Madame Gosner moved through the door, as she uttered a threat which was treason in itself, leading Marguerite by the hand. Monsieur Jacques remained behind, though Christopher stood waiting for him to depart, holding the door with his hand. He had set down the lantern in the passage that those who went out might have more light. All at once, Jacques took up the lantern, passed through the door, and lifting Madame Gosner’s scarf from the dead man’s face, held down the light and closely examined the features. A quick intelligence came to his eyes. He glanced at Christopher, and saw that he watched these proceedings uneasily. “Monsieur forgets that his friends are standing in the dark,” said the guard, impatiently. “No,” answered Jacques; “monsieur forgets nothing.” Saying this, he set down the lantern, drew a knife from his pocket, and stooping down, cut a lock of hair from the dead man’s temple. All this was done with his back to the guard, who sprang forward and snatched up the light at the moment, and thus was unconscious of the act. A moment after the two men passed into the passage, the dungeon-door fell to with a crash, and Christopher turned his key in the ponderous lock with a smothered exclamation of thankfulness. In the upper corridor Madame Gosner turned and addressed a sentence to the guard, who was walking fast as if anxious to escape from the gloom of the place. She paused a moment while speaking, and stood close by the oaken door which marked the position of some cell which her voice had penetrated. From that cell came a cry so wild, so plaintive and thrilling, that the whole group stopped awe-stricken. “Move on,” said the guard. “It is only some prisoner who has heard our voices. No wonder he cries out; few strangers are ever admitted here, and conversation in these vaults is an unknown thing.” Marguerite went close to her mother, who stood immovable, listening keenly. Again the noise commenced, and a tumult of words seemed forcing themselves through the oaken door, against which some heavy weight flung itself with a violence that made all the rusty iron holding it together rattle in staples and sockets. “Move on! Move on!” cried the guard, stamping his foot with vehement impatience. “Move on, madame! The prison has laws, and you are in the act of breaking them.” Christopher, who carried the light, walked forward with rapid strides, and the rest were forced to follow him. When Madame Gosner came into the light of the guard-room her eyes gleamed like stars, and the deadly pallor of her face was terrible to look upon. It seemed as if she had been walking through burning ploughshares, and was ready to go still further along the fiery path. The disappointment, which would have taken away all strength from another woman, had given to her almost superhuman power.