Richard nodded, and followed the warder, who on this occasion led the way through a different door.  “It ain’t Mr. Weasel this time,” said the latter, in answer to his look of surprise; “it’s a private friend, and therefore we can’t let you have the glass box.”  He ushered him into what would have been a stone courtyard, except that it had a roof also of stone.  In the middle of this, running right across it, was a sort of cage of iron, or rather a passage some six feet broad, shut in on either side by high iron rails; within this paced an officer of the prison; and on the other side of it stood a female figure, whom Richard at once recognized as his mother.  It was with this iron cage between them, and in the presence of an official, that prisoners in Cross Key Jail were alone permitted to receive the visits of their friends and kinsfolk.  It was no wonder that in an interview under such restrictions, Mr. Weasel should have recommended caution.

To do Richard justice, however, that was not the reflection that now passed through his mind.  For all his selfish thoughts and calculations, he had really yearned to cast himself on his mother’s breast, and feel once more her loving arms around him; to whisper in her ever-ready ear his sorrow for the past, his anxieties for the future; and when he saw that this was not to be, the heart that he would have poured out before her seemed to sink and shrink within him.  In this material obstacle between them he seemed to behold a type of the dread doom that was impending over him—­separation from humanity, exclusion from the world without, a life-long entombment within stone walls.  He put his hand and arm through the bars, mechanically, to touch his mother’s fingers, and when he found he could not reach them, he burst into tears.  It was only by a great effort that Mrs. Yorke could maintain her self-control; but she, nevertheless, did do so.  Her face was calm, and her eyes, though full of tenderness and pity, were tearless; only her low, soft voice gave token of the woe within her in its tremulous and faltering tones.

“Dear Richard,” it said, “my own dear Richard, take heart; a few days hence, and you will be folded in your mother’s arms; not to stray from them again, I trust, my boy, my boy!” She pressed her forehead with its fine white hair against the cruel bars, and seemed to devour him with her loving eyes.  “All will yet be well,” she continued; “your innocence can not fail to be established, and this dreadful time will be forgotten like an evil dream.”

“Have you been to Gethin, mother?”

“Yes, dear; I only came from thence this morning.  Harry sent you her best love.  Your faith in her, she bade me tell you, is not misplaced; she will be in the witness-box, for certain.”  This last sentence was uttered in the French tongue, and very rapidly.

“I am very sorry, ma’am,” interrupted the official, who had retired to the further extremity of the cage, “but my orders are to prohibit conversation between prisoners and their friends in a foreign language.”