away when you
please?"

Christian looked at him earnestly.

"But it is a prison," he said. "How do you mean, that I can go away?"

"Do you recollect why you were brought here?"

"Yes. They thought I had killed somebody. It was all a mistake. I knew
nothing about it; but everybody thought I did."

"They know now that it _was_ a mistake. The man who really did it, has
told all."

"And now?"

"Now you are proved to be innocent. In a very short time you will be
free."

"Free? I shall be free?"

For a moment the dying man raised himself upright. His eyes flashed and
his face glowed as if that thought of freedom had yet power to bring him
back to life. Then he fell back again, and clasped his thin hands over
his eyes.

"Too late," he muttered, "too late!"

Then he began to talk about things that belonged to that former life
which seemed constantly present to his mind. He talked to himself at
first in a half whisper; then, noticing Mr. Strafford, who still sat by
his bedside, he took him for one of his former masters, and spoke to him
in French.

"Mon pere," he said, "pray do not be angry with us. We lost our way, and
that is why we have been so long. The woods are green still, but the
ground is soaked with rain, and it is hard to get through the bushes,
and we are very tired."

A long sigh of weariness followed the words; and the prisoner fell into
one of his frequent dozes.

So the great news had been told, and this was all its effect. Yes,
Christian was right; it was too late. Clarkson's work had been well
done; and his second victim was past all human aid.

Mr. Strafford sat and watched; and while he watched, he thought over all
that he had known of the lives of these two, Christian and his wife, who
now occupied his mind so fully. He was still thinking when the doctor
came to pay his daily visit. The two had not met before, but each knew
the other well by report; and to-day each was anxious to question the
other on the same subject. Mr. Strafford, however, was most anxious, and
began first.

"You know, of course," he said, "what I suppose all Cacouna is talking
of. I want to know whether Clarkson's confession has really come too
late?"

"Too late for what, my dear sir? For this poor fellow's justification?"

"Not exactly that, but for his liberation."

The doctor shook his head.

"I have my doubts," he said. "The only thing to be hoped is, that when
he hears that he is really at liberty, it m