Beadle's Dime Novels, No. 11 — page 122: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

120 THE PRISONER OF LA VINTRESSE. had been subjected to various tortures by fire and by flood !” “Oh! what a miserable quiet there is here! so unearthly.” In truth, the very air seemed as stagnant as the ground. The gullies in the road were deep with green water, the stunted palms seemed each to be laboring under some deform- ity, the fields were arid, and presently the wretched ruins of La Vintresse came in view, a sickening mass of black and tot- tering walls. “Very dirty here, senora,” said Jose, as the carriage stopped at a large out-building; “but if the seaora will wait, Jose get planks and lay them.” In a few moments there was comparatively a dry path. Minerva, with difficulty controlled her feelings, as she stepped into the narrow hall of the building, that had for so long beep Herman’s jail. “The senora I hope will not punish Jose,” said the negro, humbly; “he did but what his master ordered.” “You shall not be punished, Jose, only lead me to him.” Up the narrow, dirty: stairs went the old negro, applied the key reluctantly to the lock, the door opened with a harsh creak, Bandola had placed one arm about Minerva, for what with vague terror and excitement, she could scarcely stand. The room was large, bare, with miserably defaced walls, and high-barred windows. Neither table nor ehair, nothing bnt a a low pallet spread in one corner, and a camp stool near one window, as if the prisoner had lifted himself to see the dreary sight without. . Minerva gave a low, shivering cry. What was that ex- tended on the pallet, ragged, scarcely human? “Oh! can that be?” she wailed pitifully. Jose shrank away from her real sorrow. Slowly she went up to the prostrate figure, half-hoping it might not be him. The man seemed asleop, though his hollow eyes were not much more than half-closed. His skin clung tightly to the bones of his face, and was so painfully bright, that it suggested the thought of varnish. The beard had grown frightfully profuse, and fell on his throat and chest, in matted, tangled masses. Language cannot convey an idea of his extreme ema- ciation, “O Bandola!” sobbed Minerva, the tears raining down; comiclooks.corn