“Hush, Walter,” she said.  “You may yet escape, when you are strong enough.  You are quite safe here, for the present.  Mr. Juxon would not think of giving you up now.  By and by—­the window is not high, Walter, and I shall often be alone with you.  I will manage it.”

“Is that true?  Are you cheating me?” cried the wretched man in broken tones.  “No—­you are speaking the truth—­I know it—­God bless you, Mary!” Again he closed his eyes and drew one or two long deep breaths.

Strange to say, the blessing the miserable convict called down upon her was sweet to Mary Goddard, sweeter than anything she remembered for a long time.  She had perhaps done wrong in giving him hopes of escaping, but at least he was grateful to her.  It was more than she expected, for she remembered her last meeting with him, and the horrible ingratitude he had then shown her.  It seemed to her that his heart had been softened a little; anything was better than that rough indifference he had affected before.  Presently he spoke again.

“Not that it makes much difference now, Mary,” he said.  “I don’t think there is much left of me.”

“Do not say that, Walter,” she answered gently.  “Rest now.  The more you rest the sooner you will be well again.  Try and sleep.”

“Sleep—­no—­I cannot sleep.  I have murdered sleep—­like Macbeth, Mary, like Macbeth—­Do you remember Macbeth?”

“Hush,” said Mary Goddard, endeavouring to calm him, though she turned pale at his strange quotation.  “Hush—­”

“That is to say,” said the sick man, heedless of her exhortation and soothing touch, “that is to say, I did not.  He was very wide awake, and if I had not been quick, I should never have got off.  Ugh!  How damp that cellar was, that first night.  That is where I got my fever.  It is fever, I suppose?” he asked, unable to keep his mind for long in one groove.  “What does the doctor say?  Has he been here?”

“Yes.  He said you would soon be well; but he said you must be kept very quiet.  So you must not talk, or I will go away.”

“Oh Mary, don’t go—­don’t go!  It’s like—­ha! ha! it’s quite like old times, Mary!” He laughed harshly, a hideous, half-delirious laugh.

Mary Goddard shuddered but made a great effort to control herself.

“Yes,” she said gently, “it is like old times.  Try and think that it is the old house at Putney, Walter.  Do you hear the sparrows chirping, just as they used to do?  The curtains are the same colour, too.  You used to sleep so quietly at the old house.  Try and sleep now.  Then you will soon get well.  Now, I will sit beside you, but I will not talk any more—­there—­are you quite comfortable?  A little higher?  Yes—­so.  Go to sleep.”