That we had been sentenced to exile, to prolonged servitude in some foreign land, was all that any of us knew--to what special section of the world fate had allotted us remained unknown.
In spite of curses, and an occasional blow, we advanced slowly, marching four abreast, with feet dragging heavily, the chains binding us together clanking dismally with each step, and an armed guard between each file.

Experiences have been many since then, yet I recall, as though it were but yesterday, the faces of those who walked in line with me.

I was at the right end of my file, and at my shoulder was a boy from Morrownest, a slim, white-faced lad, his weak chin trembling from fear, and his eyes staring about so pleadingly I spoke a word of courage to him, whispering in his ear, lest the guard behind might strike.

He glanced aside at me, but with no response in the depths of his eyes, in which I could perceive only a dumb anguish of despair.

Beyond him marched Grover, one time butcher at Harwich, a stocky, big-fisted fellow, with a ghastly sword wound, yet red and unhealed on his face, extending from hair to chin, his little pig eyes glinting ugly, and his lips cursing.