“There, my life.” “Take my hands—hold them—keep me; I am afraid, John! Dear God, what can I say!” Her courage and her will had gone, and a storm of trembling shook her. John Gore felt the quivering of her body coming along her arms to him. Her hands strained at his, as though he were the one sure thing left to her in the anguish of it all. “Barbara!” He drew her as close to him as bars and wall would suffer. “Tell me, child, everything.” “I can’t, John! oh, I can’t!” “Dear, do you think there is not one heart in the world? Look up, and tell me; I cannot let you go!” She was silent a moment, still trembling greatly. “John, you will hate me!” “No! no! no!” “Your father—” His hands tightened on hers. “My life, courage!” “Your father killed my father, John!” “Child!” “And I—I tried to win revenge.” She buried her face upon her arms, and then lifted it suddenly toward him in the dark, as though in an agony to know what he was thinking. His hands still had hold of hers, and there was no slackening of his fingers. “John!” “Dear heart!” He bent his head, and drawing her hands to him, pressed his lips to them. Below him he could see the dim, appealing whiteness of her face. “Barbe, you should have told me.” “I was mad.” “Who shall judge us, dear? You should have told me. I might have spared you much.” He drew her hands close into his bosom, and she leaned there, letting the tears flow silently and the sorrow in her take refuge in his strength. “You will not condemn me, John—you?” “I! What am I, child, to condemn you?” “But I have learned and I have suffered, and, John, in the long, silent nights I have prayed to God that He would be merciful to me—that I in turn might be more merciful.” He kissed her hands again. “God is with us, child, here and now.” “How good you are, John! If I could only tell him—and my mother.” “Dear heart, let that rest awhile. It is you I pray for—you that I remember.” He was silent awhile, like a man waking to life from some strange dream. Then he pressed her hands in his, and spoke very dearly through the bars to her. “Barbe, I must get you away from here. I would do it without violence for your sake—for the sake of every one. It would be easy for me to kill that man, but I would not have blood with the memory of this.” She looked up at him and sighed. “Listen: you can trust me. I have a rope here round my body; take it, when I am gone, and hide it in your bed. I will come again to-morrow and file these bars through. Do you know how the door is fastened?” “With lock and bar.” “A tough customer. Do they leave you alone the whole night?” “Yes.” “Time, an auger, and a good knife will serve then. I have a place to take you to. You will trust me in this?” “John, need you ask that?” “Dear heart of mine, no, no. Now for a rope’s-end. When I am safe below I will give three twitches to the rope. Draw it up, dear, and hide it in your bed.” “Yes.”