Jim stopped him with a gesture. "Don’t say any more, father. I don’t think you quite understand. I’ve made up my mind. I’ve given my word and I’m going to keep it. I’ll do everything in my power not to hurt you. But nothing, no one, will come between the woman I love and me." Sir Reginald Crichton dropped into a chair and sat huddled up, staring across the room. Jim stood by his side and put his arm around his shoulder. A long time they waited, but neither of them spoke. Each knew there was nothing more to be said. Youth and age had travelled side by side for a long time, until at last they had reached the inevitable barrier, the place where the road divided. The parting of the ways. To try to go on together meant destruction, yet the old man would not believe it. The young man, whose sight was clearer and whose heart was bolder, knew. CHAPTER XV. ESCAPE. The great convict prison of Princetown stands on the wildest part of Dartmoor, nearly fifteen hundred feet above the sea, surrounded by wild, rock-strewn tors, whose heather-covered slopes stretch for miles in every direction. Four main roads cross the moor from Plymouth to Moretonhampstead, and Tavistock to Ashburton. These unite at Two Bridges, where they cross the river Dart. In the triangle formed by the Plymouth and Tavistock roads which divide at Two Bridges lie the prison farms. This land has been reclaimed from the moors with years of heavy toil by the convicts. Only those who by good behaviour have earned a conduct badge are taken for work on the farms, where they have more freedom and even the chance of stolen conversation. Although the rule of silence is not relaxed, it is impossible for the warders, who stand on guard at every vantage point around the field in which the men are working, to hear; and the art of speaking without moving the lips is practised by every convict. Nearly six months had passed since Rupert had stepped from the train between two warders on to the tiny platform at Princetown, and for six months the prison walls had hidden from his longing eyes the moor that was his home. But eventually the day came when he was taken outside the prison walls to work in the fields. As he was marched with his gang through the great gates soon after the sunrise of an early summer morning he remembered with a curious tightening of his heart-strings another morning—he had forgotten how long ago—when he had entered those very gates with his friend Robert Despard. They had come to look over the prison, to stare at the prisoners. He choked back a laugh, and the convict marching on his left half turned his head and gave him a look of warning. They had reached the cross roads and the next moment halted outside the gate that led to the fields—for the convicts were never marched further along the road than was necessary.