lovelight might flash again
in her eyes, but not for him. He shook his head wildly, stretched out
his hands as though to hide something from his quivering face, and
barely suppressed the groan of deep agony which trembled on his lips.
God in His mercy keep him from such thoughts! Death, disgrace,
surpassing humiliation, let them float in their ghostly garments before
his shuddering gaze, but keep that thought from him, for with it madness
moved hand in hand. As Michael Angelo had stifled his grief at Vittoria
Colonna's death, in the sweet hope of rejoining her as soon as the last
lingering breath should leave his mortal body, and as Dante had hoped
for his Beatrice, so let him think of the woman without whom no human
life was possible for him, almost, he cried out in his agony, no
spiritual hope or longing.

The sound of the key in the lock of his door, and the tramp of footsteps
on the stone floor outside, awoke him with a start from his
half-dreaming state. The thought of visitors being permitted to come had
never occurred to him, nor did it even then. The footsteps had paused
outside his door, but he felt no interest in them, nor ever the vaguest
stirrings of curiosity. Then the harsh lock was turned with a grating
sound, and two figures, followed by the prison warder, entered the
room.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

"THERE IS MY HAND. DARE YOU TAKE IT?"

There is nothing which can transport one so quickly from thoughtland to
acute and comprehensive realization, as the sound of a human voice or
the consciousness of a human presence. Like a flash it all came back to
the lonely occupant of the prison cell--the personal degradation of his
position, his surroundings, and everything connected with them. And with
it, too, came a strong, keen desire to bear himself like a man before
her father.

He rose to his feet, and the pitiful bareness of the place seemed to
become suddenly enhanced by the quiet dignity of his demeanor. Out of
the gloom Mr. Thurwell came forward with outstretched hand, followed by
another gentleman--a stranger. Between the two men, that one long ray of
sunlight lay across the stone floor, and as Bernard Maddison stepped
forward to meet his visitor, it gleamed for a moment upon his white,
haggard face, worn and stricken, yet retaining all that quiet force and
delicacy of expression which seemed like the index of his inward life.
It was the face of a poet, of a dreamer, a visionary perhaps--but a
crim