Brief as the narrative was, how clear it made everything. I remembered the many tales I had heard from Annetje Dorn of victuals disappearing from the larder at the dead of night; and of comings and goings from the patroon’s part of the house in the small hours. But what could I do? He was starving to death and must be rescued at once. The doors below were all shut tight to me. I fell to cursing my luck and the villainy of the patroon. I raged back and forth like a tiger in a cage. What could be done? Suddenly the answer came. The door swung open and Miriam stood before me. Her haughty bearing was all gone. Her eyes were red with weeping. “I come to be forgiven,” were her first words. “I did not mean to kill him.” “I know it; forgive me. He has been talking in his madness and I know all. God forgive me; how I have been deceived. Will you go with me to the Hanging Rock?” I followed her outside my door to where stood Annetje. The three of us proceeded through the crooked halls. At the outer door we were stopped by the guards. “Not go out?” cried Miriam. “Out of my way! I am mistress here.” The men gave back—there was no gainsaying her when her spirit was fully aroused—and we passed out. She bore herself with a fierce calmness that was terrible to see. I wondered whether she could stand the strain produced by this shattering of her idol; or whether she would go mad. “Do you know why we are going?” she asked in a low, painful voice. “Spare me,” I replied. “I know it all.” “How long have you known it?” “But just now. I learned it from a paper that Louis left behind.” “You must have known many other things. I begin to understand why you have not betrayed us long ago. I have misjudged you. Forgive me, but there is small time for undoing now. Let me take your hand. Come, we must run; it is a matter of minutes now. He may die while we are coming.” When we reached the cave Miriam produced a key which she had secured from her father. It fitted the door of the cave which had been walled up and turned into a dungeon. Within, upon short examination, we discovered Sir Evelin. He was a fearful sight; thin, lank, nothing but skin and bones. He was so weak that he could neither speak nor walk. He looked blankly into the lantern like one who cannot see. Annetje poured a spoonful of liquor which he took mechanically, but he showed no sign of intelligence. “Oh, this is terrible, terrible, terrible,” sobbed Miriam. I lifted him up—he was as light as a child—and carried him to the landing. We loosened a boat and got ready to take him to Yorke by river. “Good-by,” said Miriam. “You and Annetje must attend to this. My place is with my father.” “Miriam,” I cried, taking her hand. “No, no,” she said, putting me back, “not now. Go at once and save his life.”