"Pardon me if I say that as brutal things were done by the English in Tasmania." "Think of two hundred and sixty strokes of the 'cat.'" "You concern yourself too much about these things, I fear." "I only think that death would be easier than the life of half of the convicts here." "They themselves would prefer it, perhaps." "Tell me, who is the convict that has escaped?" she feverishly asked. "Is it a political prisoner?" "You would not know him. He was one of the Commune who escaped shooting in the Place de la Concorde. Carbourd, I think, was his name." "Carbourd, Carbourd," she repeated, and turned her head away towards the Semaphore. Her earnestness aroused in Tryon a sudden flame of sympathy which had its origin, as he well knew, in three years of growing love. This love leaped up now determinedly--perhaps unwisely; but what should a blunt soul like Hugh Tryon know regarding the best or worst time to seek a woman's heart? He came close to her now and said: "If you are so kind in thought for a convict, I dare hope that you would be more kind to me." "Be kind to you," she repeated, as if not understanding what he said, nor the look in his eyes. "For I am a prisoner, too." "A prisoner?" she rejoined a little tremulously, and coldly. "In your hands, Marie." His eyes laid bare his heart. "Oh!" she replied, in a half-troubled, half-indignant tone, for she was out of touch with the occasion of his suit, and every woman has in her mind the time when she should and when she should not be wooed. "Oh, why aren't you plain with me? I hate enigmas." "Why do I not speak plainly? Because, because, Marie, it is possible for a man to be a coward in his speech"--he touched her fingers--"when he loves." She quickly drew her hand from his. "Oh, can't we be friends without that?" There was a sound of footsteps at the window. Both turned, and saw the political prisoner, Rive Laflamme, followed by a guard. "He comes to finish my portrait," she said. "This is the last sitting." "Marie, must I go like this? When may I see you again? When will you answer me? You will not make all the hopes to end here?" It was evident that some deep trouble was on the girl. She flushed hotly, as if she were about to reply hotly also, but she changed quickly, and said, not unkindly: "When M. Laflamme has gone." And now, as if repenting of her unreasonable words of a moment before, she added: "Oh, please don't think me hard. I am sorry that I grieve you. I'm afraid I am not altogether well, not altogether happy." "I will wait till he has gone," the planter replied. At the door he turned as if to say something, but he only looked steadily, sadly at her, and then was gone.