He clung to the door with his face
against the panels, through the chinks of which actual air might come.
Those behind plucked him from his vantage, jostled him, pressed him
backwards that they might take his place. He was driven as a wedge is
driven by a hammer, between this prisoner and that, until at last he was
flung against Colonel Trench.
The ordinary instincts of kindness could not live in the nightmare of
that prison house. In the daytime, outside, the prisoners were often
drawn together by their bond of a common misery; the faithful as often
as not helped the infidel. But to fight for life during the hours of
darkness without pity or cessation was the one creed and practice of the
House of Stone. Colonel Trench was like the rest. The need to live, if
only long enough to drink one drop of water in the morning and draw one
clean mouthful of fresh air, was more than uppermost in his mind. It was
the only thought he had.
"Back!" he cried violently, "back, or I strike!"--and, as he wrestled to
lift his arm above his head that he might strike the better, he heard
the man who had been flung against him incoherently babbling English.
"Don't fall," cried Trench, and he caught his fellow-captive by the arm.
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