ow, day after day and day after day, until--until what? Until
the Governor pardoned him or his time was up, or his fortune eaten
away--or--

So he cogitated while the hours slipped by. It was nearly five o'clock
before Steger was able to return, and then only for a little while.
He had been arranging for Cowperwood's appearance on the following
Thursday, Friday, and Monday in his several court proceedings. When he
was gone, however, and the night fell and Cowperwood had to trim his
little, shabby oil-lamp and to drink the strong tea and eat the rough,
poor bread made of bran and white flour, which was shoved to him
through the small aperture in the door by the trencher trusty, who was
accompanied by the overseer to see that it was done properly, he really
felt very badly. And after that the center wooden door of his cell was
presently closed and locked by a trusty who slammed it rudely and said
no word. Nine o'clock would be sounded somewhere by a great bell, he
understood, when his smoky oil-lamp would have to be put out promptly
and he would have to undress and go to bed. There were punishments,
no doubt, for infractions of these rules--reduced rations, the
strait-jacket, perhaps stripes--he scarcely knew what. He felt
disconsolate, grim, weary. He had put up such a long, unsatisfactory
fight. After washing his heavy stone cup and tin plate at the hydrant,
he took off the sickening uniform and shoes and even the drawers of
the scratching underwear, and stretched himself wearily on the bed. The
place was not any too warm, and he tried to make himself comfortable
between the blankets--but it was of little use. His soul was cold.

"This will never do," he said to himself. "This will never do. I'm not
sure whether I can stand much of this or not." Still he turned his face
to the wall, and after several hours sleep eventually came.

Chapter LIV

Those who by any pleasing courtesy of fortune, accident of birth,
inheritance, or the wisdom of parents or friends, have succeeded in
avoiding making that anathema of the prosperous and comfortable, "a
mess of their lives," will scarcely understand the mood of Cowperwood,
sitting rather gloomily in his cell these first days, wondering what, in
spite of his great ingenuity, was to become of him. The strongest have
their hours of depression. There are times when life to those endowed
with the greatest intelligence--perhaps mostly to those--takes on a
somber hue. They se