“But supposing—­supposing he was innocent—­that he had never meant—­” She put out a hand to lay it on her brother’s.  “Hush!” she could have cried; but it was too late.

“Endymion!” Narcissus called across the room, jocosely.

“Eh!  What is it?” Endymion came out of his doze.

“We’re in a mess with these drawings, a complete mess; and we want Master Raoul fetched out of Dartmoor to set us right.  Come now—­as Commissary, what’ll you take to work it for us?  Fifty pounds has already been offered.”

Dorothea turned from the table with a sigh for her lost chance.

“He’d like it,” answered Endymion, grimly.  “But, my dear fellow,”—­ he slewed himself in his chair for a look around the hall,—­“pray moderate your tones.  I particularly deprecate levity on such matters within possible hearing of the servants; that class of person never understands a joke.”

Narcissus rubbed the top of his head—­a trick of his in perplexity.

“But, seriously:  it has only this moment occurred to me.  Couldn’t the drawings be conveyed to him, in due form, through the Commandant of the Prison?  The poor fellow owes us no grudge.  I believe he would be eager to do us this small service.  And, really, they have made such a mess of the stones—­”

“Impossible!  Out of the question!  And I may say now, and once for all, that the mention of that unhappy youth is repugnant to me.  By good fortune, we escaped being compromised by him; and I have refrained from reminding you that your patronage of him was, to say the least, indiscreet.”

“God bless me!  You don’t suggest, I hope, that I encouraged him to escape!”

“I suggest nothing.  But I am honestly glad to be quit of him, and take some satisfaction in remembering that I detested the fellow from the first.  He had too much cleverness with his bad style, or, if you prefer it, was sufficiently like a gentleman to be dangerous.  Pah!  For his particular offence, I would have had the old hulks maintained in the Hamoaze, with all their severities; as it is, the posturer may find Dartmoor pretty stiff, but will yet have the consolation of herding with his betters.”

Strangely enough this speech did more to fix Dorothea’s resolve than all she had read or heard of the rigours of the war-prison.  Gently reared though she was, physical suffering seemed to her less intolerable than to be unjustly held in this extreme of scorn..  This was the deeper wrong; and putting herself in her lover’s place, feeling with his feelings, she knew it to be by far the deeper.  In Dartmoor he shared the sufferings of men unfortunate but not despicable, punished for fighting in their country’s cause.  But here was a moral punishment, deserved by none but the vilest; and she had helped to bring it—­was allowing it to rest—­upon a hero!