He was absolutely refused admittance to Clarke, who, he heard, was lodged in a dark and foul prison, where once salt fish had been stored, and which was the most noxious of any in the building.
Clarke, it seemed, had now become the object of the greatest suspicion and distrust.

The Bishop of Lincoln--then the Diocesan of Oxford--had written most stringently on his account, and no inducement would prevail to gain admittance to him; nor did Arthur feel the smallest confidence that the money greedily accepted by the warder in charge would ever be expended upon the prisoner.
He was very heavy-hearted about this friend of his; but he had better fortune in his attempts to gain speech with Dalaber.
At the end of a week he prevailed so far as to gain a short interview with him, and was locked into the cell in some haste by the jailer, and bidden to be brief in what he had to say, since it was not long that he could be permitted to remain.
Dalaber sprang up from the stone bench on which he had been sitting in a dejected attitude, and when he saw the face of his friend he uttered an exclamation of joy.
"Arthur! you have come to me! Nay, but this is a true friend's part.

Art sure it is safe to do so?
Thou must not run thine own neck into a noose on my account.

But oh, how good it is to see the face of a friend!" He seized Arthur's two hands, wringing them in a clasp that was almost pain, and his face worked with emotion.
Arthur, as his eyes grew used to the darkness, was shocked at the change which a week had wrought in his friend.

Dalaber's face seemed to have shrunk in size, the eyes had grown large and hollow, his colour had all faded, and he looked like a man who had passed through a sharp illness.
"What have they done to you, Anthony, thus to change you ?" cried Arthur, in concern.
"Oh, nothing, as yet.