So Hall stayed there and howled, his cries
growing weaker from day to day; by-and-by we heard him only at
intervals, and after that not at all.
One morning there was a little knot of men around the open dungeon
door, the Deputy Warden and two or three keepers. Mr. Morey called
to me to go and get the tools and come there and take off Hall's
irons. I went into the cell and in a few minutes I unfastened his
feet from the ring; then I took the shackles off his limbs. I
thought he held his legs very stiff, but knew he was obstinate, and
only wondered he was so quiet.
Somebody brought in a candle and I looked at Hall's face. I never
saw a more ghastly sight. The blood from his mouth and nostrils had
clotted on the lower part of his face, and his wild eyes, fixed and
glassy, were staring at the top wall of the dungeon. He must have
been dead several hours. The Depu ty and the rest knew he was
dead-the man who carried in the bread and water told them-me it came
with a shock from which I did not soon recover.
They buried Hall in the little graveyard which was in the yard of
the prison. An Episcopal clergyman, who was chaplain of the prison,
read the burial service over him. The prisoners were brought out to
attend the homely funeral. The ball and chain, all the personal
property left by Hall, were put aside for the next murderer
sentenced for life, or for the next "ugly" prisoner. "If I were only
treated better, and not abused so, I should be a better man.
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