irst time
explaining to any person his dread sentence.

Elizabeth Montier quietly pondered the words thus spoken.

"If you had your freedom," said she, "would you go back to your own
country?--Your breakfast is cooling, Sir."

Manuel looked at her,--she bore his scrutiny with composure,--then
he came to the table, sat down, and broke his bread, before he
answered this bold speaking.

"Yes," said he, at length. "An honorable man is bound to keep his
honor clean. Mine has been blackened by some false accusation. I owe
it to all who ever believed in me to clear it, if I can."

"And besides, your home is there."

"Yes."

"Oh, if you would only tell me about it! I don't want to know for
anybody else,--only for you. Did you leave many behind, that--that
loved you, Mr. Manuel?"

"Yes," said the prisoner,--but he said no more.

This answer was sufficient; with it Elizabeth walked away from the
table where he sat, and took her stand by the window. By-and-by she
said, speaking low, but with firm accent,--

"I am sorry I asked you anything about it; but I will never speak of
it again. I heard it was for religion; but I know you could not hurt
the Truth. They said you fought against the Church. Then I believe
the Church was wrong. I am not afraid to say it. I want you to
understand. Of course I cannot do anything for you; only I was so in
hopes that I could! You must not be angry with me, Sir, for hoping
that."

The integrity of nature that spoke in these words came to the
hearer's heart with wondrous power and freshness. He looked at
Elizabeth; she was gazing full on him, and lofty was the bearing of
the girl; she had set her own fears and all danger and suspicion at
defiance in these words. Partly he saw and understood, and he
answered,--

"I am not angry. You surprised me. I know you are not curious on
your own account. But you can do nothing for me. I did fight against
the Church, but not any Church that you know. I fought against an
intolerant organization, boundless superstition, shameful idolatry,
because it was making a slave and a criminal of the world.--You can
do nothing for me."

"Nothing?"

"No, dear child, nothing."

"Is it because you think I am a child that you say so?" asked
Elizabeth. "I am not a child. I knew you must be innocent. I will do
anything for you that any one can do. Try me."

The prisoner looked again at the pleader. Truly, she was not a child.
It is not in childhood to be nerv