The light in the preacher’s study she could see from the door-step in a court-yard where she waited.  Should Mazurier come with Victor, she would let them pass; but if Victor came alone, she had a right to speak.

It was after midnight when the student came down from the preacher’s study.  She heard his voice when the door opened,—­by the street-lamp saw his face.  And she recognized also the voice of Mazurier, who, till the last moment of separation, seemed endeavoring to dissuade his friend from leaving him that night.

He heard footsteps following him, as he passed along the pavement,—­observed that they gained on him.  And could it be any other than Jacqueline who touched his arm, and whispered, “Victor”?

His fast-beating heart told him it was she.  He took her hand, and drew it within his arm, and looked upon her face,—­the face of his Jacqueline.

“Now where?” said he.  “It is late.  It is after midnight.  Why are you alone in the street?”

“Waiting for you, Victor.  I heard you were at liberty, and I supposed you were with him.  I was safe.”

“Yes,—­for you fear nothing.  That is the only reason.  You knew I was with the preacher, Jacqueline.  Why?  Because—­because I am with him, of course.”

“Yes,” she said.  “I heard it was so, Victor.”

“Strange!—­strange!—­is it not?  A prison is a better place to learn the truth than the pure air of liberty, it seems,” said he, bitterly.

“What is that?” she asked.  She seemed not to understand his meaning.

“Nothing.  I am acquitted of heresy, you know.  It seems, what we talked so bravely meant—­nothing.  Oh, I am safe, now!”

“It was to preach none the less,—­to hold the truth none the less.  But if he lost his life, there was an end of all; or if he lost his liberty, it was as bad.  But he would keep both, and serve God so,” said Jacqueline.

“Yes,” cried Victor, “precisely what he said.  I have said the same, you think?”

“If you are quite clear that Leclerc and the rest of us are all wrong, Victor.”

“Jacqueline!”

“What is it, Victor?”

“‘The rest of us,’ you say.  What would you have done in my place?”

“God knows.  I pretend not to know anything more.”

“But ‘the rest of us,’ you said.  You think that you at least are with Leclerc?”

“That was the truth you taught me, Victor.  But—­I have not yet been tried.”

“That is safe to say.  What makes you speak so prudently, Jacqueline?  Why do you not declare, ’Though all men deny Thee, yet will I never deny Thee’?  Ah, you have not been tried!  You are not yet in danger of the judgment, Jacqueline!”

“Do not speak so; you frighten me; it is not like you.  How can I tell?  I do not know but in this retirement, in this thought you have been compelled to, you have obtained more light than any one can have until he comes to just such a place.”