up at a stormy sky
after a sultry day, and with a pained, long-drawn breath, she called
his name in a low voice. He, however, stepped back as if at an impure
touch, and never before had Clarissa encountered such a glance and
expression of disdain. Her knees shook, a feeling of distress overcame
her, her eyes filled with tears. It was only when the door of the
prison closed behind her that the helpless sensation of being flogged
left her. Shame and remorse overpowered her; even the mysteriousness of
her position afforded her but slight consolation. Controlled by no law,
she seemed to have been shoved off the track upon which, in the
ordinary course of nature, cause and effect, cumbrously linked
together, crawl along in the slow process of experience.

In accordance with her station, she had been assigned the best room in
the prison. The first hours she lay on the straw-bed and writhed in
agony. When the keeper on her urgent request brought a light, as she
feared she would go insane in the darkness, the candle-light fell upon
the image of Christ upon the cross with the crown of thorns, which hung
upon the gray-tinted wall. She gave a shriek, her overstrained senses
found in the features of the Saviour a resemblance to those of Bastide
Grammont. His lips had had the same agonized curve when he pressed his
clenched hands to his eyes.

Once more she rebelled against the boundless injustice. To live with
the world was her real element; her entire nature was attuned to a
kindly understanding with people. She asked for paper and pen, and
wrote a letter to the Prefect.

"Justice, Count!" she wrote. "It is still time to prevent the worst.
Remember the difficulty you had in extorting from me what was supposed
to be the truth, remember the threats which made me compliant. I am a
victim of circumstances. Whatever I confessed is false. No man of sense
can discover the stamp of probability in my statements. In a freak of
desperation I bore false witness. Tell my father that his cruelty is
more sure to rob him of his daughter than her seeming transgression.
Already I know not what I should believe, the past escapes my memory,
my confidence begins to totter. If it is too much to ask for justice,
then I beg for mercy. My destiny seeks to try me, but my heart is clear
as the day."

[Illustration: BATHING WOMAN]

It was in vain. It was too late for words, even if the mouth of a
prophet had proclaimed them in tones of thunder. The nex