They went down many steps and came into a narrow
corridor upon which a number of iron doors opened. The guards unlocked
one of the doors, pushed Ned in, relocked the door on him, and went
away.
Ned staggered from the rude thrust, but, recovering himself stood erect,
and tried to accustom his eyes to the half darkness. He stood in a
small, square room with walls of hard cement or plaster. The roof of the
same material was high, and in the center of it was a round hole,
through which came all the air that entered the cell. In a corner was a
rude pallet of blankets spread upon grass. There was no window. The
place was hideous and lonely beyond the telling. He had not felt this
way in the pyramid.
Ned now had suffered more than any boy could stand. He threw himself
upon the blanket, and only pride kept him from shedding tears. But he
was nevertheless relaxed completely, and his body shook as if in a
chill. He lay there a long time. Now and then, he looked up at the walls
of his prison, but always their sodden gray looked more hideous than
ever. He listened but heard nothing. The stillness was absolute and
deadly. It oppressed him. He longed to hear anything that would break
it; anything that would bring him into touch with human life and that
would drive away the awful feeling of being shut up forever.
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