ondemn you; if all the newspapers in the world were to
lampoon you; if your best friends told me they had seen you do it, I
would not believe it."

"Then you believe me innocent?" And his voice was tremulous with joy.

"I don't believe," was her reply. "I know."

"How do you know?" He spoke like one bewildered.

"Because I know you, Paul. I've seen into your heart; and my own heart
has spoken to me, and God has spoken to me. You guilty!"

He felt as though the shadow of death were lifted from his life. The
great terror which had enveloped him for days had been that Mary
Bolitho would look upon him as a murderer; and now, with the
self-abandonment which was to him past all thought, she had come to him
of her own accord, she had thrown conventions to the winds, and she had
confessed, as only she could confess, that she believed in him and that
she loved him.

The heart-hunger which had consumed him during the long weeks was too
great to be borne. He opened his arms; and each, forgetful of where
they were, forgetful of the grim prison walls, forgetful of the painful
silence of the prison, held the other.

Years before Mary Bolitho had admired the words of Lovelace, the poet:

"Stone walls do not a prison make, or iron bars a cage."

But now the lines seemed poverty itself. How little it expressed the
deep feeling of her life. They were not in prison. The solemn bell of
doom was not tolling. She was in heaven. So great is the power of a
pure love. As for Paul, at that moment everything faded but the
blissful present. There was no past, there was no future. Nothing
mattered but the now. He had entered into the joy of which he dreamt,
and he would not think of anything else. How long they remained in
that condition of untold happiness he did not know, he did not care.
But presently all the grim realities came back again. He knew where he
was. Mary would shortly have to leave him. He thought of the warder
peering curiously into her face and making surmises as to why she came.
He thought of whispering tongues; but more than all that, he thought of
the terrible future which awaited him. Paul's temptation had not yet
come, but the hand of the tempter was even at that moment knocking at
the door of his heart.

"Now, Paul," she said, and her voice was changed, "now we must think
about the future."

"Not yet, not yet, Mary. Let me remain in heaven while I can. Hell
will come soon enough."

"No, P