he Senor Sampayo,
as I have proof, bought the poignard himself from my grandfather. Why,
then, should you say he stole it?" indignantly.

"It is not I who accused him; my duty here is to guard the prisoners--
not to try them."

"Vincent," Miriam continued, in a low, pleading voice, "you are poor;
your little children are pining for want of fresh, pure air. I am
rich, and can give you enough money to live in comfort away from this
close den. Release my friends, and the power of saving your children
shall be yours. Look!" drawing one of the wondering girls to her side,
"see how pale and thin she is! Can you refuse my offer when the lives
of those you love depend upon it?"

Vincent felt the truth of her words, and knew the only things he
cherished on earth, those innocent children, were slowly fading and
pining away for want of fresh air.

The man raised his head, and glanced earnestly at the moved expressive
face, then in a low, hoarse voice he muttered:

"Be it so. I will help the prisoners to escape. I cannot see my little
ones dying before my eyes, when an opportunity is given me to save
them."

"Then to-morrow at sunset you will bring them to the Golden Lion, I
will be there, ready with the money."

"I will not fail, senora. May Heaven forgive me if I am doing wrong!"

After a few instructions, the happy girl went swiftly away, but ere
she had moved far, she returned, and paused before Vincent.

"I forgot to ask you about that poor man, Jarima," she said, gravely.

"He did not live long, senora, after he was brought here."

"And his wife--children?"

"Of them I know nothing," he answered quietly.

Ere she continued her homeward way, Miriam sped swiftly toward
Jarima's poor home, and knocked gently at the door. It was opened by
the eldest of the three children, and forcing a purse of money into
his brown hand, the girl whispered sweetly:

"For your mother, little one; from a friend," then moved silently
away, hurrying homeward to await patiently for the long hours to pass,
ere her grandfather would be released.

Vincent, true to his word, gathered his few belongings together, and
when the evening came, went softly to the cells in which his prisoners
lay, and, setting them free, told them to follow him.

Wondering, yet glad, Phenee, leaning on Diniz's arm for support,
slowly obeyed the jailer, who, accompanied by his two children, led
them toward the hotel Miriam had named.

There, sure enough, the