The exception was that we got plenty to eat and consequently regained our normal state of health and strength more rapidly than might have been expected.

With us it was literally a case of "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." Only somehow I don't think that any of us really believed that we should die, though whether this was because we had all, except poor Quick, survived so much, or from a sneaking faith in Maqueda's optimistic dreams, I cannot say.

At any rate we ate our food with appetite, took exercise in an inner yard of the prison, and strove to grow as strong as we could, feeling that soon we might need all our powers.

Oliver was the most miserable among us, not for his own sake, but because, poor fellow, he was haunted with fears as to Maqueda and her fate, although of these he said little or nothing to us.

On the other hand, my son Roderick was by far the most cheerful.