What he had lacked and missed so long that the restoration had a charm of novelty about it, added to its own excellency, was now the prisoner’s portion.  Good manners, kind and courteous voices, greeted eyes and ears once more.  As in the days of Joan Laval, a woman was now sometimes in attendance on the prisoner.  But in not one particular did Pauline Montier resemble Joan Laval.  She called herself a soldier’s wife, and was exact and brave accordingly.  She was thoughtful of her husband’s charge, and when she paused in her efforts for his comfort and content, it was because she had exhausted the means within her reach, but not her wit in devising.

The effect was soon manifest.  The prisoner received this care and sympathy as he might have received the ministration of angels.  The attendance was almost entirely confined to Montier and his wife, but now and then Elizabeth also could serve him.  She served him with her heart, with unobtrusive zeal that was exhaustless as the zeal of love.  Unobserved, she watched, as well as waited on him; and oh, how jealous and impatient of time and authority did she become!  Her pity knew no limit; it beamed from her eyes, spoke through her voice, was unceasing in activity.  He was to her a romance terrible and sweet, a romance that had more abundant fascination than the world could show beside.

She went up to his room one morning, carrying his breakfast.  Her father had been ordered to the barracks, and her mother was not well; the service therefore fell upon her.

The prisoner did not seem to heed her when she entered; at least, he gave no sign, until she approached him, and even then was not the first to speak.  Going to the window, her eyes followed his to the garden below.

“It looks well this morning,” she said, pleasantly.

“Yes,—­but I have seen prettier,” he answered.

“Where?” she asked, so quickly that Manuel almost smiled as he looked at her before he answered.  He knew why she spoke thus, and was not offended by the compassion of her sympathy.

“In my own home, Elizabeth,” he answered.

“Aren’t you ever going back to it, Sir?” she asked, hurriedly.

He did not reply.

“Won’t you ever see it again?” she persisted.

“Banishment,—­a prisoner for life,” said he, for the first time explaining to any person his dread sentence.

Elizabeth Montier quietly pondered the words thus spoken.

“If you had your freedom,” said she, “would you go back to your own country?—­Your breakfast is cooling, Sir.”

Manuel looked at her,—­she bore his scrutiny with composure,—­then he came to the table, sat down, and broke his bread, before he answered this bold speaking.

“Yes,” said he, at length.  “An honorable man is bound to keep his honor clean.  Mine has been blackened by some false accusation.  I owe it to all who ever believed in me to clear it, if I can.”