She had an excellent view of his back. The beating of his heart did not manifest itself outwardly after all. To her gaze he appeared as impassive, as quiet, as motionless, as if he had been cut out of iron like the grated bars. It was a most unsatisfactory beginning to what must prove an important interview. They played at cross purposes indeed. He had sacrificed himself to save her, she had sacrificed herself to save him, and here they were both prisoners apparently, and things were as unsettled as ever! Poor Fanny Glen was infinitely more surprised at the sight of her lover than he had been at the sight of her. Not until she had fairly entered the room and the door had been closed behind her had she realized that she was not alone, that he was there. She stood rooted to the spot, waiting to see what he would do. Had he followed his first impulse, which would have been to sweep her to his breast, he would have found her unresisting, submissive, acquiescent. The kiss which had been given her last night still trembled upon her lips. It was for the taking, she was his for the asking. Yet his first movement, save for that cold, perfunctory salutation, had been one of indifference amounting to contempt. He despised her, then; he hated her. She had brought him to a terrible position. Ah, well, he would be sorry for her when he learned her reason, and he would be more sorry for his treatment of her when he learned that he would be free and she would suffer for it, not he. There was something very attractive, after all, in her possible martyrdom. The thought gave her not a little comfort. She was surprised that Sempland had not been immediately summoned to the general's presence when she had been put under guard. She supposed, however, that the delay was due to some military technicality, and she imagined that the next moment would see him called from the room in her presence. And she would be left alone, most miserably, forlornly alone to face her fate. Being a martyr is certainly a fine thing, but the position loses half its charm unless people know it. To complete her melancholy satisfaction, he--and he considered himself the martyr, not she!--must recognize it. If he would only turn and speak to her. This silence, this immobility, on his part, was unbearable. She coughed gently and took a step or two across the floor toward him. He gave no sign that he heard her. How cruel he was! So despotic, so determined, so masterful! She abominated a masterful man! She coughed again, and this time a little more emphatically. Still no attention. It was discouraging! There was a small mirror upon the wall of the room. Her eye in accordance with an instinct feminine, fell swiftly upon it. She lifted her veil to see how far the experiences she had gone through had affected her most potent talisman. "Heavens!" she thought, "what a fright!"