"What do you mean? I don’t," answered Millicent rather inconsistently. They had by this time reached the prison-yard; and Millicent, with a shiver, looked up at the high, smooth stone walls, with their cruel topping of iron spikes. In a certain angle she stopped a moment, attracted by a little fern which had found place for its slender roots in a cranny of the masonry. She suddenly started, and with a horrified expression ran back a few paces, grown pale to the lips. The warden, who had looked at her with an odd expression, said,-- "You were standing, just now, miss, on the spot where the gallows is always erected." "I knew it," said the girl, in a shaking voice. "I saw it." Maurice Galbraith quietly drew her arm under his own, and said gently, but authoritatively,-- "Come, my child, do not be nervous; you have a great deal to go through with to-day." He fixed his deep, serious eyes on her face for a moment; and the girl, sensitive to his quiet influence, quickly recovered herself. They passed up a narrow, dark stone stair-case, and along a corridor running outside the cells. Most of the heavy wooden doors were open, the outer grating of iron revealing the interior of the cells. In one of these a young mulatto, the Figaro of the village, stood leaning against the bars talking to a respectable-looking man of his own color, who proved to be the pastor of a Methodist church. The young man was a handsome fellow, carefully and neatly dressed. He seemed somewhat excited, and talked in a loud voice, which he lowered at the approach of the party. Galbraith inquired what crime he had been charged with, and learned from the officer that he had wounded his brother mortally in a quarrel; "They both was waitin’ on the same gal," the attendant added in explanation. A man lying at full-length upon the floor sprang to his feet as they passed his door, and walked furiously up and down the narrow room, shaking his head from side to side, reminding Millicent of a caged panther she had once seen. Each dreary, cramped apartment imprisoned some unfortunate, either suffering the penalty for, or awaiting the judgment of, his crimes. Millicent felt the chill air of the prison damp and fetid upon her cheek, and yet she did not hurry down the corridor, but walked slowly, apparently looking neither to the right nor left, but with one quick, sidelong glance, taking in the details of each of the cells and the faces of the malefactors, impressions which never faded from her memory. Some of the men laughed impudently as the little group passed their cells; and one fellow of wild aspect buried his face in his hands, with a sudden movement, as if ashamed of being seen behind the disgraceful bars. A pair of youthful criminals were engaged in playing _moro_, the great Italian gambling game. One of the youths was a native of Italy; and he had evidently taught his companion in confinement the simple but exciting game. No cards or dice, checkers