So Raoul, who made a rapid recovery—­barring the limp which he carried to the end of his days—­was tried, condemned, and sentenced in the space of two hours.  He stuck to his story, and the court had no alternative.  Dartmoor or Stapleton inevitably awaited the prisoner who broke parole and was retaken.  The night after his sentence Raoul was marched past the Bayfield gates under escort for Dartmoor.  And Dorothea had not intervened.

This, of course, proves that she was of no heroical fibre.  She knew it.  Night after night she had lain awake, vainly contriving plans for his deliverance; and either she lacked inventiveness or was too honest, for no method could she discover which avoided confession of the simple truth.  As the days passed without catastrophe and without news save that her lover was bettering in hospital, she staved off the truth, trusting that the next night would bring inspiration.  Almost she hoped—­being quite unwise in such matters—­that his sufferings would be accepted as cancelling his offence.  So she played the coward.  The blow fell on the evening when Endymion announced, in casual tones, that the Court Martial was fixed for the day after next.

That night, indeed, brought something like an inspiration; and on the morrow she rode into Axcester and called upon Polly, now a bride of six days’ standing and domiciled in one of the Westcote cottages in Church Street, a little beyond the bridge.  For a call of state this was somewhat premature, but it might pass.

Polly appeared to think it premature.  Her furniture was topsy-turvy, and her hair in curl-papers; she obviously did not expect visitors, and resented this curtailment of the honeymoon.  She showed it even when Dorothea, after apologies, came straight to the point: 

“Polly, I am very unhappy.”

“Indeed, Miss?”

“You know that I must be, since M. Raoul is going to that horrible war-prison rather than let the truth be known.”

“But since you didn’t encourage him, Miss—­”

“Of course I didn’t encourage him to come,” said Dorothea, quickly.

“Why then it was his own fault, and he broke his word by breaking bounds.”

“Yes, strictly his parole was broken; but the meaning of parole is, that a prisoner promises to make no attempt to escape.  M. Raoul never dreamed of escaping, yet that is the ground of his punishment.”

“Well,” said Polly, “if he chooses to say he was escaping, I don’t see how we—­I mean, how you—­can help.”

“Why, by telling the truth; and that’s what we ought to do, though it was wrong of him to expose us to it.”

“To be sure it was,” Polly assented.

“But,” urged Dorothea, “couldn’t we tell the truth of what happened without anyone’s wanting to know more?  He gave you a note, which you took without guessing what it contained.  He wished to have speech with me.  Before you could give me the note and I could refuse to see him—­ as I should certainly have done—­he had arrived.  His folly deserves punishment, but no such punishment as being sent to Dartmoor.”