gate. "He shows the greatest anxiety
whenever the door opens; but, as if disappointed at not seeing whom he
expected, relapses at once into his silent reserve."

"You see that he still expects you," whispered Cahill to the Abbe; and
the other assented with a faint nod of the head.

"No, sir; this way," said the jailer; "he is now in the condemned cell."
And, so saying, he led the way along the corridor.

By the faint light of a small lamp, fixed high up in the wall, they
could just detect the figure of a man, as he sat crouched on the low
settle-bed, his head resting on his arms as they were crossed over his
knees. He never moved as the grating sound of the heavy door jarred on
the stillness, but sat still and motionless.

"The Abbe D'Esmonde has come to see you, Eustace," said the jailer,
tapping him on the shoulder. "Wake up, man, and speak to him."

The prisoner lifted his head and made an effort to say something; but
though his lips moved, there came no sounds from them. At last, with
an effort that was almost convulsive, he pointed to the door, and said,
"Alone--alone!"

"He wants to speak with you alone, sir," whispered the jailer, "and so
we will retire."

D'Esmonde could not see them leave the cell without a sense of
fear,--less the dread of any personal injury than the strange terror
so inseparable to any close communion with one convicted of a dreadful
crime,--and he actually shuddered as the massive door was banged to.

"You are cold, sir!" said the prisoner, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.

"No, it was not cold!" replied D'Esmonde.

"I can guess what it was, then!" said the other, with an energy to which
passion seemed to contribute. "But I 'll not keep you long here. Sit
down, sir. You must sit beside me, for there is no other seat than the
settle-bed. But there is nobody here to see the great Abbe D'Esmonde
side by side with a murderer."

"Wretched man," said D'Esmonde, passionately, "by what fatality did you
rush upon your fate? Why did you ever return to this country?"

"It is to tell you that--ay, that very thing--I asked you to come here
to-night," said the prisoner, with a firm, full voice. "I came here
for _you_--just so--for _you yourself_, There, there," continued he,
naughtily, "don't look as if I wanted to trick you. Is it here. Is it
now, that a lie would sarve me? Listen to me, and don't stop me, for I
want to turn my thoughts to something else when this is off my heart.
Listen to