“I would have made him take the flowers, if I had been here,” said Elizabeth, in a manner that seemed very positive, in comparison with Sandy’s uncertain speech.

“May-be,—­I dare say,” Sandy acquiesced; but he evidently had his doubts even of her power in this business.

She must take no notice of the prisoner, she was given to understand one day, if she was to remain in the garden while he walked there.  So she took no notice.

He came and went.  Manuel, the keeper called him; and she was busy with her weeding, and neither saw nor heard.  Ah, she did not!—­did not see the figure that came moving like a spectre through the gates!—­did not hear the slow dragging step of one who is weary almost to helplessness,—­the listless step that has lost the spring of hope, the exultation of life, the expectation of spirit, the strength of manhood!—­She did hear, did see the man.  We feel the nearness of our friend who is a thousand miles away.  Something beside the sunshine is upon us, and receives our answering smile.  That sudden shadow is not of the passing cloud.  That voice at midnight is not the disturbance of a dream.—­He walked about the garden; he retired to his cell.  It might have been an hour, or a minute, or a day.  It does not take time to dream a life’s events.  How is the drowning man whirled round the circle of experiences which were so slow in their development!

Compassion without limit, courageous purpose impatient of inaction, troubled this young girl.

“You behaved like a lady,” said Sandy,—­“you never looked up.  You needn’t run now, I’m sure, when he thinks of taking a turn.  All we’ve got to do is to mind our own business, Mr. Laval says.  I guess we can.  But I did want to let off those chains.”

“What chains?” asked Elizabeth, as with a shudder she looked up at Sandy.

“His wrists, you know,—­locked,” he explained.

“Oh!” groaned the gentle soul, and she walked off, forgetful of the flowers, tools, Sandy, everything.  But Sandy followed her; she heard him calling to her, and before the garden-gate she waited for him; he was following on a run.

“I can tell you what it’s for,” said he, for he had no idea of keeping the secret to himself, and he dared not trust it to any other friend.

“What is it?” she asked,—­and she trembled when she asked, and while she waited for his answer.

“For lighting the Church.  Would you think that?  He did such damage, it wasn’t safe for him to be at liberty.  That’s how it was.  I think he must be a Lutheran;—­you know they don’t believe in the Holy Ghost!  Of course,—­poor fellow!—­it’s right he should be shut up for warring with the Church that came down through the holy Apostles, when you know all the rest only started up with Luther and Calvin.  He ought to have knowed better.”

“Who told you, Sandy?” asked Elizabeth, as if her next words might undertake to extenuate and justify.