“She is not lost to you.  Sir,—­you are not lost to her,” cried Elizabeth, in a voice as strong as breaks sometimes through dying agony.

“I know,” said he, more gently.  His thought was not the same as hers; he was taking refuge in that future which remains to the loving when this life wholly fails in hope.

“You shall go back to that old place, Sir!  You shall—­you two—­shall forget all this!”

The prisoner smiled to hear her,—­a sad smile, yet a sweet smile too.  He did not despise the comfort she would give him, nor resent her presumptuous speech.

“As when I dream sometimes,” said he, gently,—­“or in some pleasant vision.  Yes, that is true, Elizabeth.  I have been back, and I shall go again.”

Vehemently now she broke forth.  It was love defying the whole universe, if the whole universe opposed itself to the sovereign rights of love, the divine strength and the divine courage of love.  —­“You shall go on board some vessel, a passenger; you shall see with your own eyes; your hands shall be free to gather the sweetest rose that—­ever blossomed in the world for you.  Mr. Manuel, do not look so doubting,—­do not smile so!  Am I not in earnest?  Do you not hear me?  As God lives, and as I live, I will do what I promise.  Why, what do you think I am here for?”

Wondering, doubting if he heard aright, Manuel looked at Elizabeth.  The painful, kindly smile, the incredulity, had disappeared from his face; the power and confidence of her words seemed to persuade him that at least she purposed seriously and was not uttering mere wishes.  It might be the enthusiasm and generosity of a child that inspired her speech, but its determination and gravity of utterance demanded at least a respectful hearing.

“What do you mean, Elizabeth?” he asked.

“I mean that I will go home and explain, and you shall be set free.”

He shook his head.  “There is nothing to be explained,” said he.  “I am not here by mistake.  I am very clearly guilty, if there is guilt in doing what I am accused of.  The hearts of those who condemned me must be changed, and their eyes opened, or I shall never be set free.”

“God chooses humble agents,” she said, humbly.  “David slew Goliath, and he was but a lad.  He will open the way for me, and by me change the hearts of those who condemned, and by me open their eyes.  Therefore I shall go,—­I shall surely go.  Ah, Mr. Manuel, give me the picture!  It is all that you shall have of the island of Foray, please Almighty God, when these doors are all open for you, and your hands are free, Sir, and we tell you to come, for the vessel is waiting!”

She went out from the room while these words took solemn possession of the place.  She locked the door behind her;—­no requirement of law was to be neglected or withstood; she made him a prisoner whom she would set free;—­and from this interview she went away, not to solitude, and the formation of secret plans, but, as became the daughter of Adolphus and Pauline Montier, she went quietly, with that repose of manner which distinguished her through almost every event, back to her mother’s chamber.