It was. “Yes, I see that. "Jack Sheppard failed! I'd not believe it, if any one but himself told me so. The Reaper is not sated yet. Wasn’t easy, I can tell you. Here, without a glimpse of daylight; visited by no one except Austin at stated intervals, who neither answered a question nor addressed a word to him; fed upon the worst diet, literally mouldy bread and ditch-water; surrounded by stone walls; with a flagged floor for his pillow, and without so much as a blanket to protect him from the death-like cold that pierced his frame,—Jack's stout heart was subdued, and he fell into the deepest dejection, ardently longing for the time when even a violent death should terminate his sufferings. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. "A little extra exertion will teach him the advantage of diligence at the proper season. He smiled complacently. “I forbid it!” she said firmly. “It does nothing but sit there.
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