Declining the civility, Elizabeth stood, and told her errand. She had come across the ocean, she said, to plead the cause of a poor prisoner who was dying under sentence of the law. She paused a moment, having made this statement, and was answered by a nod. Prisoners often died without reprieve, he seemed to be aware. This cold civility warmed the petitioner's speech. Her mother would have been satisfied, Madeline Desperiers would have been overwhelmed with grief and horror, to have heard this young girl's testimony in regard to prison-life. The old man, as he listened, sighed unconsciously, --for not every nerve in him was strung to cruelty. To one of his restless career what image of life more dreadful could have been presented than was in this testimony? To be shut away from human society so many years, patient, resigned, receiving the few comforts yet allowed him!--to live on, pure in spirit, lofty in thought, hoping still in God and man! The old warrior in self-defence, because she brought the case too vividly, the life too forcibly before him, broke through the words she was speaking, interrupting her. "Who is this person?" he asked. "Stephen Cordier," was the answer. Without hesitation, even proudly, she spoke it. She had compelled him to ask the name! "And who are you?" he asked; and if he felt displeasure, as if his sympathy, of which he was so chary, had been stolen from him, he did not allow it to appear. "Elizabeth Montier," she replied. "That is no answer. What is a name, if it conveys no meaning to my mind?" "I am the daughter of Adolphus and Pauline Montier. My father is a drummer in the military band of Foray. He is also present keeper of the prison where Stephen Cordier is confined." "Very well. Does he know your errand here?" "He does not. He let me come to this country,--it is his native land, and my mother's,--he let me come because in his heart he has always loved his country, and he has never been able to return. We were to have come back together. But there was an opportunity for me. I dared not wait. So I am here,--and for nothing, Sir, but this man's liberty." Those last words she spoke seemed to quicken the thought of General Saterges. He drew himself up still more erect in his chair. His eyes were on Elizabeth with the will to scan her heart of hearts. He spoke, -- "What is this man to you?" She paused a moment. And she, too, had a thought. She could play a game for life. She looked at the old man, hesitated, answered,-- "He is everything." "Just let me understand you," and he looked upon her as if _he_ might touch her secret. "Do you love Cordier?" "I love him," she answered, with exceeding dignity, evident truthfulness. "Do I understand you?" he said again,--"what are you to him?"