would suffer but not complain.

Dan was put in the brush-shop, and feeling that activity was his only
salvation, worked with a feverish energy that soon won the approval of
the master and the envy of less skilful mates. Day after day he sat in
his place, watched by an armed overseer, forbidden any but necessary
words, no intercourse with the men beside him, no change but from cell
to shop, no exercise but the dreary marches to and fro, each man's hand
on the other's shoulder keeping step with the dreary tramp so different
from the ringing tread of soldiers. Silent, gaunt, and grim, Dan did his
daily task, ate his bitter bread, and obeyed commands with a rebellious
flash of the eye, that made the warden say:

'That's a dangerous man. Watch him. He'll break out some day.'

There were others more dangerous than he, because older in crime
and ready for any desperate outbreak to change the monotony of long
sentences. These men soon divined Dan's mood, and in the mysterious way
convicts invent, managed to convey to him before a month was over
that plans were being made for a mutiny at the first opportunity.
Thanksgiving Day was one of the few chances for them to speak together
as they enjoyed an hour of freedom in the prison yard. Then all would
be settled and the rash attempt made if possible, probably to end in
bloodshed and defeat for most, but liberty for a few. Dan had already
planned his own escape and bided his time, growing more and more moody,
fierce, and rebellious, as loss of liberty wore upon soul and body; for
this sudden change from his free, healthy life to such a narrow, gloomy,
and miserable one, could not but have a terrible effect upon one of
Dan's temperament and age.

He brooded over his ruined life, gave up all his happy hopes and plans,
felt that he could never face dear old Plumfield again, or touch those
friendly hands, with the stain of blood upon his own. He did not care
for the wretched man whom he had killed, for such a life was better
ended, he thought; but the disgrace of prison would never be wiped out
of his memory, though the cropped hair would grow again, the grey suit
easily be replaced, and the bolts and bars left far behind.

'It's all over with me; I've spoilt my life, now let it go. I'll give up
the fight and get what pleasure I can anywhere, anyhow. They shall think
me dead and so still care for me, but never know what I am. Poor Mother
Bhaer! she tried to help me, but it's no us