He had no belief in a future life, even while his heart demanded it. When the last act was over, then came a pall of eternal silence, eternal unconsciousness. Of course it was a great, grim, ghastly tragedy, but he had to accept facts as they were. There was no God, no Providence, no justice; life was a hideous mockery, a meaningless tangle. No; he would never see her again, never hear her voice again, never catch that glad flash of her eyes which he had seen during their last meeting. It seemed to him as though he had entered an inferno, over the portals of which was written: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." Then, suddenly, the heavens opened. It seemed as though the black night had ended in the shining of a summer morning. The blackness of his cell, the grim future of his life were as nothing. He heard her voice, and they stood face to face. For a moment they did not speak. He looked at her like one fascinated. It was too wonderful to be true. Presently he would wake from his dream, as he had wakened from other dreams, and everything would mock him again. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to wipe away the shadows which hung between him and reality. Yes, Mary was there; she was looking at him with kind eyes, and her lips were tremulous. Then in a moment the meaning of what she had done became real to him. If there was one thing for which he had feared, it was Mary's good name. One of the great objects of his life had been to save her from being connected with the shame which surrounded his name. Little as he cared for gossip under ordinary circumstances, he dreaded it now. What would be said if it were known that she had come to see him? And people would know! Would not a thousand suspicions be aroused? Would not evil tongues wag? His own suffering he could bear, but she must not suffer. "Why have you come?" It was not a bit what he intended to say, but the words seemed drawn from him in spite of himself. "I came to see you," she said. "How could I help it?" Again he looked at her wonderingly. He did not understand. He fancied that his brain must be giving way. He could not connect cause with event. He could not grasp the issues of the situation. "Why could you not help it?" "Paul, you know!" she said. He thought his heart would have burst; the excitement of the moment was too great. His head whirled with a mad wonder, and yet he would not have exchanged places with a king. The prison cell seemed like a palace; that second of joy more than atoned for all he had suffered. "Mary!" he cried, "do you mean that? You know what is in my heart. You know what for months I have been afraid to tell you. You must have known! Why, it has been like fire in my brain; it has been the great passion of my heart. You knew it when we were in London together, even before I told you, didn't you?" She nodded her head, and Paul saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.