"Well, Master Jailer, how goes it? Have you heard anything?" asked the young man in an eager whisper.
The jailer laid his hand compassionately on his shoulder. "Heavy tidings for thee, poor lad," he said. "He will likely die."
The answer was a deep groan, heard distinctly through all the uproar of the crowded room. Then silence; then a broken murmur, "Poor Maida — poor baby!" choked by something very like the suppressed sob of a strong man.