rtunates, whether innocent or guilty, the row of polished
steel bars which open and close upon those in the grip of the law, are
poised rifles awaiting the order to fire. To a woman like Lady Barbara,
these guarded a dark and loathsome tomb, in which her last hope lay
buried. That she had not deserved the punishment meted out to her did
not soothe her agony. She had deserved none of Dalton's cruelty, and yet
she had withered under its lash. This was the end; beyond, lay only a
slow, lingering death, with her torture increasing as the hours crept
on.

The sound of the turnkey's hand on the lock roused her to consciousness.

"Bring her outside where I can talk to her," said Father Cruse, pointing
to a bench in the corridor.

She followed the guard mechanically, as a whipped spaniel follows its
master, her steps dragging, her body trembling, her head bowed as if
awaiting some new humiliation. She had no strength to resist. Something
in the priest's quiet, in the way he trod beside her, seemed to have
reassured her, for as she sank on the bench beside him, she leaned over,
laid one hand on his sleeve, and asked feebly: "Are they going to let me
go?"

"That I cannot say, my good woman; I can only hope so." He looked toward
the guard. "Better leave us for a while, Bunky." The turnkey touched his
cap and mounted the narrow iron steps to the room above.

Father Cruse waited until the footsteps had ceased to echo in the
corridor, and then turned to Lady Barbara. "And now tell me something
about yourself; have you no friends you can send for? I will see they
get your message. The captain told me you were English. Is this true?"

She had withdrawn her hand and now sat with averted face, the faint
flicker of hope his presence had enkindled extinguished by his evasive
answer. Only when he repeated the question did she reply, and then in a
mere whisper, without lifting her head: "Yes, I am English."

"And your people, are they where you can reach them?"

She did not answer; there was nothing to be gained by yielding to his
curiosity. Nor did she intend to reply to any more of his questions. He
was only one of those kind priests who looked after the poor and whose
sympathy, however well meant, would be of little value. If she told
him how cruel had been the wrong done her, and how unjust had been her
arrest, it would make no difference; he could not help her.

"There must be somebody," he urged. He had read her indecision in