Each lay in his place, tortured at once with the hope of liberty and the fear of a hateful death.

The guard call sounded; the hum of the town declined by little and little.

On all sides of us, in their different quarters, we could hear the watchman cry the hours along the street.

Often enough, during my stay in England, have I listened to these gruff or broken voices; or perhaps gone to my window when I lay sleepless, and watched the old gentleman hobble by upon the causeway with his cape and his cap, his hanger and his rattle.

It was ever a thought with me how differently that cry would re-echo in the chamber of lovers, beside the bed of death, or in the condemned cell.