The gaoler, returning, began furiously to grumble that he would have no speaking together, and urged Aderhold away. There was naught to do but to obey; he went, but at the door looked back. She was standing with her grey eyes and her sorrowful face set in scorn of this place and of the world. The door closed between them. “No!” said the gaoler. “No questions, for I’ll not answer them. Say naught and pay naught!—Down this stair. You won’t be so well lodged.” It mattered not greatly to Gilbert Aderhold how he was lodged. When the gaoler was gone and the grating key removed, and solitude with him in this dim place, he lay down upon the stone that made its flooring and hid his face. After a time, rising, he walked the dungeon where he was immured. He struck his shackled hands against the wall, pressed his forehead against the stone.... The hours passed, the day passed, another night passed; another dawn came, strengthening outside into burning day. The gaoler appeared for a moment morning and evening, then darkness and silence.... He thought that he must be yet nearer the great church than he had been in his first cell. He could hear the bells, and they clanged more loudly here. Aderhold, pacing the space not much longer or wider than a grave, heard in their ringing church bells far and near and deep in time. He heard them ringing over Europe and from century to century. He heard the bells of a countryside that had rung when he was a child and had loved them well. He thought of the hosts who had loved the church bells, who loved them yet; of the sweetness and peace and musical memory they were to many—to very many; of the thousand associations, hovering like overtones, thoughts of old faces, old scenes, old gladnesses. He saw old, peaceful faces of men and women who had made their religion a religion of love and had loved the church bells. Waves of fragrant memories came to Aderhold himself—days of a serious, quiet childhood when he had pondered over Bible stories; when in some leafy garden corner, or on his bed at night, he had gone in imagination step by step through that drama of Judea, figuring himself as a boy who followed, as, maybe, a younger brother of the beloved John. It came back to him—as, indeed, it had never left him—the soft and bright and good, the pristine part, the Jesus part, the natural part. _Do unto others as thou wouldst have others do unto you_—_Love thy neighbour as thyself_—_I say unto you until seventy times seven times_—