The next morning passed in the dull monotony of confinement. I supped with Nina and her child. The commander was to be absent for two days, and when Claudine retired to bed, Madame St. Simon and I were left together. Latterly I had observed a change in Nina’s manner. There was not the same freedom that formerly had marked our intercourse, and while kinder than ever, I fancied that her gaiety was assumed, and her spirits forced and unnatural. Since the evening of poor Aylmer’s suicide, I had been transferred to a small chamber attached to the governor’s dwelling, was exempted from attending roll-call, and left consequently with unrestrained liberty, to wander through the prison where I pleased. It struck eleven, the fortress was quiet, the guard set, and I rose, to leave Nina, and repair to my own chamber. “Good night,” I said, “my sister;” for by that name I had been permitted to address the lady of the governor. “Stop--William,” she replied, in evident embarrassment, “I wish to talk with you alone.” I sate down again beside her. “I have remarked how ardently you are longing after freedom. St. Simon cannot honourably effect it; and a soldier’s honour, William, should be dearer far to him than life.” “I know you feel the sentiment, and I am convinced that it guides your acts, my brother.” “I hope so, Nina.” “And surely it should guide _mine_--a soldier’s wife--a soldier’s orphan. I never told you my short history, William.” “No, dear Nina.” “I am the daughter of a sous-lieutenant, who was killed in the Low Countries while I was yet a baby. Dying, he committed me to a comrade’s care; and faithfully that comrade discharged what he considered a sacred duty. I was tenderly nursed when young, and when I was old enough, placed as a boarder in a convent. At fifteen, my benefactor’s sister, with whom I had resided for the two preceding years, died suddenly. I was thus left, to a certain extent, without protection; and Captain St. Simon offered me the only one a man can give--the sacred one of husband. In our marriage, love could not have had aught to do. He was fifty; I, fifteen. He, for honourable motives had offered to make me his, and I, through gratitude, consented. Five years have passed. All the happiness which could be expected from a union so unequal in point of years, has been mine. If I said I were happy as a wife, I should say what was untrue. But am I not the consort of a brave old man, the mother of a child, in whom all my love is centered?” “And with these objects of affection, Nina, you must be happy.” “I was,” she answered, with a sigh. “_Was?_ Nina. Nay, nay, _you are_.”