returned home, it was by the unfrequented prison-way, her
father playing the liveliest tunes he knew. For the first time in their
lives they sat down by the side of the lonely road where they had
emerged from the wood; Elizabeth's memory served her to recall every
air that was sweet to her, and she listened while her father played,
endeavoring to understand the sound those notes would have to "Manuel."

Montier could think of no worthier employment than the practice of his
music. Especially it pleased him that his daughter should ask so much
as she was now asking: he could not discern all that was passing in her
heart, nor see how many shadows moved before those sweet, serious eyes.

They went home at night-fall together; and the young girl's step was
not more light, now that her heart was troubled by what she must not
reveal, even to him.

The next morning Sandy was very busy with Elizabeth, tying up some
flowers which had been tossed about, and broken, many of them, in the
night gale, when the keeper came through the gate, leading this Manuel,
who, grim as a spectral shadow, that had been fearful but for its
exceeding pitifulness, stood now between her and all that she rejoiced
in. "There!" exclaimed Sandy. Looking up, she saw them approaching
straight along the path that led past the flowerbeds.

"Your flowers had a pretty rough time of it in the storm," said Jailer
Laval, as he drew near. He addressed the drummer's daughter,--but his
eyes were on Sandy, with the suspicious and stern inquiry common to men
who have betrayed a secret. But Sandy was busy with his delving.

"Yes," answered Elizabeth, and she looked from the ground up to the
faces of these men.

"Is that a rose-bush? That was roughly handled," said Laval, pointing
with his stick to the twisted rose-stalk covered with buds, over whose
blighted promise she had been lamenting.

"Yes," said Elizabeth again; but she hardly knew what she said, still
less was she aware of the expression her face wore when she looked at
the prisoner. Yes,--even as Sandy said, big wrists were chained
together; he was more like a ghost than a man; his face was pale and
hopeless, and woful beyond her understanding was the majesty of his
mien.

At such a price he paid for fights against _the Church!_ But in truth
he had not the look of an evil, warring man. His gravity, indeed, was
such as it seemed impossible to dispel. But only pity stirred the heart
of Elizabeth Montier a