CHAPTER XV.
THE PRISON OF STEEL.
I awoke in the day, but at what hour of it I know not. The red curtains opposite to my bunk were drawn back, admitting dull light from a port-hole through which I could look upon a tumbling sea, and a sky all girt with rain-clouds. But I had not been awake five seconds when I saw that my arm-chair was occupied by a man who did not look more than thirty-years old, and was dressed with all the scrupulous neatness of a thorough-going yachtsman. He was wearing a peaked cloth cap with a gold eagle upon it, a short jacket of blue serge, with ample trousers to match, and a neat pair of brown shoes; while his linen would have touched the heart even of the most hardened blanchisseuse of the city. He had a bright, open face, marred only by a peculiarly irritating movement of the eye, which told of a nervous disposition; and there was something refined and polished in his voice, which I heard almost at once.
"Good-morning to you," he said; "I hope you have slept well?"
