f inquiry, Clennam made him a sign
to go; but he added aloud, 'unless you are afraid of him.' Cavalletto
replied with a very emphatic finger-negative.'No, master, I am not
afraid of him, when I no more keep it secrettementally that he was once
my comrade.' Rigaud took no notice of either remark until he had lighted
his last cigarette and was quite ready for walking.

'Afraid of him,' he said then, looking round upon them all. 'Whoof! My
children, my babies, my little dolls, you are all afraid of him. You
give him his bottle of wine here; you give him meat, drink, and lodging
there; you dare not touch him with a finger or an epithet. No. It is his
character to triumph! Whoof!

'Of all the king's knights he's the flower, And he's always gay!'

With this adaptation of the Refrain to himself, he stalked out of the
room closely followed by Cavalletto, whom perhaps he had pressed into
his service because he tolerably well knew it would not be easy to get
rid of him. Mr Flintwinch, after scraping his chin, and looking about
with caustic disparagement of the Pig-Market, nodded to Arthur, and
followed. Mr Pancks, still penitent and depressed, followed too; after
receiving with great attention a secret word or two of instructions from
Arthur, and whispering back that he would see this affair out, and stand
by it to the end.

The prisoner, with the feeling that he was more despised, more scorned
and repudiated, more helpless, altogether more miserable and fallen than
before, was left alone again.

CHAPTER 29. A Plea in the Marshalsea

Haggard anxiety and remorse are bad companions to be barred up with.
Brooding all day, and resting very little indeed at night, t will not
arm a man against misery. Next morning, Clennam felt that his health was
sinking, as his spirits had already sunk and that the weight under which
he bent was bearing him down.

Night after night he had risen from his bed of wretchedness at twelve or
one o'clock, and had sat at his window watching the sickly lamps in the
yard, and looking upward for the first wan trace of day, hours before it
was possible that the sky could show it to him. Now when the night came,
he could not even persuade himself to undress.

For a burning restlessness set in, an agonised impatience of the prison,
and a conviction that he was going to break his heart and die there,
which caused him indescribable suffering. His dread and hatred of the
place became so intense that