A letter had been received by Mrs Hylton, that hinted at guilt elsewhere, removing it from Ayliffe’s stainless cottage. Fragile as the document was, the ambassador of the condemned relied upon it as though it had been a rock. And not in vain! From the Home Secretary, he was referred to the judge who tried the cause: the judge listened long and patiently to all that Mr Hylton had to urge upon the miserable man’s behalf, and finally ordered a fortnight’s respite, with the view of giving time for confirmation of the important letter’s intimations. The unconquerable Mr Hylton returned to Milverstoke. He sees the Earl, who spurns him from his door as a reward for his unjustifiable interference between justice and the murderer of his son: he sees the Earl’s daughter, and pleads with her on behalf of the doomed: he sees Captain Lutteridge,—he leaves no stone unturned, to secure, if not the pardon of his client, at least the remission of the punishment to which, in his inmost heart, he believed him most unjustly sentenced. His success is far from equal to his zeal. The proud Earl’s heart is obdurate. Who can wonder at it? The gentle daughter would do much, but has the power to do little; and Captain Lutteridge, a gentleman and a soldier, is disinclined to save a murderer from the gallows, even if he had the ability, which he has not. The fortnight is coming quickly to an end, and there is no arrival of favourable news. Shortly before its close, Mr Hylton receives a brief message from the unhappy occupant of the condemned cell, which he dares not disregard. It is this—“_I go back into darkness while you are away._” Mr Hylton mounts his horse and sets off. It is a melancholy errand, but we will take courage and accompany him. The scene is grand as it is awful:— “As he rode along, his mind lost sight almost entirely of the temporal in the spiritual, the present in the future, interests of the condemned; and by the time that he had reached the gaol, his mind was in an elevated frame, befitting the solemn and sublime considerations with which it had been engaged. “A turnkey, with loaded blunderbuss on his arm, leaned against the cell door, which he opened for Mr Hylton in silence, as he approached; disclosing poor Ayliffe sitting on his bench, double-ironed, his head buried in his hands, his elbows supported by his knees. He did not move on the entrance of Mr Hylton, as his name had not been mentioned by the turnkey. “‘Adam! Adam!—the Lord be with you! Amen!’ solemnly exclaimed Mr Hylton, gently taking in his hand one of the prisoner’s. “Ayliffe suddenly started up, a gaunt figure, rattling in his irons, and grasping in both his hands that of Mr Hylton, carried it to his heart, to which he pressed it for some moments in silence, and then, bursting into tears, sunk again on his bench.