At last she came to an open cell, into which the moonlight penetrated dimly; for the rubbish directly before it had been cleared away, and some yards along the corridor were open to the sky. From this cell she heard murmurs; a soft voice, tremulous with the tender weakness of old age, was talking there, expostulating, caressing, murmuring fondly, as aged women caress their children’s children. Louison held her breath and listened, stricken with wonder and vague compassion. “My pet, my little friend! and did you wait for me? Did you know my voice when I called out? Were you glad when I caught so many flies for your breakfast? Yes, yes! I found you waiting for me in the corner, wondering at the light, I dare say; but neither that, or the awful thunder of falling rocks could drive you from the old place. Did you hear me at work, day after day? Could you understand that I was in search of you, and that every stone I lifted took a load from my heart? They would not listen to me, our wild, fierce friends, and shouted with laughter when I told them I had a friend that must not be left, if I went. How could they understand that it was tearing my heart to leave you? But their kindness frightened me, and by force I was carried up, up into the sunlight, that struck me blind; into a home that was strange as a grave; and into a bed that tortured me with its softness. It was not home—that was with you, my darling. You shall have the sunlight as I do, and look out with me on the calm, white moon. It will seem strange at first, as it did to me; but you will not feel more afraid of it than I was.” Louison listened to the plaintive fondness of these rambling words, till they died away in soft cooing murmurs. Then she stooped a little, and passed into the cell, where, by a few faint gleams of the moon that trembled downward even to that depth, she saw a man sitting on the dungeon floor, his black garments trailing around him, and a beard, white as silver and soft as snow, sweeping down to his waist; his head was bent, and he was looking at some dark object in his hand. When this man saw Louison, he laid his right hand over this object, lifted it to his bosom, sheltering it under his flowing beard, and turned his bright eyes angrily on the woman. “Have you come again?” he said, querulously. “I know you. It was you, and the like of you, that dragged me into the hot sunlight. Have you come again?” “Who are you, and how came you here?” demanded the woman, struck with wonder and something like dread. “I was a man they called Dr. Gosner once, years and years ago; but they give me no name since then. Here it was No.—oh, I forget!—out yonder, where the sun shines, they call me ‘_The Prisoner of the Bastille_.’” “Ah! Are you that man? But I thought you were cared for, that you had a comfortable home with your own family. How came you here?” “This is my home; it is shady and quiet. I have a friend here.” “What friend? Your wife? Surely she does not come here.”