ke all the others in the
building, a pile of boxes and furniture was heaped in the entrance way.

Don Marcelo passed the rest of the night tormented with the cold--the
only thing which worried him just then. He had abandoned all hope of
life; even the images of his family seemed blotted from his memory.
He worked in the dark in order to make himself more comfortable on the
chests, burrowing down into the straw for the sake of its heat. When the
morning breeze began to sift in through the little window he fell slowly
into a heavy, overpowering sleep, like that of criminals condemned to
death, or duellists before the fatal morning. He thought he heard
shouts in German, the galloping of horses, a distant sound of tattoo and
whistle such as the battalions of the invaders made with their fifes and
drums. . . . Then he lost all consciousness of his surroundings.

On opening his eyes again a ray of sunlight, slipping through the
window, was tracing a little golden square on the wall, giving a regal
splendor to the hanging cobwebs. Somebody was removing the barricade
before the door. A woman's voice, timid and distressed, was calling
repeatedly:

"Master, are you here?"

He sprang up quickly, wishing to aid the worker outside, and pushing
vigorously. He thought that the invaders must have left. In no other way
could he imagine the Warden's wife daring to try to get him out of his
cell.

"Yes, they have gone," she said. "Nobody is left in the castle."

As soon as he was able to get out Don Marcelo looked inquiringly at the
woman with her bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair and sorrow-drawn face.
The night had weighed her down pitilessly with the pressure of many
years. All the energy with which she had been working to free Desnoyers
disappeared on seeing him again. "Oh, Master . . . Master," she moaned
convulsively; and she flung herself into his arms, bursting into tears.

Don Marcelo did not need to ask anything further; he dreaded to know the
truth. Nevertheless, he asked after her husband. Now that he was awake
and free, he cherished the fleeting hope that what he had gone through
the night before was but another of his nightmares. Perhaps the poor man
was still living. . . .

"They killed him, Monsieur. That man who seemed so good murdered him.
. . . And I don't know where his body is; nobody will tell me."

She had a suspicion that the corpse was in the fosse. The green and
tranquil waters had closed mysteriously ov