm.
"Ibrahim, help! God, if he were to fall!" and while the crowd swayed
again and the shrill cries and curses rose again, deafening the ears,
piercing the brain, Trench supported his companion, and bending down his
head caught again after so many months the accent of his own tongue. And
the sound of it civilised him like the friendship of a woman.

He could not hear what was said; the din was too loud. But he caught,
as it were, shadows of words which had once been familiar to him, which
had been spoken to him, which he had spoken to others--as a matter of
course. In the House of Stone they sounded most wonderful. They had a
magic, too. Meadows of grass, c