Rosa, being vexed, shut herself up in her room and left him to himself.
“Alas!” he thought, “I have deserved all this. She will come no more, and she is right in staying away; in her place I should do just the same.”
Yet notwithstanding all this, Cornelius listened, waited, and hoped, until midnight; then he threw himself, in his clothes, on his bed.
It was a long and sad night for him; and the day brought no hope to the prisoner.
At eight in the morning, the door of his cell opened; but Cornelius did not even turn his head; he had heard the heavy step of Gryphus in the lobby, but this step had perfectly satisfied the prisoner that his jailor was coming alone.
Thus Cornelius did not even look at Gryphus.
And yet he would have been so glad to draw him out, and to inquire about Rosa. He even very nearly made this inquiry, strange as it would needs have appeared to her father. To tell the truth, there was in all this some selfish hope, to hear from Gryphus that his daughter was ill.
Except on extraordinary occasions, Rosa never came during the day. Cornelius, therefore, did not really expect her, as long as the day lasted. Yet his sudden starts, his listening at the door, his rapid glances, at every little noise, towards the grated window, showed clearly that the prisoner entertained some latent hope that Rosa would, some how or other, break her rule.
At the second visit of Gryphus, Cornelius, contrary to all his former habits, asked the old jailor, with the most winning voice, about her health; but Gryphus contented himself with giving the laconical answer,—
“All’s well.”
