“And besides, your home is there.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, if you would only tell me about it!  I don’t want to know for anybody else,—­only for you.  Did you leave many behind, that—­that loved you, Mr. Manuel?”

“Yes,” said the prisoner,—­but he said no more.

This answer was sufficient; with it Elizabeth walked away from the table where he sat, and took her stand by the window.  By-and-by she said, speaking low, but with firm accent,—­

“I am sorry I asked you anything about it; but I will never speak of it again.  I heard it was for religion; but I know you could not hurt the Truth.  They said you fought against the Church.  Then I believe the Church was wrong.  I am not afraid to say it.  I want you to understand.  Of course I cannot do anything for you; only I was so in hopes that I could!  You must not be angry with me, Sir, for hoping that.”

The integrity of nature that spoke in these words came to the hearer’s heart with wondrous power and freshness.  He looked at Elizabeth; she was gazing full on him, and lofty was the bearing of the girl; she had set her own fears and all danger and suspicion at defiance in these words.  Partly he saw and understood, and he answered,—­

“I am not angry.  You surprised me.  I know you are not curious on your own account.  But you can do nothing for me.  I did fight against the Church, but not any Church that you know.  I fought against an intolerant organization, boundless superstition, shameful idolatry, because it was making a slave and a criminal of the world.—­You can do nothing for me.”

“Nothing?”

“No, dear child, nothing.”

“Is it because you think I am a child that you say so?” asked Elizabeth.  “I am not a child.  I knew you must be innocent.  I will do anything for you that any one can do.  Try me.”

The prisoner looked again at the pleader.  Truly, she was not a child.  It is not in childhood to be nerved by such courage and such longing as were in her speech, as that speech was endorsed by her bearing.  His thought toward her seemed to change in this look.

“Can you write, Elizabeth?” asked he.

“I can write,” she answered, proudly, standing forward like a young brave eager for orders.  “I can write.  My father taught me.”

“You might write”—­

“A letter?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes.”  He paused and considered, then continued,—­“You might write to—­you might write to my friend, and tell her about the garden, and how I am now allowed to walk in it,—­and about your father and your mother,—­about yourself, too; anything that will make this place seem pleasant to her.  You know the pleasant side of Foray, —­give her that.”

“Yes.  Is she your mother?”

“No.”

“Your sister, Sir?”

“No, Elizabeth.  She and I were to have been married.”

“Oh, Sir,—­and you in Foray,—­in a prison,—­so far away!”