His arms and legs were like sticks; both hands had lost their
thumbs, his feet were twisted, straggling wisps of gray hair escaped from
his turban. Standing there beside Diggle, he began to mop and mow,
uttering incomprehensible gibberish.
Diggle waved him away.
"That, my dear boy, illustrates the darker side of Angria's
character--the side which forbids me to call Angria unreservedly my
friend. A year ago that man was as straight as you; he had all his organs
and dimensions; he was rich, and of importance in his little world.
Today--but you have seen him: it boots not to attempt in words to say
what the living image has already said.
"And within twenty-four hours, unless you come to a better mind, even as
that man is, so will you be."
He rose slowly to his feet, bending upon Desmond a look of mournful
interest and compassion. Desmond had stood all but transfixed with
horror. But as Diggle now prepared to leave him, the boy flushed hot; his
fists clenched; his eyes flashed with indignation.
"You fiend!" was all he said.
Diggle smiled, and sauntered carelessly away.
That night, when the prisoners were brought as usual to the shed, and
warder and sentries were out of earshot, Desmond told them what he had
seen.
"It must be tonight, my brothers," he said in conclusion. "We have no
longer time. Before sunrise tomorrow we must be out of this evil place.
We must work, work, for life and liberty."
This night again the singer sang untiringly, the tom tom accompanying him
with its weird hollow notes.
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