ed, not before.

That day was a long one; indeed, each day seemed longer than the one
which preceded it. Confinement was beginning to tell its tale on
Barrington. This underground dungeon, it was little better, was
gradually taking the heart out of him. At first he had been able to
forget long hours in sleep, but latterly this had been denied him.
Sleepless nights succeeded restless days.

To-night he was restless. The silence about him was like the silence of
the grave, this place was almost as hopeless as the grave. He wondered
how thick these stone walls might be, whether there were other dungeons
beyond where other prisoners wore out their hearts. He stood beneath the
barred grating for a little while, listening. Even the world without
seemed dead. No sound ever came through that narrow opening. What saint,
or repentant sinner had dragged out his days here when this was a cell
in a monastery? Had he never regretted his vows and longed for the world
of sunshine and rain, of blue sky and breezy plain, of star-lit nights
and rough weather? Surely he must have done? The world of sinners was a
fairer place than this stone dwelling though a saint lodged in it. Truly
it was a secure hiding place, or a prison where one might easily be
forgotten. The thought was a horrible one, and Barrington went to the
door. It was locked. It was a stout door, too, of wood and iron. If
Latour and Sabatier were arrested, as might easily happen, that door
would remain locked. Probably no other person knew that he was there. He
was in the mood when such thoughts cannot be driven out of the brain.
There was half a bottle of thin wine remaining from his last meal, and
he drank it greedily. His throat was suddenly dry and his hand was
unsteady as he raised the glass to his lips. He was conscious of the
fact, shook himself, stamped his foot sharply on the stone floor, and
spoke to himself aloud.

"This is cowardice, Richard, and for cowardice there is no excuse."

Something like that his mother had once said to him. He had not
remembered it until he had spoken the words, and then the recollection
brought many scenes to his mind, dreams of youth, back, how far back?
how long ago? memories of old times, a green hummock and the blue waters
of Chesapeake Bay. The world had changed since then. Father, mother
gone, voices silent forever, loved voices never to be forgotten; and
yet, in those days there had been no Jeanne.

"Jeanne!" he said aloud.