And then--he swallowed, his will triumphed--and he was again as outwardly self-possessed and nonchalant as he strove to appear. He might tremble, his face might be blanched and drawn, he might feel physically sick and almost too weak and giddy to stand, but he had swallowed, he had triumphed over the rising flood that had threatened to engulf him, and he was, outwardly, himself again. He could go through with it now, and though his face might be ghastly, his lips white, his hand uncertain, his gait considered and careful, he would he able to chat lightly, to meet Ross-Ellison's jest with jest--for that Ross-Ellison would die jesting he knew.... Why did not the door open? Had his knock gone unheard? Should he knock again, louder? And then his eye fell upon the great iron bell-pull and chain, and he stepped towards it. Of course--one entered a place like this on the sonorous clanging of a deep-throated bell that roused the echoes of the whole vast congeries of buildings encircled by the hideous twelve-foot wall, unbroken save by the great gatehouse before which he stood insignificant. As his shaking hand touched the bell-pull he suddenly remembered, and withdrew it. He was to meet the City Magistrate outside the jail and enter with him. He could gain admittance in no other way. He looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes to seven. Wellson should be there in a minute--he had said, "At the jail-entrance at 6.45". God send him soon or the new-found self-control might weaken and a rising tide creep up and up until it submerged his will-power again. With an effort he swallowed, and turning, strode up and down on a rapid, mechanical sentry-go. A guard of police-sepoys emerged from a neighbouring guard-room and "fell in" under the word of command of an Inspector. They were armed with Martini-Henry rifles and triangular-bladed bayonets, very long. Their faces looked cruel, the stones of the gate-house and main-guard looked cruel, the beautiful misty morning looked cruel. Would that damned magistrate never come? Didn't he know that Malet-Marsac was fighting for his manhood and terribly afraid? Didn't he know that unless he came quickly Malet-Marsac would either leap on his horse and ride it till it fell, or else lose control inside the jail and either burst into tears, faint, or--going mad--put up a fight for his friend there in the jail itself, snatch weapons, get back to back with him and die fighting then and there--or, later, on the same scaffold? His friend--by whose side he had fought, starved, suffered, triumphed--his poor two-natured friend.... Could not one of these cursed clever physicians, alienists, psychologists, hypnotists--whatever they were--have cut the strange savagery and ferocity out of the splendid John Robin Ross-Ellison?...