een her and this murderous villain? How came it
that she felt at times so strange a sympathy for his fate, and that
he--who had attempted her life--cherished so tender a remembrance of her
as to beg for a flower which her hand had touched?

She questioned her husband concerning the convict's misdoings, but with
the petulant brutality which he invariably displayed when the name
of Rufus Dawes intruded itself into their conversation, Maurice Frere
harshly refused to satisfy her. This but raised her curiosity higher.
She reflected how bitter he had always seemed against this man--she
remembered how, in the garden at Hobart Town, the hunted wretch had
caught her dress with words of assured confidence--she recollected
the fragment of cloth he passionately flung from him, and which her
affianced lover had contemptuously tossed into the stream. The name
of "Dawes", detested as it had become to her, bore yet some strange
association of comfort and hope. What secret lurked behind the twilight
that had fallen upon her childish memories? Deprived of the advice
of North--to whom, a few weeks back, she would have confided her
misgivings--she resolved upon a project that, for her, was most
distasteful. She would herself visit the gaol and judge how far the
rumours of her husband's cruelty were worthy of credit.

One sultry afternoon, when the Commandant had gone on a visit of
inspection, Troke, lounging at the door of the New Prison, beheld, with
surprise, the figure of the Commandant's lady.

"What is it, mam?" he asked, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

"I want to see the prisoner Dawes."

Troke's jaw fell.

"See Dawes?" he repeated.

"Yes. Where is he?"

Troke was preparing a lie. The imperious voice, and the clear, steady
gaze, confused him.

"He's here."

"Let me see him."

"He's--he's under punishment, mam."

"What do you mean? Are they flogging him?"

"No; but he's dangerous, mam. The Commandant--"

"Do you mean to open the door or not, Mr. Troke?"

Troke grew more confused. It was evident that he was most unwilling to
open the door. "The Commandant has given strict orders--"

"Do you wish me to complain to the Commandant?" cries Sylvia, with a
touch of her old spirit, and jumped hastily at the conclusion that
the gaolers were, perhaps, torturing the convict for their own
entertainment. "Open the door at once!--at once!"

Thus commanded, Troke, with a hasty growl of its "being no affair of
his, and he