The weary conviction of her tone smote cold to his heart. He gathered her closer still. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Avery, can't you feel me?" he said. Her head sank against his shoulder. "Yes--yes," she said. "But you have always done that." "Done what, darling?" "Imposed your will on mine--made me feel you." Her voice quivered; she began to cry a little, weakly, like a tired child. "Do you remember--what you said--about--about--the ticket of leave?" she said. "You leave your dungeon--my poor Piers. But you have to go back again--when the leave has expired. And I--I am left alone." The tears were running down her face. He wiped them tenderly away. "My dearest, if you want me--if you need me,--I will stay," he said. "But you can't," she said hopelessly. "Even to-night--even to-night--I thought you were never coming. And I went at last to look for you--behind your iron bars. But, oh, Piers, the agony of it! And I couldn't reach you after all, though I tried so hard--so hard." "Never mind, my darling!" he whispered. "We are together now." "But we shan't be when the morning comes," sobbed Avery. "I know it is all a dream. It's happened so many, many times." He clasped her closer, hushing her with tender words, vowing he would never leave her, while the Shadow of Death gathered closer about them, threatening every instant to come between. She grew calmer at last, and presently sank into a state of semi-consciousness lying against his breast. Time passed. Piers did not know how it went. With his wife clasped in his arms he sat and waited, waited--for the falling of a deeper night or the coming of the day--he knew not which. His brain felt like a stopped watch; it did not seem to be working at all. Even the power to suffer seemed to have left him. He felt curiously indifferent, strangely submissive to circumstances,--like a man scourged into the numbness of exhaustion. He knew at the back of his mind that as soon as his vitality reasserted itself the agony would return. The respite could not last, but while it lasted he knew no pain. Like one in a state of coma, he was not even aware of thought. It might have been hours later, or possibly only minutes, that Maxwell Wyndham came round to his side and bent over him, a quiet hand on his shoulder. "You had better lay her down," he said. "She won't wake now." "What?" said Piers sharply. The words had stabbed him back to understanding in a second. He glared at the doctor with eyes half-savage, half-frightened. "No, no!" said Wyndham gently. "I don't mean that. She is asleep. She is breathing. But she will rest better if you lay her down." The absolute calmness with which he spoke took effect upon Piers. He yielded, albeit not very willingly, to the mandate. They laid her down upon the pillow between them, and then for many seconds Wyndham stood, closely watching, almost painfully intent. Piers waited dumbly, afraid to move, afraid to speak.