The first man who entered the lower corridors was Monsieur Jacques; he was followed by a woman with a face of marble, who carried a burning torch in her hand. Three times his ax circled around the head of Monsieur Jacques, and each time the iron-studded door resisted the blow. Another and the mass of oak fell in, scattering splinters over a man, all trembling and white, with eyes gleaming through the long, silver hair that fell over them, who stood up in the center of the cell, holding out both hands imploringly. When the flame of the torch fell upon his face, he uttered a sharp cry, and shielded his sight with both hands. Then a voice, hoarse and broken, thrilled the air of the dungeon. “My husband! Oh, Henry! will you not look upon me?” A slow shiver ran through the prisoner, the hands fell downward. His eyes turned wistfully on the eager face bending toward him. “Henry!” Again the poor man was seized with a shivering fit. He put the long hair back from his eyes, looked in that troubled face, and motioned with his hand that the woman should speak again. “My poor husband—my own, own Henry!” He looked around, smiling, and nodded his head. “That was my name!” The words fell from his lips at intervals, as if he were counting them; but the sound pleased him, and he repeated over and over again, “That was my name!” “Ah, Henry! try to remember mine. Therese, your wife!” “My wife! My wife! That was _her_ name!” He looked at the woman again shyly, and touched her with his finger. She was crying now, and seeing this, he took up a long tress of his hair and attempted to wipe the tears from her face; but his hand wandered wide of its intent, and fell upon her shoulder. She took the pale hand up tenderly and kissed it, while her tears fell thick and fast. Something in the touch of her hand, or the mournful look in her eyes, awoke that dormant soul. He clung close to her hand, his eyes looked steadily into hers, a soft tremor stole over the gentle whiteness of his face. “He knows me,” she said, claiming sympathy from Jacques, who had taken the torch from her hand. “I think he knows me.” Jacques nodded his head, great tears were rolling down his cheek, and he held the torch unsteadily. “Therese was my wife’s name,” said the prisoner, with the plaintive wail of a child. She bent toward him, a smile beamed on her face, one arm stole around his neck, she pressed her lips upon his. That instant all strength left him, and he fell into her arms, murmuring incoherent words. Had some sweet link of affection drawn that poor soul back to its old life? The woman thought so, and laying his head upon her bosom, wept over him. CHAPTER LXI. THEY THREE MEET AGAIN.