When her eager gaze fell upon the words she became instantly filled with excitement, and nodded quickly.  Then holding her steel-clasped wrists towards me she looked wistfully at me, as though imploring me to release her from the awful bondage in that silent tomb.

Though the woman who had led me there endeavored to prevent it, I handed her the pencil, and placed the paper on the table for her to write.

The nun tried to snatch it up, but I held her arm gently and forcibly, saying in French: 

“No.  I wish to see if she is really insane.  You will at least allow me this satisfaction.”

And while we were in altercation, Elma, with the pencil in her fingers, tried to write, but by reason of her hands being bound so closely was unable.  At length, however, after several attempts, she succeeded in printing in uneven capitals the response: 

“I know you.  You were on the yacht.  I thought they killed you.”

The thin-faced old woman saw her response—­a reply that was surely rational enough—­and her brows contracted with displeasure.

“Why are you here?” I wrote, not allowing the sister to get sight of my question.

In response, she wrote painfully and laboriously: 

“I am condemned for a crime I did not commit.  Take me from here, or I shall kill myself.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the old woman.  “You see, poor girl, she believes herself innocent!  They all do.”

“But why is she here?” I demanded fiercely.

“I do not know, m’sieur.  It is not my duty to inquire the history of their crimes.  When they are ill I nurse them; that is all.”

“And who is the commandant of this fortress?”

“Colonel Smirnoff.  If he knew that I had admitted you, you would never leave this place alive.  This is the Schusselburg of Finland—­the place of imprisonment for those who have conspired against the State.”

“The prison of political conspirators, eh?”

“Alas, m’sieur, yes!  The place in which some of the poor creatures are tortured in order to obtain confessions and information with as much cruelty as in the black days of the Inquisition.  These walls are thick, and their cries are not heard from the oubliettes below the lake.”

I had long ago heard of the horrors of Schusselburg.  Indeed who has not heard of them who has traveled in Russia?  The very mention of the modern Bastille on Lake Ladoga, where no prisoner has ever been known to come forth alive, is sufficient to cause any Russian to turn pale.  And I was in the Schusselburg of Finland!

I turned over the sheet of paper and wrote the question—­

“Did Baron Oberg send you here?”

In response, she printed the words—­

“I believe so.  I was arrested in Helsingfors.  Tell Lydia where I am.”

“Do you know Muriel Leithcourt?” I inquired by the same means, whereupon she replied that they were at school together.