The Bastille was on the top of a hill about a couple of miles long, and the journey was much by the desire of the family to avoid the main road. They were all intensely ashamed; Darius was ashamed to tears, and did not know why; even his little sister wept and had to be carried, not because she was shoeless and had had nothing to eat, but because she was going to the Ba–ba–bastille; she had no notion what the place was. It proved to be the largest building that Darius had ever seen; and indeed it was the largest in the district; they stood against its steep sides like flies against a . Then there was of key-bunches, and the rasping voices of sour officials, who did not inquire if they would like a meal after their stroll. And they were put into a cellar and stripped and washed and dressed in other people’s clothes, and then separated, amid tears. And Darius was pitched into a large crowd of other boys, all clothed like himself. He now understood the reason for shame; it was because he could have no clothes of his own, because he had somehow lost his identity. All the boys had a , glance, and when they it was in whispers.  
In the low room where the boys were assembled there fell a silence, and Darius heard some one whisper that the boy who had run away and been caught would be flogged before supper. Down the long room ran a long table. Some one brought in three candles in tin candlesticks and set them near the end of this table. Then somebody else brought in a pickled birch-rod, dripping with the salt water from which it had been taken, and also a small square table. Then came some officials, and a clergyman, and then, surpassing the rest in , the governor of the Bastille, a terrible man. The governor made a speech about the crime of running away from the Bastille, and when he had spoken for a fair time, the clergyman talked in the same sense; and then a captured tiger, dressed like a boy, with fierce eyes, was dragged in by two men, and laid face down on the square table, and four boys were commanded to step forward and hold tightly the four members of this tiger. And, his clothes having been removed as far as his waist, his breeches were next pulled down his legs. Then the rod was raised and it swishing, and blood began to flow; but far more startling than the blood were the screams of the tiger; they were so loud and that the spectators could safely under their shelter. The boys in charge of the victim had to cling hard and grind their teeth in the effort to keep him . As the blows succeeded each other, Darius became more and more ashamed. The physical spectacle did not sicken nor him, for he was a man of wide experience; but he had never before seen flogging by authority. Flogging in the workshop was different, a private if sanguinary affair between free human beings. This ritualistic and cold-blooded torture was more in its . The screaming grew feebler, then ceased; then the blows ceased, and the unconscious infant (cured of being a tiger) was carried away leaving a trail of red drops along the floor.
 
Two.
After this, supper was prepared on the long table, and the clergyman called down upon it the of God, and the boys to be thankful, and departed in company with the governor. Darius, who had not tasted all day, could not eat. The flogging had not him, but the bread and the skilly revolted his tastes. Never had he, with all his experience, seen nor anything so disgusting. When supper was completed, a official with the in various ways for ten minutes, and at last the boys were marched upstairs to bed. They all slept in one room. The night also could be set down in words, but must not be, lest the setting-down should be ...
 
Darius knew that he was ruined; he knew that he was a workhouse boy for evermore, and that the bright freedom of sixteen hours a day in a cellar was lost to him for evermore. He was now a prisoner, branded, hopeless. He would never be able to withstand the influences that had closed around him and upon him. He supposed that he should become desperate, become a tiger, and then...
 
Three.
But the following afternoon he was forcibly reclothed in his own beautiful and beloved rags, and was pushed out of the Bastille, and there he saw his pale father and his mother, and his little sister, and another man. And his mother was on her knees in the cold autumn sunshine, and clasping the knees of the man, and weeping; and the man was trying to raise her, and the man was weeping too. Darius wept. The man was Mr Shushions. Somehow, in a way that Darius comprehended not, Mr Shushions had saved them. Mr Shushions, in a tall-hat and with an rolled round his waist under his coat, escorted them back to their house, into which some fresh furniture had been brought. And Darius knew that a situation was waiting for his father. And further, Mr Shushions, by his immense mysterious power, found a superb situation for Darius himself as a printer’s devil. All this because Mr Shushions, as of a Sunday school, was emotionally interested in the queer, harsh boy who had there picked up the art of writing so quickly.
 
Such was the origin of the tear that ran down Mr Shushions’s cheek when he Edwin, well-nourished, well-dressed and intelligent, the son of Darius the successful steam-printer. Mr Shushions’s tear was the tear of the creator looking upon his creation and at it. Mr Shushions loved Darius as only the can love the benefited. He had been out of the district for over thirty years, and, having returned there to die, the wonder of what he had by merely saving a lad from the certain perdition of a prolonged stay in the workhouse, struck him blindingly in the face and dazzled him.
 
Darius had never spoken to a soul of his night in the Bastille. All his was his own fearful secret. His life, seen whole, had been a miracle. But none knew that except himself and Mr Shushions. Assuredly Edwin never even faintly suspected it. To Edwin Mr Shushions was nothing but a feeble and tedious old man.