he had the power to write, he dared not. As one whom in a
desert, seeking for a face, should come to a pool of blood, and
seeing his own reflection, fly--so would such a one hasten from the
contemplation of his own degrading agony. Imagine such torment endured
for six years!

Ignorant that the sights and sounds about him were symptoms of the final
abandonment of the settlement, and that the Ladybird was sent down to
bring away the prisoners, Rufus Dawes decided upon getting rid of that
burden of life which pressed upon him so heavily. For six years he had
hewn wood and drawn water; for six years he had hoped against hope; for
six years he had lived in the valley of the shadow of Death. He dared
not recapitulate to himself what he had suffered. Indeed, his senses
were deadened and dulled by torture. He cared to remember only one
thing--that he was a Prisoner for Life. In vain had been his first dream
of freedom. He had done his best, by good conduct, to win release;
but the villainy of Vetch and Rex had deprived him of the fruit of his
labour. Instead of gaining credit by his exposure of the plot on board
the Malabar, he was himself deemed guilty, and condemned, despite his
asseverations of innocence. The knowledge of his "treachery"--for so it
was deemed among his associates--while it gained for him no credit with
the authorities, procured for him the detestation and ill-will of the
monsters among whom he found himself. On his arrival at Hell's Gates he
was a marked man--a Pariah among those beings who were Pariahs to all
the world beside. Thrice his life was attempted; but he was not then
quite tired of living, and he defended it. This defence was construed by
an overseer into a brawl, and the irons from which he had been relieved
were replaced. His strength--brute attribute that alone could avail
him--made him respected after this, and he was left at peace. At first
this treatment was congenial to his temperament; but by and by it became
annoying, then painful, then almost unendurable. Tugging at his oar,
digging up to his waist in slime, or bending beneath his burden of pine
wood, he looked greedily for some excuse to be addressed. He would take
double weight when forming part of the human caterpillar along whose
back lay a pine tree, for a word of fellowship. He would work double
tides to gain a kindly sentence from a comrade. In his utter desolation
he agonized for the friendship of robbers and murderers. Then the