It was in the tenth year of our captivity, and in the twenty-sixth of my
age, that one morning instead of the guard marching us to work, they
handed us over to a party of mounted soldiers, from whose matchlocks and
long whips I knew that we were going to leave Ymeguen. Before we left,
another gang joined us, and how my heart went out when I saw Elzevir
among them! It was two years or more since we had met even to pass a
greeting, for I worked outside the fortress and he on the great tower
inside, and I took note his hair was whiter and a sadder look upon his
face. And as for the _cross-pall_ on his cheek, I never thought of it at
all, for we were all so well used to the mark, that if one bore it not
stamped upon his face we should have stared at him as on a man born with
but one eye. But though his look was sad, yet Elzevir had a kind smile
and hearty greeting for me as he passed, and on the march, when they
served out our food, we got a chance to speak a word or two together.
Yet how could we find room for much gladness, for even the pleasure of
meeting was marred because we were forced thus to take note, as it were,
of each other's misery, and to know that the one had nothing for his old
age but to break in prison, and the other nothing but the prison to eat
away the strength of his prime.
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