Counting the days, he gathered that assizes could now be no great way off. Then would he hear and know, be judged and suffer. After that—continuance, persistence, being, yet and for ever, though he knew not the mode nor the manner of experience.... The gold light lay across the cell like a fairy road. He turned upon his side, eased wrist and ankle as best he might, and with the chain across his breast fell half asleep. Ocean waves seemed to bear him up, a strong warm wind to blow upon him, birds to be flying toward him from some beautiful, friendly strand.... The grating of the key roused him. It was not the gaoler’s time of day, but he was here, red-faced and wry-mouthed. Aderhold rose to his feet. “Are the Judges come?” The gaoler shook his head. “No, no! They’re trying highway thieves next county. You’re to be lodged t’other side of gaol.” They went down a winding stair and through a dark and foul passageway, then from one general room to another. The place was here dusk and gloom, here patched with sunny light. It was well peopled with shapes despairing and complaining, or still and listless, or careless and noisy. The gaoler and Aderhold crossed a bit of court and came by a small door into a long and narrow room where again there were prisoners, men and women. “Stand here,” said the gaoler, “while I get an order.” He moved away to a door in the wall. The place was warm and dusk, save where from high windows there fell a broken and wavering light. There was a dull murmur as of droning bees. Sound, too, from the town square without floated in,—summer sounds. A fugitive memory came to Aderhold. It was years ago, and a spring morning, and he was riding across the square with Will the serving-man, Master Hardwick behind in the litter, ahead on his great roan Harry Carthew. Upon the heels of that retracing came another. It was last winter again, and he stood on a doorstep not far from here, and ten feet away Sir Richard from the castle sat his horse and smelled at his silver box of spices.... He came back to the present hour. This place was long, like a corridor; it was curiously gold-brown and red-brown, like a rich painting for light and shadow. He looked across and, standing alone against the wall, he saw Joan Heron.... All noise stilled itself, all other shapes passed. It was as though there were spread around them the loneliest desert or sea-strand in all the world. Joan stood straight against the wall. Her grey dress was torn, her grey eyes had shadows beneath them, she had no colour in cheek or lip, and she stood indomitable. Aderhold put his hand before his eyes. “Mistress Friendly Soul,” he said, “why are you here?” “For somewhat the same reason,” she answered, “that you are here. Because it is a crazed world.” “How long—?” “A long time.... Nearly four weeks.” “Is it my misery to have brought you here?” “No,” said Joan, “cruelty and wrong brought me here.” “You are charged with—” “Yes. With witchcraft.”