BARBARA had no thought of going to bed. She could not have slept had she gone. There was a clock in the tower, a noisy clock that made its pulsations heard through the quadrangle, and this clock struck twelve. By this time Jane had roused the young policeman, and he was collecting men to assist him in the capture. Perhaps they were already on their way,—or were they waiting for the arrival of warders from Prince’s Town? Those warders were more dangerous men than the constables, for they were armed with short guns, and prepared to fire should their game attempt to break away. She looked across the court at Jasper’s window. No light was in it. Was he there, asleep? or had he taken her advice and gone? She could not endure the thought of his capture, the self-reproach of having betrayed him was more than she could bear. Barbara, usually so collected and cool, was now nervous and hot. More light was in the sky than had been when she was on the down. The moon was rising over the roof. She could not see it, but she saw the reflection in Jasper’s window, like flakes of silver. What should she do? Her distress became insupportable, and she felt she must be doing something to relieve her mind. The only thing open to her was to make another attempt to recover the prison suit. If she could destroy that, it would be putting out of the way one piece of evidence against him—a poor piece, still a piece. She was not sure that it would avail him anything, but it was worth risking her father’s anger on the chance. She descended the stairs once more to her father’s room. The door was ajar, with a feeble yellow streak issuing from it. She looked in cautiously. Then with the tread of a thief she entered and passed through a maze of quivering bezants of dull light. She stooped, but, as she touched the garments, heard her father’s voice, and started upright. He was speaking in his sleep—’De profundis clamavi ad te;’ then he tossed and moaned, and put up his hand and held it shaking in the air. ‘_Si iniquitates_’—he seemed troubled in his sleep, unable to catch the sequence of words, and repeated ‘_Si iniquitates observaveris_,’ and lay still on his pillow again; whilst Barbara stood watching him, with her finger to her lip, afraid to move, afraid of the consequences, should he wake and see her in her disobedience. Then he mumbled, and she heard him pulling at his sheet. ‘Out of love, out of the deeps of love, I have sinned.’ Then suddenly he cried out, ‘_Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine, quis sustinebit?_’—he had the sentence complete, or nearly so, and it appeased him. Barbara heard him sigh, she stole to his side, bowed over his ear, and said, ‘_Apud te propitiatio est: speravit anima mea in Domino._’ Whether he heard or not she did not know; he breathed thenceforth evenly in sleep, and the expression of distress left his face.