Now, as she stood there waiting, a curious state of mind was that through which Elizabeth passed.  When he answered her greeting, it was with less apparent weariness, less exhibition of sad indifference to all things, than usual,—­with some animation, indeed; not at all as one speaks who is dead to every hope.  And with this utterance, which on any other day would have lightened the burden Elizabeth bore, a new darkening of the spirit of heaviness seemed to fall upon her.  She knew that by her he must have come to—­whatever hopefulness he had; and she would give him freedom that she might see his face no more!

“There is no crucifixion without pain.”  It is never with a light heart that man or woman attends his or her own immolation.  There is awful terror in the triumphs of the divine human nature.  If, indeed, Suttee is noiseless, superstition and force have stifled the voice of the widow.

And therefore the words which Elizabeth only by an effort restrained, as she crossed the prison-threshold, could come from her now by effort only.  If she had found him drooping, despairing, utterly cast down,—­no hinderance then to a full utterance of the heroic purpose which death alone could dampen or defeat!  But now some strength seemed in himself—­and liberty would give him to others, of whom he could not think as quietly as he could think of her.  Could she, then, better afford to weep than to rejoice with him?

Before he had pushed away the table and its contents, before time constrained her to speak, she said,—­

“I promised you something, Mr. Manuel.  You remember what.  I may go tomorrow.  So tell me,—­how shall I serve you best?  Tell me now; something may happen; and I wish my work to be clear.”

The prisoner started from the table at these words.  He hastily approached the quiet speaker, his face brightened not more by hope than by wondering admiration.

“What do you mean?—­tomorrow?  I am waiting, Elizabeth.”

“Colonel Farel and his lady are going home.  He has leave of absence.  I have spoken to my father and mother.  I have told my mother everything.  She knows that I am going to visit your relations as well as hers.  Tell me how I shall find them.  Tell me what I must do.  You shall have freedom, if woman can ask or man can give it.”

She had advanced a single step towards him, in thus speaking.  She stood now with hands folded, quiet, waiting his answer.

“Noble girl!” he began; then he paused.  Full of reverence was his gaze.

“Do not praise,—­direct me,” she said, hurriedly.  “I know what I shall say.  But to whom shall I say it?—­Yes, I will find her whom you love.  I will carry balm across the sea to heal her breaking heart. I will join together whom,”—­here for an instant she hesitated, then began again,—­“whom God has joined, whom man dared separate.  Direct me, Sir.”