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In the tenth month, Richard, with the other convicts, was transferred to Lingmoor, one of the great penal settlements. They were "removed," for some portion of the distance, in vans, like furniture, or, we might rather say, in caravans like wild beasts; but for some miles they traveled by railway.
Richard, however, did not care to enlighten him on his own concerns, but confined his conversation to the one topic that was common between them jails. Rolfe gave him a synopsis of the annals of Lingmoor, to which he was bound not for the first time.
He was sure of Balfour; he felt certain that nothing but sudden and dangerous illness would have prevented him from keeping his word. But perhaps he had not been able to obtain a rope; such things were watchfully looked after in the neighborhood of Lingmoor Prison, and might even not be procurable. Yet had such been the case, Balfour would not have volunteered that form of assistance.
Richard Yorke is still at Lingmoor; and though but a twelvemonth intervenes between him and freedom or perhaps partly because of it prison life is growing insupportable. It is the last year of "a long term," as all "old hands" will tell you, which is the most trying.
It's a very hard nut to crack, is Lingmoor, I can tell you." With these and similar incidents of prison-life, Mr. Rolfe regaled his companion's ears. The sound of this man's voice, muffled as it was, notwithstanding the nature of his talk, was pleasant to Richard after so many months of enforced silence. After long starvation the stomach is thankful for even garbage; and so it is with the mind.
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