better now, nearly well, in fact. The prison doctor
seemed a sensible man, and he spoke as if he were interested in Michael.
From what he said I gathered that he did not think Michael would survive
another winter there. The prison[1] stands in a sort of marsh. It is a
very good place to prevent prisoners escaping, but not a good place for
them to keep alive in. The doctor is pressing to have Michael moved. He
thinks he might do better at the 'colonia agricola,' where the labour is
more agricultural; or that even work in the iron mines of Portoferriao
would try his constitution less than the swamp where he now is."
[Footnote 1: The prison described has no counterpart in real life.]
"Was he still in chains?"
"No. And the doctor said there was some talk of abolishing them
altogether. If not, he will be obliged to go back to them now he is
better. He is looking forward to the sea lavender coming out. He says
the place is beautiful beyond words when it is in flower: whole tracts
and tracts of grey lilac blossom in the shallows, and hordes of wild
birds. He asked me to tell you that you were to think of him as living
in fairyland."
Fay winced as if struck.
"You gave him my message?" she stammered.
"Of course I did. And he said I was to tell you not to grieve for him,
for he was well and happy."
"Happy!" echoed Fay.
"Yes, happy. He said he had committed a great sin, but that he hoped and
believed that he was now expiating it, and that it would be forgiven."
"I am absolutely certain," said Fay in a suffocated voice, "that Michael
did not murder the Marchese di Maltagliala."
"That is impossible," said Wentworth.
"Then what great sin can he be expiating?"
Even as Fay asked the question she knew the answer. Michael believed he
was expiating the sin of loving another man's wife. In his mind that was
probably on a par with the murder he had not committed.
"I asked him that," said Wentworth, "but he would not say. He would only
repeat that his punishment was just."
Two large tears ran down Fay's cheeks.
"It is unjust, unjust, unjust!" she gasped. "Why does God allow these
dreadful things?"
There was a long silence.
For a time Wentworth had forgotten Fay. He saw again the great yellow
building standing in a waste of waters. He saw again the thin,
prematurely aged face of his brother, the shaved head, the coarse,
striped convict dress, the arid light from the narrow barred window. He
saw again Mic
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