Solomon Kane
“The man lay half crouched on a bed of filthy straw in one dim corner. Apart from a mug of water and a tin plate of half-eaten food on the stained wet floor close to the prisoner’s bare feet, there was nothing else in the cell. A hole in the floor served as a privy. The man’s face was turned to the wall as if he could not bear the stench from the hole or the sight of his situation, but Kane made out that he was old and frail. The strands of unkempt hair that trailed over the shoulders of his rag...ged shirt were every colour of tarnished gold. He did not react to the sound of the key in the lock, but as Kane pushed the door wide he saw the prisoner take a breath, so feeble that it looked reluctant. “Come, old man,” Kane said urgently. “You are free.”
He heard a laboured breath that might have been a sigh. The prisoner kept his face averted and crouched closer to the wall as though he was ashamed to be seen. When he spoke his voice was barely audible, whether from disuse or determination to be left alone.MoreLess
He heard a laboured breath that might have been a sigh. The prisoner kept his face averted and crouched closer to the wall as though he was ashamed to be seen. When he spoke his voice was barely audible, whether from disuse or determination to be left alone.MoreLess
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