“Perhaps it is as well; but we are the friends of Zulima. She suffers, she shrinks from the thought of your imprisonment. This new appeal may be impossible, but there is another way. Your trial has done all for Zulima that can be accomplished; it sets her free. Now she would give that to you, which your self devotion will secure to her—freedom. To-night, De Grainges, the means of escape will be provided; at daybreak, to-morrow, a vessel sails for Europe; you must become one of her passengers.” “And does _she_ desire this?” asked the prisoner, aroused all at once from the stubborn resolve of self-sacrifice that had possessed him. “She does; we are her messengers.” “To-night—this is sudden! and she desires it? She deems the trial that has taken place sufficient for her emancipation from the hateful bonds that made her mine. You are certain of this?” “Most certain.” “And the means of escape?” “Leave that to us. The time, midnight; be ready. That is all we desire of you.” “I will be ready,” said the young man, falling into the chair which Ross had just left, and overcome with a sudden sense of freedom—freedom given by the woman whom he had so deeply wronged. His nerves, hitherto so firm, began to tremble, and covering his face with both hands, he burst into tears. When he looked up the two strangers had left the cell. The next morning, when Ross entered his counting-room, he found the turnkey talking with his partner. Just then Mr. Clark entered also, but with a harassed and anxious expression of countenance. “My friend,” said Ross, advancing toward him, “you have come at the right moment to hear this man’s news from his own lips. I fear it will give you pain. No, I had better tell it myself; he is a stranger, and knows nothing of your interest in the mother. Step this way, sir.” “What is this? For what would you prepare me? Zulima—” “Is well, and becoming reconciled to her loss; but De Grainges—” “What of him, sir? what of that unhappy man?” inquired Mr. Clark, sternly. “He has broken prison; he escaped last night.” Mr. Clark staggered. The color left his lip, and he leaned heavily on the back of a chair. “My poor, poor wife! will her trials never have an end?” he exclaimed with deep feeling, and, turning hastily, he left the counting-room. “It will be some time before he acknowledges her now,” said Ross, in a low voice, to his partner. “See how his step wavers.” “That may waver, but his pride never will,” was the low reply. “Never!” said Campbell. And he was right. Poor, poor Zulima! CHAPTER II. Trifles, light as air, Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ.—OTHELLO.