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Updated: June 18, 2025
If they die, "it is of no account; he is only a prisoner," as an officer said to me, respecting another who had died. On entering the hall the evening after Sylver's cruel death, I found the prisoners greatly excited. One exclaimed, as loud as he thought prudent, "Murder! murder! They have murdered one of our number."
Had that really been the case, why did not the guard go among the men and endeavor to still them? Why go to Sylver's cell and expend his efforts there? Or, admitting the deputy's statement to be true, did that help the matter for him in the least?
But understanding that I might say no more, and meddle no farther, I retired, feeling that the man was in a forlorn condition. The cold in the hall was not as severe now as formerly, for the weather had become milder without, and that coal stove, before referred to, stood not far from Sylver's cell. This helped in a measure, but came short of the warmth needful to a sick man like him.
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