for they hung loosely
round her face--"are almost the counterpart of yours. I can conceal
their length thus." Untying the scarf which passed over her shoulders
and encircled her waist, she folded it over her flowing hair. "When the
blanket is over me," she added, "I shall escape detection. Hasten! Think
of the long years of imprisonment, the solitary dungeon, the clanking
chains, the iron that will daily enter your soul. Think of all this, and
fly! Hark! I hear footsteps in the passage. Don't you hear them? My God!
it will be too late!"

Seizing the cloak, she threw it over his shoulders, snatched up the cap,
and put it upon his head, which involuntarily bent to receive it, and
wildly tearing herself from the arms that wrapped her in a parting
embrace, sprang to the pallet, and shrouded herself in the dismal folds
from which Clinton had shrunk in disgust.

Clinton drew near the door. It opened, and Arthur Hazleton entered the
cell. The jailer stood on the outside, fumbling at the lock, turning the
massy key backward and forward, making a harsh, creaking sound. His head
was bent close to the lock, in which there appeared to be some
impediment. The noise which he made with the grating key, the stooping
position he had assumed, favored the escape of Clinton.

As Arthur entered, he glided out, unperceived by him, for the jailer had
brought no light, and the prisoner was standing in the shadow of the
wall.

"There," grumbled the jailer, "I believe that will do--I must have this
lock fixed to-morrow. Here, doctor, take the key, I can trust _you_, I
know. When you are ready to go, drop it in my room, just underneath
this. I mean drop in, and give it to me, I am sick to-night. I am
obliged to go to bed."

Arthur assured him that he would attend faithfully to his directions,
and that he might retire in perfect security. Then locking the door
within, he walked towards the pallet, where the supposed form of the
prisoner lay, in the stillness of dissembled sleep. His face was turned
towards the straw, the bed cover was drawn up over his neck, nothing was
distinctly visible in the obscurity but a mass of dark, gleaming hair,
reflecting back the dim light from its jetty mirror.

Arthur did not like to banish from his couch, that

"Friend to the wretch, whom every friend forsakes."

He seated himself on the bench, folded his cloak around him, and awaited
in silence the awakening of the prisoner. He had come, in obedience